Charlie Cannon, Part 1

“And He said to them, ‘Follow Me, and I will make you fishers of men.’ And they immediately left the nets, and followed Him.”  Matthew 4:19-20

 

defender.com

 

Lindy Mitchell leaned out the Jeep window for a kiss. “I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t get lost, or we might have to send a search party in after you.”

Mace Mitchell grinned. How well my wife knows me, he thought.

“Don’t worry–I have a list.” He pulled his wrinkled, yellow piece of paper from his jeans and waved it. “Just call me when you’re leaving the grocery, Lins, and I’ll be ready. Love you, Choo-Choo.”

“Ditto, Kiddo.”

He watched her blond head blip around the corner out of the parking lot, then he grabbed a buggy.

Smoothing out the paper, he raked a hand through his curly hair. Picture hangers. Doormat. Interior paint, #2891 Ocean Breezes. Okay, he’d head on over to Paint first.

On his way there, he envisioned the pastel blue-green color Lindy picked for their bedroom.  Once they decided to paint, it’d taken Lindy several tries to find the right color.  No black, no purple, was all he asked. So last night when she held up her tiny paint chip against their stark white walls, he heartily agreed.

Yeah, he’d try his best to get in and out of here today, and not aimlessly float down the aisles to play with the newest and coolest the store had in their displays. It was his plan to get the bedroom taped and completely knocked out by noon, then buzz on over to the church to tweak the sound and graphics for tomorrow’s worship service.

At Paint, the young guy behind the counter was mixing another order. He wiped his hands on a paint-splattered apron and approached. “Kyle” said his nametag. “May I help you, sir?”

Mace pointed to the list. “I certainly hope so, Kyle. I need two gallons of this in your best interior flat.”

Kyle nodded. “Be right back.”

Kyle went about gathering cans of base paint, cracking the lids, and sticking them under the color machine. Mace watched as several codes were punched on the keypad and long and short dribbles of color slid into his paint. Opposite them, the paint agitator stopped its monumental shaking. Kyle strode to the monster of a machine, removed another customer’s can from its bowels, scooped out a paint daub on his finger. Mace chuckled as Kyle had to rummage under the counters for a decidedly low-tech hand-held hair dryer to dry the paint color he’d swiped on the lid.

Mace went back to his list. While the paint’s getting mixed, I should head on over to hardware for those wall hangers to put up those pictures Lindy’s been dogging me about. Then over to flooring to get a replacement doormat, thanks to Ranger, who’d gotten bored last week and decided to chew up the old one.

Mace started forward, almost bumping his cart into a guy who’d since appeared at the paint counter. Surprise shot into the other man’s full-bearded face. “Hey, sorry about that,” apologized Mace. “Hope I didn’t get you.”

“Naw, not a problem.” The man met Mace’s eyes. A flicker of recognition lit the gray eyes, then receded.

I know him too, thought Mace, but where do I know him from?

Kyle walked up with the finished can of paint, set it on the counter. “Here you go, Mr. Cannon. Will there be anything else for you today?”

Cannon. Charlie Cannon? Could it be—?

Enter Your Mail Address

Signature

Speak Your Mind

*