Touching the Clouds Read Online Free Page B

then flipped open the front. It was just after nine o’clock. He closed the watch and then turned it over, running his thumb across the letters G. A. engraved on the back. Gerald Anderson had been a good man. Paul could still see his father’s large hands as they snapped open the watch. He’d always been a stickler about being on time.
    A breeze kicked up, swirling dirt into the air. Paul slid the watch back into his pocket and continued down the street. A pair of boots in a store window caught his eye. It would be nice to replace his old ones. He glanced down at the toes of his Harvesters and decided they’d do for another year. Summer was nearly over, and he’d soon be switching to fur-lined winter boots anyway.
    He noticed a man and young boy standing in front of the next window display. The boy was looking at something, his nose nearly pressed against the glass. The man leaned over and rested an arm across the child’s back. Paul figured they were father and son and felt an ache in his throat. His son would have been about the same age.
    Heaviness of spirit settled over Paul as his mind carried him to the what-ifs of his life—if Susan had lived . . . if his son had survived . . . if his home were still in San Francisco. He caught sight of his reflection in the store window. His usual serious expression had deepened into one of misery. Straightening, he lifted his hat to brush thick brown hair off his forehead and looked up the street.
    Two children barreled past him. One of the youngsters bumped into Paul, knocking off his cap. He stopped. “Sorry, mister.”
    “Not a problem.” Paul reached down and picked up the cap and handed it to the boy.
    He planted it on his head, nodded at Paul, and then took off after his friend. Taking in a long, regretful breath, Paul watched them go and wished life had turned out differently.
    He headed toward the general store. Might as well complete his shopping and get on home.
    The bell announced his arrival as he stepped through the door. He liked the mercantile; it felt homey and always smelled of grains and spices. He removed his hat and scanned the room, searching for Albert or Helen. He looked forward to seeing them. Aside from Patrick, who lived on the property next to his, they were the closest thing to friends he had in Alaska.
    Albert Towns set a bag of grain against a wall and straightened. “Howdy.” He moved to Paul and grasped his hand, shaking it vigorously. “Good to see you. Where’ve you been keeping yourself?”
    “Out at the creek.” Paul clapped Albert on the back. “Time to stock up for winter.”
    “Summer came and went so fast I barely even got a look at it. Wish winter would hold off for a while.”
    “It’s only the third week of August. We’ve still got some summer left.”
    “Hope you’re right.” Albert moved to a counter and, taking a pencil from behind his ear, wrote in a ledger. He glanced up. “So, you going to be in town long?”
    “Have to leave today.”
    Albert straightened. “Too bad. I know Helen would like to see you.”
    “Wish I had the time. Tell her hello for me.”
    “Sure will.” Albert pushed the pencil back over his ear. “So, what can I get for you?”
    “I need flour, sugar, rolled oats, beans, and rice.”
    “How much you figure?”
    “A hundred pounds of flour ought to see me through.”
    “I’ve got plenty.” Albert headed toward the back of the store.
    Paul followed. “I need fifty pounds of beans and rice, and twenty-five pounds of sugar.”
    Albert stopped and peered at Paul. “Fifty pounds of rice?”
    “Something wrong with that?”
    “No. Just never eat much of it.”
    “It’s great in fish pie. And the fishing was good this summer so I’ll be making a lot of it.”
    “I’ll have to give it a try.”
    “Come out to my place sometime and I’ll make it for you.”
    “Just might take you up on that. That is, if I can get away. Helen keeps me tethered pretty close to home these days.”