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Wait for it....
She opened and closed her mouth. Raised one hand to her lips. Lowered it again.
At last she spoke.
“Make me a happy woman. Tell me you’re going jogging and then you’ll shower and get dressed for real.”
“Sorry, Ma. What you see is what you get.”
“Do I dare ask why?”
She could ask, but he wasn’t sure he could explain. He knew that when he left town, he’d broken her heart. Her hurt was compounded when she realized that no matter what he did—graduating from university, getting his PhD, moving to Tucson to teach high school and the occasional university class—no one wanted to hear about it. She’d been deprived of both her son and her bragging rights. She didn’t need to know that he’d already been tried and condemned on his first day back.
“Let’s say I’m giving the people exactly what they want to see.” He kissed the top of her head and swiped her mug with every intention of helping himself. One whiff of the contents made him hand it back, fast.
“What the he—heck is that?”
Iris rolled her eyes. “Please. You’re leaving here dressed like a hoodlum but you won’t say hell in front of your mother?”
“I figured you’d wash my mouth out with soap. What is it?”
“Astragalus tea. Strengthens immunity and enhances body energy and defenses.”
So she was trying to build herself back up. Good.
“When was your last doctor’s appointment?”
“About three weeks ago. Maybe longer.” When he started to speak, she shushed him with a shake of her head. “Don’t fuss. I’m fine now.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“Mothers don’t like to worry their children.” She stared into her tea. He tipped her chin up so he could look her straight in the eye.
“And children don’t like being kept in the dark, Ma.”
“I’m not hiding anything.” She paused, before adding, “Not from you, I promise. Not anymore.”
He could live with that. If Iris wanted to keep the rest of the town from knowing the truth about her ongoing fight with seasonal affective disorder, well, that was her right. As long as she didn’t try to hide it from him. He never wanted to get another phone call like the one he’d received last winter—the call in which an artificially calm voice informed him that his mother had tried to kill herself.
But she was doing better now. She was gradually adjusting to life without his father. And it was summer, when the long light-filled days held her depression at bay. As long as he got her out of Comeback Cove before fall, she would be fine.
The trouble was that while Iris said she was ready to move, he had the feeling she was really hoping for some sort of reprieve. Something, perhaps, like convincing him to move back.
“So.” He sniffed the tea again, turned up his nose. “Where can I get a cup of real coffee these days?”
“The same place you always could. River Joe’s.” She looked him up and down. “You know it’s going to be crowded this time of day.”
It was a gentle hint that he might want to change. Little did she know that there was no way he was going to reveal the depths of his changes to this town. He could handle them rejecting the kid he’d been. The man he’d become, though—that was off-limits.
Besides, it was fun to put on the old ways and tweak folks a bit. He kind of missed letting his inner daredevil have his day.
“River Joe’s, huh?” A picture of the woman he’d spotted the previous evening flashed through his mind. Maybe the answer to her identity was closer than he’d expected.
He snagged his Rollerblades from beside the deacon’s bench in the front hall, then sat down and wriggled the first foot in. Keeping his voice casual, he asked, “Who’s running it these days?”
“Lydia Brewster.”
“Who’s she?”
“Buddy Brewster’s daughter-in-law.”
J.T. wound the laces around his hands, tugged and looked up. “Glenn’s wife? How did she end up with the shop?”
“Glenn’s widow, yes. She moved here with her children after Glenn and Buddy died.”
Memories raced through J.T.’s mind, outtakes from the one and only time Comeback Cove had gained national attention. There had been a tanker on the seaway—a common enough occurrence. But this tanker had been targeted by a nutcase with a statement to make and enough explosives to make sure he was heard. Buddy and Glenn had been out deer hunting when they stumbled across the man. They stopped him. But in the process they lost their own lives.
J.T. tied a quick bow and moved on to the next foot. “Must have been tough for her.”
“It was. I’m sure it still is.”
The slight catch in his mother’s voice was proof that she understood Lydia Brewster’s pain better than he ever would. He hunted for something to say that would keep them on even emotional ground. “What made her come here?”
“You say that like it’s a life sentence.”
“You mean it isn’t?”
“Maybe when you’re a child. But adults usually enjoy it.”
