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“I’m not sure. It certainly feels like an adventure. The town has a good vibe, and the downtown area is just what I’d imagined. Should we explore further after lunch?”
He gives me an eager nod.
The waitress, a pretty blonde with a curvaceous figure, brings us menus and tall glasses of ice water. “I’m Amber. Welcome to Water’s Edge.”
I furrow my brow. “How do you know we’re not from here?”
“I’ve never seen you folks around. And I pretty much know everyone in town. Are you passing through? Or are you new to town?”
“Both,” I say. “We’re in the market for a new home. We may decide to stay if we like it. Have you lived here long?”
“All my life. I wouldn’t live anywhere else. Some people think our town is boring, but the relaxed pace suits me just fine.” She looks over at Conrad. “What’s your name, kiddo?”
Conrad gives me a tentative look, and I nod for him to answer. “Conrad. But my friends call me Buddy.”
“Buddy. I like that. My son, Jackson, is about your age. How old are you?”
Conrad holds up four fingers, his thumb folded onto his palm.
“Four would’ve been my guess. If you’re looking for a preschool, First Presbyterian Church has a wonderful program. Best in town.” Amber chuckles. “The only one in town, actually. They may be full. But it’s worth giving the administrator, Betty Bleaker, a call.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I say, making a mental note of the woman’s name.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’m fine with just water,” I say, and Conrad orders a lemonade.
“I’ll give you a minute to look over the menu,” Amber says and moseys off to check on another customer at the other end of the bar.
I point out the kid’s section on the menu. “Can you read any of your choices?”
“Hot dog. French fries. Chicken tenders. What’s that word?” he asks tapping on the menu.
“Macaroni. Would you like some macaroni and cheese?”
“No thanks. I’ll have chicken tenders,” he says, dropping the menu onto the bar.
When Amber returns a few minutes later, I order the chicken for Conrad and a cheeseburger with grilled onions for me.
“Excellent choices.” She jots down our order on her pad and looks up at me. “I’m not sure what line of work you’re in, but if you’re looking for a job, we’re hiring here at The Nest.”
“Thanks, but I already have a job. I’m a thriller writer,” I say and realize my mistake right away.
“Cool. I love to read. What are some of your titles?”
“I . . . um . . . I haven’t actually released anything yet.”
“I see,” she says in a disappointed tone. She either doesn’t believe I’m a writer, or she’s disappointed I’m not famous.
She tears our order from her pad and slips the pad into her apron pocket. “Well, if you need some money to tide you over, we have positions open for bartenders and servers.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Thoughts of my career weigh heavily on me while we wait for our food. A thriller writer sounds foreign to me. A continuous stream of cozy mystery plot ideas flows through my brain at all times, but the only thriller idea I’ve come up with so far is the one based on my own life. And writing that novel would mean exposing myself. If I don’t come up with an idea for a novel soon, I may very well be applying for a job here.
Our food arrives, and we attack our plates as though we haven’t eaten in a week. My burger is cooked medium rare, the way I like it, and the meat is flavorful.
“Mommy, can we please live at The Nest?” Conrad asks, stuffing a french fry in his mouth.
