Page 4 of Grouch-ish

“I asked . . . Who are you?”

Squinting, I check her out again, top to toe, and then decide I wouldn’t chase a woman with an attitude. Been there. Lost that.

“I’m Brock Scroggs. And I’m looking for Frank Klaus.”

The woman stares back at me, and for a second, I wonder what’s taking her so long to introduce herself or even be remotely polite.

“Okay then. I’m supposed to meet him here at Paradise Farms.” I pull the slip of paper from my pocket, prepared to hold it out to her as proof I’m in the right location, although something is clearly wrong here.

She quietly mutters, “Who the hell writes something on paper?”

My head pops up and I feel the corner of my mouth tick upward. My thoughts exactly, snowflake.

“Anyway, I work with Cap and—”

“You missed the bus.”

“What bus?”

“The bus for the retreat. I’m assuming you’re one of Dad’s guys needing restoration.” She rolls her eyes, but I’m stuck on one word.

“Cap is your dad?”

I couldn’t chase this girl even if I wanted to taste her sass on my tongue and hold those hips in my hands.

Cap would use my balls for fire extinguishing practice. My balls being the burning item.

Yeah, fuck me.

Chapter 2

[Pear]

My dad.

I love the guy, but I’m still upset with him. I hadn’t seen him in months, and I was looking forward to rest and relaxation on his farm. The orchard is his newest passion.

Also, restoring his flock—and I’m not meaning sheep—has been a long-standing obsession of his.

Not that I really fault him for wanting to change the culture of the fire department by rectifying wrongs done in the past, or cutting off conflict before it burns out of control, but sometimes I just need my dad. Like now.

I’m partially at fault as I wanted to surprise him for the holidays. Unannounced, I’d shown up on Christmas Eve at my dad’s sister’s place which is in the immediate area. Aunt Bertie was thrilled to see me. Dad, too, but he was also in shock.

“You said you couldn’t make it home.”

“Surprise,” I’d responded weakly, noticing the concern on his weathered face.

Dad had a twelve-day mission booked with ten firefighters and police officers in need of restorative justice from December twenty-sixth through January sixth. He worked hard to get both first responder departments on board with this ancient ritual of going off into nature to find peace and perspective. Not everyone bought into the process. Some even ridiculed it, but Dad had luck at turning people around.

And from the grumpy expression mixed with the chiseled cheeks of the guy in front of me, I’d say he was Dad’s newest recruit, albeit unwillingly.

At first, most participants were skeptical, hesitant, lost even. But if they wanted to keep their jobs, they followed his process for change.

Or they quit.

Or they were fired.

I knew all too well about that last option, but it wasn’t my immediate concern.