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“Oh, yeah. I took a few.” I pull out my phone, open the gallery, and hand it across to Kaiden.
Sam appears just then at the side of the table with a drink in each hand. He slides them across to us.
“Oh!” The exclamation gets Sam’s attention, and he peeks over Kaiden's shoulder as he scrolls through the snapshots. “Now I see why you’re worked up.”
Sam laughs, “You found one of those women that goes from cute to gorgeous in the blink of an eye! Good luck keeping up with that one!” He ambles back across to the bar.
“I can run these through FRT.” Kaiden looks at me for an ok.
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “That sounds like an invasion of privacy.”
“Well, I sent them to myself, so if you change your mind, let me know.” He hands my phone back. “I already have the software, and my cousin needs the practice. She keeps complaining about being bored since my uncle sent her over to get her away from some boy she was sneaking out with. I’m trying to keep her busy with our tech jobs. She’s a damn genius even at seventeen. I got stuck babysitting in return for his aid in getting that dirtbag away from Angela.”
I’m surprised at his admission. He rarely talks about his Italian family. He’s close with his parents who are here in Maine and mentions them often. The extended family had descended on the town in force for his and Cami’s wedding, but he doesn’t talk about them. His cousin must really be running him ragged.
I ask about the bakery, and I see pride fill his face when he talks about Cami’s newest recipes, the new delivery van that needs a driver, and the early morning baker she’s hired to start the breakfast pastries.
We pay our tabs, and I see Kaiden slip his business card to Sam when he hands over the signed receipt. I wonder if Sam’s is about to get a new investor given the amount of interest Kaiden had shown in the bar.
I drop Kaiden off in front of Cloud Nine. “Thanks for the talk, boss,” I tell him. He gives me a look. I know he hates it when I call him boss, even though he does fund the SAR Team.
“Don’t beat yourself up about your gal,” he says in reply and waves as he steps away.
I go home and try to sleep, but I dream about Lorelai’s body moving against mine and wake hard as a rock. I don’t even feel like trying to take care of that myself, and eventually it passes. But when I fall asleep again, I end up back in the same dream.
Finally, I just get up and crank up the heater in my work out area in the garage and sweat to some death metal playing in my earbuds. I sense this is going to become a problem.
Chapter 17
~~ Lorelai ~~
It‘s Sunday evening, and I managed to buy a used MT-07 from a guy whose wife was demanding he sell before their baby was born. Their bit of bickering is made cute by the obvious loving looks and soft touches between them. Teddy and Sheila, I remind myself over and over so I don’t lose their names. High school sweethearts who are well into their fifth year of marriage and just having their first baby. He’s a mechanic for a dealership a few towns over, so the bike has been well-kept.
They’re only a few years younger than I am, but it seems like they really have things on track. They bought their first house together last year and just finished arranging the nursery. I love the sweet way he handed her up into the passenger seat of their SUV, reaching in and tucking the seat belt beneath her pregnant belly. That is going to be one well-loved baby.
So far, I’ve ridden through the whole town three times, testing the map I’d created in my head on the bus ride. I keep my speed to a leisure pace since I can’t get a helmet until shops are open tomorrow.
It is considerably warmer than it had been last week, but I still had to stop and buy gloves at a gas station before my fingers froze off. I love the chill of the air slicing through my coat, burning away the lingering darkness from the dreams I’d had throughout the night of shadowy figures cutting James down as he tried to get to me.
I end up at Kelley’s, an Irish pub by the docks, which the couple had recommended for a hot stew and soda bread on cold nights. I choose a parking spot a few rows back under a lamp post and stand for a moment feeling the moisture in the wind coming off the water sprinkling my face like pixie dust.
Normally, I would choose the darkest booth I could get, but I have already decided not to hide. No matter how exposed it made me feel. I think of it as a necessary step toward making a home. Can’t start out by dodging my future neighbors. I wonder for a moment if James has eaten in this same restaurant, if he might show up while I’m here. How would I explain that I’m not stalking him, that I just want a chance to discover the same community he’d had around him.
The restaurant is dim, but in a cheery, lantern-lit sort of way. A few steps inside, I'm greeted by a devilishly handsome man behind the bar who yells over the chatter to seat myself wherever I like. He’s cleaning up a space at the far end of the bar just vacated by a man wearing a newsboy cap whose smile blends into his wrinkles.
Even though there are other seats open, I hang my coat on the back of the stool he left and slip in, rationalizing that choosing the end seat was more like a compromise than continuing my habit of doing my best to disappear.
The bartender slides over drink and food menus and introduces himself with that friendly but strictly professional way men have of putting it out there right away that they aren’t interested in flirting. I like that kind of bartender.
He cards me when I order an Irish Ale, and I sigh and fish out my id. He makes up for it by offering my choice of meats to top my Colcannon. I haven’t sampled any traditional Irish dishes, so I’m excited to try this one. I choose bacon because who wouldn’t?
I sip my drink and my ears automatically tune to pick up the conversations around me. There have been many times I’ve been able to duck out ahead of a situation just by listening to what’s going on around me.
There’s a group of three couples in a corner booth talking about a vacation they’re planning together, a woman admonishing her silver-haired husband about his eating habits, some shy teenagers on what seems to be their first date, and a couple of ladies talking about an event at their children’s school.
One woman a few seats down from me is getting hit on by a man who walked in just after I did. She doesn’t seem to be enjoying his attention, and about the time I’m about to get worried, the bartender tells him to grab a table or leave. The man doesn’t even argue. He just gives a salute, puts some cash on the counter, chugs his pint, and walks out. I feel some tension exit my body at the deference shown.
“Sorry ‘bout that Deena. You know how he gets.” The bartender looks a little embarrassed.
