Page 26 of Christmas at the Ranch

Eighteen

The next morning, my fifth in Evergreen, when Bruce arrives at the newspaper office, I’m downstairs early, waiting for him with a freshly brewed pot of coffee.

“Before we can go on, we need to talk,” I tell him.

“Oh, no, ” he exclaims. “I was afraid this would happen. You got food poisoning on your first day! Please, don’t quit on me. One last chance?”

I laugh. “It wasn’t the terrible cookies,” I say. But then my expression grows serious again.

I ask him to come sit with me at my desk. I turn on my computer and do a search on my dad. I open the news items and explain as I click through them that this is my family—and that Gill of Gill’s Fish n Chips n Bait n Tackle is in financial ruin because of us.

“You really do need to check in on the Evergreen Business Owners’ group chat every once in a while,” I conclude. “There are definitely some news leads there, Bruce.”

Bruce leans over me and reads the article about my father and his corporate fraud crimes, then sits down in the chair beside me and lets out a long sigh. He’s deep in thought for so long I wonder if he’s going to ask me to leave or say anything at all.

When he finally does speak, all he says is, “This is unfortunate.” My heart sinks. “But not for the reasons you think it is. I feel for you, Emory. This is a tough burden to carry.”

He nods his head at my computer, then x ’s out of the story.

“My grandfather was the mayor of this town years ago, and he embezzled money from a local treasury. Especially in a community this small, it was a lot to live down. But I made a name for myself because I am not my grandfather. I imagine you are not your father. Either way, I plan to judge for myself.”

“Even though I faked sick on my first day?”

“You had your reasons and came clean at the first opportunity. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing more to discuss. All is forgiven.”

We spend the rest of the morning working on our review of Carrie’s, settling on “inventive” and “surprising” for the spicy Ring of Fire donut, and “unique” and “savory” for the meat cookie—which we agree in both cases is the truth, leaving our journalistic integrity intact.

When I tell him about my dinner at Young’s Chinese, Bruce is delighted. “Why don’t you give me eight hundred words on the secret menu and its origins by lunchtime? It sounds like the Youngs gave you a lot to work with.”

I’ve almost forgotten how exciting it is to be working on deadline in a newsroom. I know The Evergreen Enquirer is a long way from The Globe and Mail newsroom—both literally and figuratively—but I still feel that same sense of purpose and urgency.

I have an hour-long fact-checking conversation with Mrs.Young, who is more than happy to expound at length about her favorite foods, and the inspirations behind the secret menu.

She also tells me about a holiday special they’re running for those who may not want to cook their own Christmas meal.

I transcribe my notes, then start to write—and before I know it, a first draft is finished, and it’s noon.

I stand up from my desk and stretch my arms above my head. “Bruce?” He looks up from his computer. “I think I’m going to go over and pick us up some lunch,” I say. “From Gill’s.”

He nods and says, “Best of luck, Emory.” And then he goes back to his work.

The sign for Gill’s Fish n Chips n Bait n Tackle is still the same as I remember: an old tin fishing boat featuring a hand-painted rendering of a speckled lake trout.

When I walk in, I can’t help but expect to find the fish-and-chips shop just as it was the decade before—but, I remind myself, Evergreen has moved on.

Time hasn’t been standing still, even if it did in my mind. So many things here have changed. Including Tate. Including me.

But even so, Gill’s does end up matching my memory of the time Tate and I came here together, after the first time I tried the fish-and-chips with him in the hayloft.

The walls are still decorated with old-timey fishing lures and hung with netting.

This time of year, there are little red and green Christmas balls strung through the netting, too.

It still smells like freshly gutted fish, which you would think would be a bad thing, but really isn’t; in here, it’s fresh and briny.

There’s still a fridge with containers of bait, shelves lined with tackle for sale.

Gill comes out of the kitchen at the sound of the tinkling fishing lure mobile that hangs above the door. He’s wearing a starched white apron, and his blue eyes crinkle up with a welcoming smile.

“How may I help you?” he asks me.

My heart feels like it’s breaking already. How could my father and Reuben take money from this man? This is his family business, his heart and soul. I can tell. And it’s all just so unfair.

“I’m, uh, from the newspaper,” I say. I shouldn’t.

But I want him to know we’re writing a review.

He deserves every advantage he can get. Plus, maybe he’ll figure out who I am and I won’t have to come out and say it—which I’m finding myself far too nervous to do.

“I’m picking up lunch for Bruce and me—and we’ll be sure to give it a glowing write-up in our special holiday restaurant review section. ”

This isn’t how it’s supposed to work, and I know it.

And it also wasn’t my intent when I came here.

My plan was to tell him who I am and apologize on behalf of my family.

But being here, seeing him in person, is making me realize it isn’t that simple.

Meanwhile, Gill keeps smiling, but there’s a weariness behind his eyes that makes me feel even worse about everything.

Still, “Oh, that would be nice,” he says. “A boost would be good. So, lunch for the two of you? We do have our regular pickerel and chips, but I’ve also got something special I’ve been offering lately.”

My heart sinks at the “something special”; I’m still traumatized by Carrie’s. But he’s gone back into the kitchen before I can ask for the regular fish-n-chips meal his place is so famous for.

In a little while, he emerges with two take-out containers in hand. “This is my pan-fried Haliburton Gold,” he says. “And parsnip frites. I’ll be really interested to hear what you think.”

“What is Haliburton Gold?” I ask him.

“A special kind of trout you can only get in this lake region,” he says. “It’s especially good this time of year, when the ice is new and the trout are up in the shallows. Like bobbing for apples with shark teeth.”

He winks at me and I want to finally blurt out my apology, but I find myself unable to say anything except to thank him for the food.

He doesn’t want me to pay for it, but I insist. I thank him again, then leave, determined that of all the reviews I write for Bruce’s special holiday restaurant section, this will be the best one.

Even better than the one I wrote for Young’s.

But I still wish there was more I could do for Gill—and wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling this way, or if I’m destined to carry the burden of my father’s crimes wherever I go from now on.