The Space Between (2 page)

And maybe when he came back he would feel a little more like he had just over a year ago, when life promised more than he believed he ever deserved but all that he'd ever wanted.

After receiving the package from Mick three days later, Isaac had wasted no time going online to research the town. He found nothing of particular interest other than information regarding an annual Turnip Festival held there the first week of October which he'd (fortunately) just missed. The town itself lay roughly seventy-five miles south of Atlanta on the southeastern edge of Logan County. The following morning he loaded up his guitar, a duffle bag of clothes and toiletries, and hit the road.

When he had turned onto Highway 61 just a few miles outside of Atlanta, the road had been crowded with strip malls,
Wal
-Marts, and fast food joints. The further south he'd traveled, the thinner the businesses became until he saw nothing but nature, and he eventually began to wonder if he'd passed his destination. Then, rising up from the heavily wooded view ahead was the courthouse dome, shining dully in the cloud-choked afternoon sky. The trees parted, and the town swam into view.

It wasn't hard to miss the town of Holden. Not that it was a sprawling metropolis; far from it. The town proper consisted of a large brick courthouse which was obviously the pride of the people who lived there. Each side boasted four stout columns rising up two floors to support the gables offering shelter from the light rain currently passing through. Highway 61 entered the town at an angle, poking between two of the four strips of surrounding brick buildings that housed various establishments. There was a photographer's studio, a pawnshop, and even the mandatory barbershop, complete with the striped pole. The road circled the courthouse and exited between the opposite two buildings. There were parking spaces around the courthouse and along the building fronts, broken up by dull green lawns and the occasional bench. Outside of the four older buildings were a sheriff's office, a library, and various other requirements of small-town USA, each obviously of newer construction but fitting into the scene quite well.

A few days before leaving, Isaac had called his sister and told her the news regarding his recent inheritance. Sylvia, as baffled as he was, had expressed some concern as to whether it was legitimate. He had laughed off her suspicions, assuring her that a crazed stalker wouldn't go through the trouble of faking his or her own death ten years prior, not to mention offering up a healthy piece of land as bait.

Isaac pulled into an open parking space across from the Bargain Barn ("If we don't have it, you don't need it!") and sat for a few minutes, watching the folks who were undeterred by the gloomy, wet weather. The rain had picked up, large beads of it moving across the hood of his '69 Boss 302 like slippery, black mercury. The car was the only major expense he'd allowed himself when the royalty check cleared. After that, he'd invested some of the money and bought his sister the land on which she and her family now lived.

After sitting for a minute, Isaac realized the engine was still running. He turned the key, letting the low rumble fall silent, and listened to the rain pound the roof. In the otherwise silent cab of the Mustang, Isaac could hear his stomach protesting the length of time that had passed since breakfast. The drive had been a leisurely one, and though he'd grabbed coffee and a few chicken biscuits on the way out of Nashville, that had been almost six hours ago. His stomach had every right to complain.

To the right of the Bargain Barn stood Mama's Kitchen, advertising the "best home-cooked meals this side of grandma's." Isaac's grandmother, besides being the most headstrong, vocal Southern woman he'd ever known, could make biscuits that made the fast food attempts at such seem like a crime.

"Okay, Mama. Let's see what you got."

Isaac slipped out of his car and jogged toward the restaurant, pulling the collar of his denim jacket up over his head to keep his hair from getting wet. Stepping carefully across the broken stretch of sidewalk, he reached out, pulled the door open, and was greeted by the tinkling of a bell tied to the inside handle. He kept his gaze on his boots as he stomped away the loose drops of rain and dried his hands on his jeans.

When he looked up, Isaac was taken aback at how familiar the place appeared. It was straight out of an episode of
Andy Griffith
: the perfect television stereotype of a small-town diner. A long counter hooked out of the left wall and ran all the way down to the back. The swinging door at the end could only lead to the kitchen, as that was where the sizzle of a grill and the rich, heady smells seemed to be coming from. On the other side of the room were six booths made of high-backed benches padded in a dark red vinyl, patched here and there with duct tape but otherwise in decent shape. Down the middle were five tables turned at forty-five degree angles to the booths, each with four chairs.

