In a moment of clumsiness that was typical for Tristan, she dropped her book bag and most of its contents fell onto the floor. Cole scrambled to pick up her belongings. The pair nose to nose, glanced up at each other. A moment of intensity, the connection was broken by the dismissal bell as the pair tried to hide their embarrassed smiles.
The exchange caught the attention of Blake, Tommy and Shane who were huddled in a circle at the other end of the hall. For a moment Tommy thought his buddy was going to kiss his little sister. That would be a problem. Blake and Tommy raised an eyebrow, as Shane quipped “I’d die laughing if she got lucky before either of you!” Blake and Tommy stared evilly at Shane. Clearly he had hit a sensitive nerve. “Just sayin’… it would be funny. Eh, never mind.”
"Don't let Kendricks upset you. I'm not doing the project either," Cole explained to Tristan.
"Oh, really? How come?" asked Tristan sincerely.
"My mom is not around either. She died when I was a baby," explained Cole.
"I knew she was gone, but I didn’t know what happened… I'm sorry to hear that, Cole," she replied.
Although the thought was sad, his words were a comfort to Tristan.
Chapter Four
Elkhart, PA
December 24, 1981
Early Afternoon
Frank Kilpatrick sat on the hood of his pickup truck slurping from his thermos of lukewarm coffee. Snow flurries fell from the dreary sky onto his clothes, sticking to his boots and melting on his bald head. A smile grew across his face that only a mother could love. Well, a mother and Bridgette Morrow-Kilpatrick. Clearly Frank did not mind the snow. Above all others, winter was his favorite season because it reminded him of his childhood in Scotland.
The news report squawked from the radio in Frank’s truck. Weatherman Chip Turner was warning all listeners of the approaching winter storm.
“We’re expecting anywhere between twenty-four and thirty-six inches into Tuesday morning. The severity depends on your location; Shepard’s Grove and Gabbard’s Bend won’t get hit as hard and should expect eighteen to twenty-four inches. Elkhart residents should expect at least thirty inches, while citizens atop Cavegat Pass should expect to feel the full force of the storm. The mountain road is expected to be impassable beyond early evening tonight. Take great caution with icy roads. Winds are expected to kick up to sixty miles per hour tonight. Take extra precaution folks… I know its Christmas Eve, but seriously, it’s time to get your milk and bread and hunker down.”
Frank rolled his eyes in response to the dramatic weather report. In a faint Scottish brogue he griped, “Give me a break, Chip!”
Clearly agitated by the weatherman, Frank jumped off the roof of his truck, reached in the window and punched the radio button so that it would change the station. He didn’t care what station, as long as he didn’t have to listen to Chip anymore. A rock song came on the radio, and Frank began to sing along, out of key, as he returned to his post on the hood of his truck.
Occasionally his walkie-talkie would squeal to life with updates from the Skole County Department of Transportation office, questions from his workers who were dispatched around the area, weather details from the base and the like. Pennsylvania’s Department of Transportation in Skole County depended on Frank to make sure all the major roads were clear. Frank already had dozens of plows dispatched around the area, awaiting the snow accumulation. At the mouth of Cavegat Pass, he had three plows alone, waiting to take on the mountain.
Over the horizon a blue pickup truck was approaching. The driver of the vehicle rolled down his window and whistled to get Frank’s attention. It was Jack. Jack waved to his brother-in-law and longtime friend.
"Do you really think you're going to need those?" Jack asked as he pointed to the metal chains that rested in Frank's hands.
"Oh… not going to take any chances. The report doesn't sound so great, though I doubt it'll be as bad as that idiot weatherman says," Frank replied.
"Did Bridgette or Gus make it up the mountain yet?" asked Jack curiously.
"You know your sister; she’ll be late for her own funeral," complained Frank with a smirk.
"Do you need help with those?" Jack asked again referring to the chains in Frank's gloved hands. Frank shook his head indicating no as he pointed with a scowl to the small circle of men in orange jumpsuits. Instead of helping Frank put chains on the trucks, his workers decided to congregate together and treat themselves to a cigarette break.
"They can do it. Clearly they have nothing better to do," replied Frank. He continued, "Hey, are you waiting for someone?”
Jack replied, “Had to stop at Quiver’s Gun Shop and now I’m heading back home.”
With a knowing glance, Frank understood and quipped, "Later, man."