Aw, Christ. What the hell did that mean?
Willow brought Sam’s coffee and muffin, along with a fork and knife. “You guys let me know if I can get you anything else.” She headed back to the counter and gave Zane a thumbs-up.
Zane hung on Sam’s next breath as the old man lifted the coffee to his lips.
“Mm. Willow makes a mean cup of coffee.” Before Zane could respond, Sam said, “Star quarterback, on the track team, the homecoming parade. You were the boy whose parents lived on the other end of town. The scared boy.”
“Excuse me?” Zane felt like he was sitting at the bottom of a valley and all his childhood fears were about to come crashing down around him.
Sam proceeded to cut his muffin into bite-size pieces, working in silence. If it weren’t for the kind smile on his lips, Zane would think he was purposefully dragging out his misery.
He took a bite of the muffin and pointed the empty fork at Zane. “I know a thing or two about being scared. Can’t be afraid out on the high seas. Mother Nature will beat that fear out of you quicker than you can drop a fishing line.”
Zane raked a hand through his hair, unsure what to make of the old man.
“You ever fish?” Sam asked.
“Sure.”
“Then you know when you hook a live one, every muscle comes to life. Adrenaline surges through your veins, and you hold your breath, or curse, or pray that you’ll be able to reel her in. And when you do, you finally breathe like you’ve never breathed before.” He took another bite, sipped his coffee, taking his sweet time. His eyes never left Zane’s. “You were stuck in that middle ground for a while. Scared but ready to bolt. And then you made it. Everyone in Sweetwater followed Zane Walker’s success. You were the talk of the town for the first few years after you left. I couldn’t walk into the post office without hearing a story or two.”
Zane wondered if that was why his parents had moved away.
“So tell me,” Sam said. “Can you breathe now, son?”
A laugh escaped before Zane could stop it. Now he knew why Willow loved this man. He had successfully dragged Zane through an emotional roller coaster in less than five minutes and completely disarmed him with the unexpected question.
“That’s a hell of a question.”
Sam popped another piece of muffin in his mouth. “Yes. Yes, it is.” His eyes dropped to Zane’s screenplay, lying faceup on the table. “Beneath It All. That yours?”
At least he’d let him off the hook with the first question. Only now he felt like one of the fans begging for his autograph. He didn’t like being the guy who wanted something from a stranger, and Sam was too nice a guy to be used like this. Zane decided not to ask for his help after all. “Yes.”
“Good story? Turning it into a movie?”
He shrugged. “I hope so.”
“I wrote a story once.”
“Willow told me that you won an Academy Award.”
Sam finished his muffin and coffee and rose to his feet without acknowledging Zane’s comment.
“All done?” Willow came out from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her jeans. She gave Zane a concerned look, and he shook his head, indicating for her not to say anything.
Sam handed her a wad of cash. “Delicious as always. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Sam. As always.”
“Walk with me, Zane,” Sam said.
“Sure.” He folded his screenplay and stuck it in his back pocket. Willow gave him a curious look. He hugged her and whispered, “It’s all good.”
Zane pushed the bakery door open for Sam, inhaling the crisp mountain air. Sunlight glistened off the lake across the street. He was glad they no longer needed security at Willow’s door. “You lead, I’ll follow.”
“You are no follower,” Sam said, surprising him.
Bridgette was setting up a display in front of the flower shop. “Hi, guys. Pretty day today.”
“Sure is, sweetheart,” Sam said. “How’s that boy of yours?”
Bridgette’s eyes lit up, as they always did when she spoke of her son. “Brilliant, bossy, and infuriating. Unfortunately, I think at five he’s already well on his way to manhood.”
Sam and Zane both laughed.
“That’s my boy,” Sam said, and continued walking at a slow pace.
They walked in silence and turned at the corner. It was still early summer, with a nice morning breeze, and many of the shop owners had their doors propped open.
“It was 1960,” Sam said out of the blue.
“Excuse me?”
“When the whole award thing got under way. Hell of a fluke, too. We’d docked the boat in San Diego and hit a local bar. I’m sitting there drinking my beer, and the guy next to me is talking to the bartender. It was pretty dark, and I was dead tired, but the guy had a gorgeous, deep voice, and it was the kind of voice you don’t forget. Well, I waited until he was done talking, and I said, ‘I’m sure this will sound crazy, but you sound just like Orson Welles.’” Sam turned left at the next corner. “The guy picks up his drink and says, ‘That’s because I am Orson Welles, and this voice has made me a hell of a lot of money.’”
“No way.” It wasn’t the most eloquent of responses, but it was too late for Zane to take it back.
“That’s exactly what I said. We got to talking, and I told him about this little tale I’d written. To make a long story short, he said to send it to him. I did, you know, expecting nothing. And a few weeks later I got a phone call from him. The whole thing was crazy. But sure enough, he got it made into a film. Winter Fear. You ever see it?”
“No, I’m sorry,” Zane admitted, wishing he had. “Were there more opportunities that followed? Did you ever write anything else?”
Sam waved a hand dismissively as they turned another corner, heading toward the lake again. “Oh, opportunities were offered, but happiness isn’t found by taking every opportunity. It’s choosing the right opportunities. I didn’t mean to write that story. It came to me, I wrote it, and that was it. Strangest thing, too. I was horrible in school. Why do you think I became a fisherman? My father had taught me a trade, and thank goodness he did. Oh, I bitched a blue streak when I was younger. I wanted to hang out with my friends over the summers, but you didn’t tell my father no.” He laughed under his breath. “No, sir. Back then you got the belt. Not like nowadays, when kids curse at their parents.”
Zane knew all about being horrible in school. “That’s quite an accomplishment.”
“Dumb luck. That’s what it was. But I made a few good friends over that time.” They reached Main Street and turned toward Willow’s bakery. Sam stopped in front of the hardware store. “Here we are. Get that door for me, will you, please, son?”
Zane pulled open the door. “Why did we walk around the block when we could have walked two doors down?”
“A man’s got to have a purpose at eighty-five,” he said as they entered the store, “or he won’t make it to eighty-six.” He went straight to the aisle with nails and picked up three, three-inch nails.
“They sell them in boxes.” Zane reached for a box.