Isaac glanced down at his watch and took note of the time: just before two in the afternoon. Looking back up, he was not surprised that the only other customers were a young couple in the back booth and three older gentlemen settled in at the counter. By the looks of the couple, they were just passing through; Isaac didn't suspect many thirty-
somethings
in this area wore
Izod
shirts with Dockers or skirts that short. The men at the counter, however, were the epitome of the "regulars" he would expect in such a place. Each had a cup of coffee set before him, one hand keeping warm on the side of the mug while the other lay flat on the counter. And, unlike the couple in the booth, they were all looking at him.

Isaac nodded at the three men. Two of them reciprocated before turning their attention back to their drinks and taking up their conversation with each other. They stared straight ahead, as if they were speaking to themselves. The man closest to Isaac stared a bit longer, his brow creasing down slightly, before finally nodding and turning to stare ahead with his two companions.

The door to the kitchen opened and a young woman, easily a decade younger than Isaac's thirty-two years, approached the three men. That was when Isaac noticed the polished steel wall behind the counter, and realized the men were looking at each other in the reflection while speaking, as if to save the energy required to keep their heads turned in conversation.

The waitress spoke a few words to the men, laughed at a joke Isaac couldn't quite hear, and then glanced his way. Her face lit up with a look that exuded pure hospitality.
New York could use a few hundred of you
, he thought, remembering his first and only trip to that city, courtesy of Righteous Sound Records.

"Hi there," she welcomed. "Go on and have a seat wherever you like and I'll be right with you."

Isaac raised his hand in acknowledgement and walked over to take a seat at the counter, leaving two spaces out of courtesy between himself and the elder to his left. The waitress had ducked back into the kitchen.

"I don't stink that bad, do I?" It was the old man closest to him. "Scoot on over stranger. We could use the company. Harold here is all out of good stories and Mitchell is too deaf to care."

"Okay then," Isaac agreed, closing the gap to sit next to the man.

"Name's Albert Trammell," he said, extending his right hand. "That's Harold
Soseby
and Mitchell Withers."

Isaac shook Albert's hand. "Isaac Owens."

"Nice to meet you, Ike. I can call you Ike?"

"I don't see why not," Isaac agreed.

"Good. I had a cousin named Isaac and the only ones who called him that was his mother and wife. I reckon I don't look much like either to you, so I'll stick with 'Ike.'"

Isaac laughed and the waitress reappeared. He glanced up at her and noticed a familiar look he still hadn't gotten used to. Her eyes were half closed, head cocked slightly to one side and a small grin playing along her lips.

"You're Isaac Owens,
aintcha
'?" she asked, her words dripping with awe.

Isaac smiled and nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"You know this stranger?" Albert asked, looking between the two and most likely wondering how anyone else in town would know someone he didn't.

"I sure do! Well, not really, but I know who he is." She reached over and gave Albert a playful smack on the arm. "Don't you ever listen to the radio, you old coot? This is Isaac Owens, the singer."

Albert shrugged at Isaac, his eyes drawn wide. "Well, I guess that makes me the town fool, eh Ike?" He poked Isaac with his elbow and laughed before taking a loud slurp of his coffee.

"I can't believe it," the waitress (Sissy, according to her name tag) said, setting down a glass of ice water and hot coffee in front of Isaac. "I've been listening to your album just about every day since it came out, what, two or three years ago?"

Isaac blushed. "Thank you, Sissy, I appreciate it."

"You a country singer, Ike?" Albert asked, turning in his seat to face the younger man. Mitchell and Harold had done the same, both of them now looking on with apparent interest.

"No, silly," Sissy answered for Isaac. "He's got a sound all his own. A little bit country, a little bit folk. Even a few rock songs that would knock you off your stool."

