Page 26 of Never Invite a Vampire to Dinner

“I’m not agreeing with you.”

“Take the hand pies and go.”

Lucy takes two, because betrayal makes her hungry. Theo at least waits until she’s out the door before he keeps going.

“He was in here Tuesday.”

“So?”

“Sat right there.” He points at the stool at the end. My stool. The one I always take. “Nursed a glass of red he didn’t drink for two hours. Chatted to Wendell about fishing. And then, around nine, he asks me as casually as if he’s asking about the weather whether you’re doing the harvest supper at the grange this weekend.”

My stomach does something unhelpful. “He asked about the grange?”

“He asked if you’d be there.” Theo picks the glass back up. “I said far as I knew. He says, ‘Good,’ and pays for a wine he never touched, and goes home.” He shrugs his enormous shoulders. “A man doesn’t sit two hours on a bar stool to ask about a woman’s weekend plans because he wants tips on chowder, Penny. I’ve been tending this bar for twenty years. I know why he was sitting there.”

“He’s new in town,” I say weakly. “He’s making friends. I’m his… entry point. His liaison. To local society.”

“Sure.” Theo uncaps his pen and adds a line to his ledger. I watch him write it upside down. TWELVE DAYS — DENIAL PHASE ONGOING.

“You are a terrible person.”

“You want the crab or not?”

I want the crab.

By Saturday evening, I’ve built my defense to a fine point. I’ve said it so many times it’s practically a jingle. We’re just friends. He’s new. I’m friendly. That’s all.

The grange smells like cider and hot rolls and twenty different casseroles. Strings of little lights cross the rafters, the old radiators are clanking like they’re trying to escape the walls, and the folding tables are packed close enough that getting from one side of the room to the other requires either patience or a willingness to climb over Wendell Marr.

I have neither, so I stay where I am.

I’m at the long table across from Lucy, with a plate of Loretta’s ham and a cup of Wendell’s alarming punch. Mabel is three seats down in a lighthouse brooch, arguing with the mayor about the church roof fund. Eunice Ballard has brought her own folding chair because the grange chairs are, in her words, an insult. Harriet Coyne is telling someone about her hip. Everything is exactly as it has been at every harvest supper since I was old enough to carry a plate.

Lucy leans across the table and points her fork at me.

“Do you want to hear something interesting?”

Given Lucy’s idea of interesting, it’s a dangerous question.

“No,” I say, but of course she continues anyway.

“I heard this podcast about a lighthouse in Nova Scotia, and four keepers who went missing between 1927 and 1930. I listened to the whole thing in the darkroom on Tuesday and slept with the hall light on.”

“You’re thirty-two, Lucy.”

“And the man has a voice like a warm bath. It was still spooky as hell.” She stabs a piece of Loretta’s ham. “It’s called The Veil. He goes to all these different places and investigates weird things.”

“Mm.”

“He went to a place in Vermont last season and found out all about⁠—”

I sigh. “Lucy. It’s the harvest supper. Halloween is over.”

“I’m just trying to educate you.”

“You’re trying to freak me out.”

She rolls her eyes at me.