Shane jogged to Bobbi and stared down at the stone he’d never really paid much attention to.
Manfred Duquette
Born March 27, 1941- Died May 23, 2020
Laid in eternal rest with the love of his life
“What was the name of your friend?”
Shane tore his eyes away from the tombstone. Was it possible?
“Shane?” Bobbi Jo tugged on his arm.
“His name was Manly,” he replied slowly.
“As in Manfred?”
I don’t know.
But he did, didn’t he? He thought hard. Manly had always seemed like he was waiting for something. And now that he was remembering, hadn’t he always been wearing the same clothes?
“Shane? Are you okay? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“Maybe I have,” he murmured.
He pulled Bobbi into his arms and kissed her, loving the way she instantly responded. When his hands traveled down the front of her dress and skimmed her nipples, she hissed in pleasure.
“We can’t,” she said, tearing her mouth from his. “Not here.”
“Let’s go,” he said roughly, pulling her hand into his as he led her away from the old oak tree and the mystery surrounding Manly. He’d seen enough of this world to know that not all things were easily explained, and sometimes, it was better to just let them be.
He was headed home in the morning and more than ready to take that first step.
As long as he had Bobbi by his side.
Chapter Twenty-One
August blew into New Waterford with a blast of humidity that left most folks thanking the good Lord for AC. With a rainstorm riding the coattails of dark gray clouds heavy with heat lightning and a hefty wind, Shane and Bobbi reached the outskirts of town just as it hit. By the time they rolled up to the Barker family home, each of them was soaked right through, though the storm was short-lived and over almost as quick as it had come.
They’d taken their time traveling up from Louisiana, plotted a course that saw them stop in Nashville, where Bobbi Jo hopped up on stage at some hole-in-the-wall kind of place and sang a song. Or two. They’d continued along through the rolling green hills of Kentucky, and then had a straight run up to Michigan. But they went at their own pace. Stayed in places that took their fancy. A bed-and-breakfast in Tennessee. A motel in Kentucky, an RV park in Indiana. They talked and made love and talked some more, and by the time they got home, both of them were in a good, strong place.
And Bobbi Jo was thankful for everything she had.
She hopped off the bike, more than a little stiff from the last few miles, and hadn’t even turned toward the house when she was grabbed from behind and hugged until her sides were near to bursting from pressure.
“You idiot,” Betty Jo Barker-Simon laughed and finally let her go. “You shouldn’t be riding a bike.”
Surprised to see her sister, Bobbi tugged a chunk of wet hair from her face and grinned. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard Shane finally knocked you up. If that’s not enough reason to visit, I sure as hell don’t know what is.” She moved past Bobbi and gave Shane a hug just as a little boy came running out of the house, the screen door banging shut like a gunshot had just gone off.
“Uncle Shane!” The little boy with a mop of curly blond hair launched himself off the porch steps and nearly fell over his feet. He managed to keep himself upright, though they all heard him exclaim, “Shit,” just before he came to a stop.
“Trent Simon,” Betty Jo said. “That’s gonna cost you at least a fiver from your piggy bank.”
“What he’d do now?” Beau Simon, Betty’s husband, joined them.
“He said shit,” Betty replied.