Page 6 of Jonesing for a Spy

He launches in, regaling me with why he recently moved to the town that sits on Mobile Bay’s eastern coast, who here he’s come to love and trust, and who in town raises his suspicions. “Not because they’re bad, mind you. It’s”—he looks out the windows to the European-style terrace—“they just make me wonder is all. All nice people. But still. Keep an eye out for Fuzzy and Fergus. Those two are trouble. They act all innocent, but they seem to be in the thick of it, no matter where that thick may be. All I know is I bet their elementary school teachers—God rest their souls—or coaches, or employers or, hell, the folks at the senior center would all say the same thing. How they’ve skated by must be legendary.”

“Fuzzy and Fergus. Got it.” I push the plate away several bites after being too full, but the rich gravy and the buttery base are addictive. “How do you make this kind of polenta?”

Had I known I was detonating a bomb, I would’ve thought twice about the question.

“Polenta? Boy.” Tom stretches out the word as his eyes go wide. “Grits. You are in the south. There’s no such thing as polenta. ’Cept in those fancy Italian restaurants. Even then, it’s grits. Don’t go making that mistake again.”

“Yes, Sir.” My face splits into a smile. “Tell you what, Tom. I’ll come back tomorrow, try another dish, and listen to more wisdom. That work?”

“That works. I’m here open to close.” He slides my plate off the bar and drops it out of sight with barely a clank. “Polenta,” he mutters under his breath. “The boy said polenta.”

“Strider.” I extend a hand. “Strider Anderson. Nice to meet you, Tom.”

The sun blinds me as I exit the restaurant and wander the main drag on my way back to the cottage. Friday afternoon seems to bring with it some extra traffic, but people wave and yell their hellos to each other.

Yet again, I note the charm. That’s the only word for it. Warm, welcoming, almost enchanting. Pulling out my phone, I send a text to my youngest sister.

I’m in coastal Alabama.

And I like it.

Lolo

Is this a Gondor-calls-for-aid situation? Quick. Prove this is my brother.

Restaurants provide salty freebies for satiety. Or whatever that word is. And you know I’ve been here several times, right?

Does she?

Whew. You had me worried for a minute. Why are you in Alabama?

Work thing. But I extended my trip. It’s 70 degrees and sunny.

You sure you’re okay? You don’t make weather-based decisions.

A horn honks, and the driver waves at me. I lift a hand in acknowledgment before spinning around to look behind me, hoping I didn’t just make an ass of myself with someone else being the intended recipient.

Nope. It was meant for me. Weird.

I’m fine. How are wedding plans coming along?

Bubbles dance for longer than I can imagine as I wait.

Good, but it’s a lot of hullabaloo for one day. It should be about the union, not the party, you know?

I don’t. Not at all.

And that’s the reason we know you and Liam will make it. And, sis, hullabaloo?

We continue our text chat as I meander through the streets back to the cottage. I’m almost to the porch when movement in the driveway catches my eye. Rounding the house along the brick pathway, I stop dead in my tracks.

“Freckles?”

Mirren

I drop my eyes closed just as my jaw falls.

Busted.