Albert nodded approvingly and slipped a sly wink at Isaac. "Pardon my ignorance, Mr. Owens. I don't get out much, except to this place. And no slight intended to your talent, but it takes a lot to get me off of this here stool."

"No offense taken," Isaac laughed.

Sissy stood there a moment, smiling and staring at Isaac, until finally shaking off her daze and pulling a menu from under the counter. "Welcome to Holden, Isaac Owens. You've made my day for sure." She slid the menu toward him and winked. "I'll make sure whatever you decide on doesn't ruin your visit here."

"Might want to try the McDonald's out by the interstate, Ike," Albert quipped.

"Hush, you," Sissy scolded. "For someone who's here every day, you don't have much room to complain." She looked back at Isaac. "Just let me know when you're ready, honey." The giddy young waitress slipped away into the kitchen and, shortly thereafter, Isaac could hear excited squeals as she undoubtedly made a few phone calls to share her news.

"Sounds like you made a new friend before you hardly stepped foot in town," Albert said between sips of coffee. Mitchell and Harold had gone back to staring in the polished steel wall, though Isaac could see their eyes glance at him now and then. They were no longer talking to each other, so he guessed they each had at least one ear on his and Albert's conversation.

"Seems so," Isaac answered, setting the menu down after deciding on the patty melt with a side of home fries. "I'm still getting used to it, to be honest, but it's nice to know people like what I'm doing."

Albert nodded again and held his cup up to his lips a little longer than necessary. Isaac could see the old man was forming his next question, most likely not wanting to appear too intrusive.

"What brings you to our neck of the woods?" And there it was. Harmless at most, but Albert seemed a little embarrassed with being so direct. He followed his question with another, likely an attempt to soften the intrusion. "Just passing through or do you have family in Holden?"

"It's kind of a strange story," Isaac started, and Albert waved a hand to let Isaac know he didn't mean to pry. But Isaac already felt comfortable here, like slipping into an old pair of boots he hadn't worn since childhood that, amazingly enough, still fit perfectly. "I don't mind telling you if you don't mind listening."

Albert lifted his arm and looked at the old Timex wrapped around his wrist.

"Well, I was going to feed the pigeons out by the fountain, but I'll have my secretary call and cancel."

Isaac smiled, laughing at the old man's warm sense of humor.

"Fair enough. It seems I inherited some land out this way. Almost fifty acres, in fact."

Albert frowned. "Sorry to hear that. Was it a close relative that passed?"

Isaac sipped his coffee, then shook his head. "No, nothing like that. It was set up in a trust ten years ago with instructions to give it to me now. I don't even know who it's from and the lawyers aren't allowed to tell me."

Albert watched Isaac's face closely, a whisper of a grin at the edge of his mouth. It was an expression easy to read and Isaac raised his right hand.

"Honest to God, Albert," he assured the man. "Didn't I tell you it was a strange story?"

"You did, at that," Albert agreed, and Isaac could see the curiosity sparking in the man's rheumy eyes. "No idea who it's from, huh? Where's it at?"

"It's south of here, near the edge of the county. Forty-eight acres with a house and barn, as I understand it."

Albert turned to his companions and didn't even pretend they hadn't heard Isaac. "Sound familiar to you boys? Harold, you live out that way. Anybody die out there about ten years ago?"

Mitchell had turned to Harold, whose face was screwed up into a look of concentration, his eyes pointed toward the heavily stained tile ceiling. When he looked back down and met Isaac's gaze, Isaac again saw something in the man's eyes that hinted at familiarity, as if the man recognized him. Another fan, perhaps? Isaac rubbed a hand across his mouth, hiding the smirk that followed this thought.

"Speak up, old timer. You know where he's talking about or not?"

Harold nodded and tore his gaze from Isaac to look at Albert. "Sounds like it could be the Willoughby place out on Mt. Zion. But
ain't
nobody lived there for over forty years." Harold glanced back at Isaac, finally forming the question that had apparently been bothering him since the young singer entered the restaurant. "You sure you've got no family in these parts?"