Any minute now, she’d start a commercial on the joys of life in Comeback Cove. “Lydia Brewster?” he prompted.
Iris sighed. “Well, she and Ruth were both hurting, as you can imagine. Ruth was all alone in that big house, and Lydia’s children were so small—the youngest was little more than a baby. She brought them here, and Ruth helped with the kids while Lyddie ran the store. It was good for both of them.”
It made sense. But he still couldn’t see how moving to the Cove could be in anyone’s best interests.
“This is her home now,” Iris continued, “and people are glad to have her. Losing Buddy and Glenn was terrible. It helps to have her and the children here, like a part of them is still with us. And Lyddie is so sweet and brave that everyone wants to help.”
J.T. could only imagine. From what he remembered, if the nutcase had succeeded, the resulting explosion could have destroyed the town far more completely than he ever had. Lydia Brewster must be the next thing to a saint around here.
If she were indeed the woman he’d seen, it explained the ease with which she’d been accepted into town. Even the Cove couldn’t keep a hero’s widow at arm’s length.
He gave the laces a tug vicious enough to risk snapping them. He hoped to hell that this Brewster woman either wanted to close the shop or had enough money tucked away to buy her building from him. Because even with skates on, he doubted he could outrun the wave of condemnation that would crash over him if he had to sell Lydia Brewster’s business out from under her.
* * *
THE WEDNESDAY-MORNING RUSH was in full gear, leaving Lyddie little time to worry about Tracy’s revelation of the night before. Good. If she let herself think too long about this, she could come up with a dozen possible outcomes, each one scarier than the last. She was all too aware that the worst-case scenario really could happen in a life.
She could lose her business. Have to start over in another location. Worst of all, she would have to say goodbye to another piece of her children’s history—the shop their grandfather started, the place where their father carved his initials into the kitchen wall.
But all that had to wait. Right now she had to draw a hazelnut roast for Jillian.
“Leave it black, please,” Jillian called, as though this were a new request. Every morning she ordered the same thing. Nadine and Lyddie were getting on in years, but even they could remember a medium hazelnut, no cream, no sugar.
On the other hand, Jillian hadn’t attained the office of mayor—and every other title in town, from Little Miss Fall Festival on up—by leaving anything to chance. Maybe Lyddie should take a lesson from her. Jillian would never find herself breathless and foundering while her building was sold out from beneath her, that was for sure.
“How about a blueberry muffin, Your Worship?” Nadine was in fine form. “Mmm, look at that brown sugar streusel.”
Jillian, queen of the Thighmaster, shuddered visibly. “No. Just coffee. No food.”
On the other hand, there had to be a more positive role model than an anorexic power slut.
“I need music,” Lyddie announced, and scooted around the counter to reach the long-outdated CD player. Usually she didn’t start the tunes until the morning rush had cleared and conversation had dwindled. But today she needed all the distraction she could get.
She thumbed through the CDs and shook her head. Gregorian chants, harp music, the sounds of relaxation... None of those felt right. She needed in-your-face vocals that would give her a socially acceptable outlet for the frustration perking inside her. She needed—
“Oh, yeah.”
Bonnie Raitt’s greatest hits slid into place. In a moment, assertive guitar chords punctured the atmosphere, mingling with the warm smell of coffee and the casual ambience. It was almost enough to make her relax.
She boogied her way behind the counter where Nadine waited with her arms crossed and eyes rolling.
“Lydia, it’s bad enough you make me work at this hour. Force me to listen to that and I’ll report you to the labor board.”
“Stop. This is good. People like it.”
“It has a beat, I’ll give you that.” Nadine scanned the room, pausing briefly at the opening door. “But I think you need to try something... Oh, my God.”
“What?” Lyddie looked up, more worried by the sudden drop in Nadine’s volume than her words. Then she realized that the entire room had gone suddenly, eerily still. If it hadn’t been for Bonnie belting from the CD, asking if she was ready for the thing called love, there would have been dead silence.
“Nadine?”
A nod toward the door was the only answer.
Lyddie glanced in the direction indicated and saw that a man had entered the shop. Dark hair. Slightest hint of stubble on the chin. Electric blue T-shirt over black biker shorts. The most remarkable thing about him was the Rollerblades on his feet, and even Comeback Cove had progressed enough to handle those.
