Page 28 of Their Stormy Reunion

I poured myself a cup of coffee, the rich aroma doing little to lift my mood, and decided to head to the Down Home Café. Jasper Creek wouldn’t care that I looked like a cast member of The Walking Dead. Sure, they’d give me grief for showing up unshaven and wearing a t-shirt that probably had wrinkles older than some of the kids in town, but that was small-town love for you. At least I was wearing jeans instead of sweatpants to go with yesterday’s t-shirt that I had picked up off the floor.

With my travel mug in hand, I climbed into my truck and set off toward the town square. The morning sun gleamed off the storefronts, but my mind was stuck on the conversation I’d had with Simon yesterday. He’d started by giving Dad props for getting Mom out of the house—a minor miracle in itself. But then he’d laid it out plain. Whoever was sending those notes wasn’t playing around anymore. The escalation was real. The only silver lining was that the notes were still going to the bank, which meant whoever it was didn’t have their home address.

Yet.

Sheriff Nash hadn’t been much help. So Dad hadn’t even bothered giving him the original of the latest note, not after Nash’s “my hands are tied until something happens” speech. Frustrating, but at least Simon had the originals now. And, of course, Dad had insisted on paying for Simon’s time. That man’s pride was like granite.

By the time I pulled into the square, the Saturday morning crowd was already in full swing. Trucks and cars filled the parking spots, and clusters of people gathered outside the Down Home Café, sipping coffee and chatting. Seven a.m. was officially late to the party, and judging by the line snaking out the door, I’d be lucky to find a seat at the counter. Friends and neighbors greeted me as I passed them.

“Hey, Michael, howzit going?”

“Good to see you, Mike.”

“How’s it hanging, Michael? Getting any lately?”

I cringed at the last comment and turned to see Burt, Jasper Creek’s reigning king of jackassery. We’d played high school football together, but while I’d grown up, Burt seemed to have hit the pause button at seventeen. He was on wife number three—or was it four?—and from what I’d heard, that marriage wasn’t exactly a fairy tale.

I offered a polite nod to everyone else and ignored Burt completely, hoping he’d take the hint. He didn’t.

“Fallon falling in line yet?” Burt continued. “Do you have her crawling to do your bidding?”

“Burt, watch your mouth, or I’ll let your mama know what you’ve been saying,” a sharp voice cut through the chatter.

Florence, with pink hair instead of purple and legendary death glare, looked at Burt so hard I thought he would catch fire. I guess that was good enough, but breaking his nose would make me happier. Burt shifted uncomfortably, like a kid caught sneaking candy before dinner.

“I was just teasing, Mizz Florence,” he mumbled.

“Don’t care,” she snapped. “Think before you talk, especially when you’re standing in front of decent folk.”

Burt’s head dropped like a scolded child’s. “Yes, ma’am.”

Satisfied, Florence turned her attention to me, her sharp eyes narrowing. “Michael, don’t you own an iron?”

“I’m not sure,” I replied honestly, biting back a smile.

“Well, don’t just pick up your shirt off the floor and call it good. You’re representing society, son.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, doing my best not to laugh.

“Now, go put your name in with Little Grandma before I have to stage an intervention.”

I weaved through the crowd and found Little Grandma perched on her usual stool by the hostess stand, her smile as bright and welcoming as ever.

“Michael, honey, it’s so good to see you,” she said warmly. “You flying solo, or did you bring some of those handsome firemen friends of yours?”

“Just me,” I said, taking the menu she handed me.

“Good,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Go sit with Fallon. She’s all alone, and she could use a friendly face.”

I followed her gaze to a small table in the middle of the diner, where Fallon sat with her head bent over a menu. My chest tightened at the sight of her. “Me?”

“Yes, you. You’re friendly. Now go on and mend some fences.”

I blinked at her, stunned. How could she possibly know?

“How—?”

“There’s nothing that happens in this town that I don’t know about, boy,” she said, her voice firm but playful. “Now, get moving.”