On closer inspection, this guy didn’t need anything remarkable to stand out. He wasn’t what she’d call drop-dead gorgeous, though he certainly was making the second look worth the effort. It was something about the way he held himself. The set of his shoulders, the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth, the calm and purposeful way he scanned the room sent a clear message that this was a man who knew exactly who and what he was, and nothing would change him.
So why did she get the feeling he was braced for attack?
“It’s him,” Nadine whispered. “J. T. Delaney.”
Ooooooooh.
The quirk spread into a cocky grin. “Nice to see I still know how to make an entrance.”
The room echoed with the sound of about a dozen throats being cleared.
His gaze settled on Lyddie. Something like recognition flashed in his eyes, confusing her. “Okay to wear these in here?” he called over the coughing and harrumphing.
“Uh...” Somewhere in her brain she understood he was referring to the skates. She wanted to toss off a casual reply, but something—anger?—had started curling low in her belly, interfering with her thought process.
It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t had time to think, no chance to determine her plan of attack. Why was he here already?
And why did he have to look so...interesting? Despite what Nadine and Tracy had said, Lyddie had expected a middle-aged version of his late father: sober and responsible, slightly balding, wearing sensible loafers and madras plaid shirts. That kind of man she could handle. What was she supposed to do with James Dean the Second?
His grin widened. “If you’d rather I didn’t, could we pretend this is a drive-through?”
From the corner of her eye she saw a flash of red. Oh, no. Jillian was moving in for the kill.
“Well, well, well. So much for that line about being adults.” Jillian crossed her arms and looked him up and down with—in Lyddie’s opinion—a bit too much interest. If Ted heard about this, there would be hell to pay. “You’re still as crazy as ever.”
“Only when I’m here, Jelly.”
Behind Lyddie, Nadine snickered back to life. “Jelly?”
Lyddie had much the same thought. She’d never met anyone who could put Her Worship in place with five little words. When the mayor clamped her lips together and hustled out the door, Lyddie had to remind herself that this was the potential bad guy in front of her.
But bad guy or not, she couldn’t leave him standing in the doorway. She waved to let him know the blades were acceptable but couldn’t keep from adding, “After all, it’s your place, Mr. Delaney.”
The soft whir of wheels across slate marked his progress. That and the swiveling of every head in the room. He moved slowly, as if making sure everyone had a chance to size him up.
“Morning, Mrs. Krupnick.”
“Morning, J.T.” Nadine spoke far more cautiously than Lyddie would have expected. “What can I get for you?”
“A cup of French roast.” There was a slight pause before he added, “Please.”
Lyddie stifled a groan. Just what she needed. A landlord with a God’s-greatest-gift complex.
She had to meet him eventually, so she straightened her shoulders and prayed that she would come off as an efficient businesswoman instead of the brain-dead twit she was currently channeling. Though how she was supposed to do that when he’d dropped in on her out of the blue like this...
“Hi.” She thrust out a hand, well aware that it was more challenge than greeting. “Welcome to River Joe’s. I’m Lydia Brewster.”
“J. T. Delaney.” He took her hand, palms meshing in a perfect fit. An unanticipated fog rolled through her brain. All she could think was that he sure didn’t look like a landlord. Nor, to be honest, did he resemble her idea of a wild arsonist. She wasn’t sure why. He certainly had the “wild” part down. Maybe it was his teeth. They seemed far too straight and white for someone with a juvenile past.
Nadine slid a full mug in his direction. He lifted it and inhaled like a drowning man who’d just found an oxygen tank.
“God, that smells good.”
Okay, he appreciated good coffee. That was a plus. But looking at him made something bubble inside Lyddie. She couldn’t put a finger on it. She was irritated and intrigued and frustrated and fascinated, all at the same time, but none of those emotions seemed to capture exactly what she was feeling.
All that was certain was that she needed to know the truth—not through a rumor, but from him.
She gave him a moment to swallow before saying, as casually as possible, “I hear you’re selling the building.”
The room echoed with a dozen sudden inhalations.
J.T., however, showed no reaction other than a slight quirk of an eyebrow. “Word travels fast as ever, I see.”
