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“Moved to Thailand, I think, or Costa Rica to ‘find herself’ with some tantric guru who didn’t wear underpants or pay his bills.”
Chuck tried to square that with the cautious, handsome man he’d met. “Awful. He seems… overwhelmed.”
“I expect getting your heart stomped will do that to a guy. Her parents were no prize, but only ’cause they were protective. She ain’t here, that’s for sure. I don’t know where Elise ended up.” Lydia sniffed like the name stank. “The shop started as his uncle’s, if I recall. But by the skin of his teeth, if you take my meaning. Never a dime did that place make.”
That explained the defeated shadow in Niall’s eyes when he talked about the store—on the ropes and left behind.
“Building needs work,” Chuck said, thinking out loud, already sketching out a mental checklist, picturing a proposal, even a couple basic repairs. Those old Victorians were beautiful. He hadn’t forgotten Mrs. Ashworth’s roses. “He deserves a hand.”
Lydia shot him a knowing look. “And you’re the guy to do it, huh? While you hide out and play chicken with your future.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. You got that look.”
“What look? What’s with you and all these looks?”
“That one, right there.” Lydia leaned in, her eyes sharp but amused. “The one where you see something busted and can’t help wanting to fix it, even when it’s probably better off in a dumpster.” She winked. “He’s cute too.”
“Who is?” Chuck scowled. “Knock it off. I’m not looking to be anybody’s handyman. I’m not licking any wounds. Because I for one am not planning to stick around long enough for anything like… all that. Whatever you think you’re thinking, so stop thinking it.”
“All what?” Lydia rocked in her chair, a sly smile creeping in, her gaze steady and knowing. “Only making conversation, buster.”
“Fine. Jesus. I trashed his mother’s yard pretty bad junior year, donuts in the front yard. Cutting cookies, we called it.”
“Ah. The roses. Right.” She nodded as she did the math. “Awful thing. Your pop offered to pay and she wouldn’t take nothing. So this is damages.”
“I don’t know.” He squinted. “Maybe an apology.”
Neither of them said anything for a spell, the only sounds the floorboard creak under Lydia’s rocker and the occasional swoosh of a car passing on the road below. Chuck’s mind wandered back to the bookstore, to the water stain on the ceiling and the sagging shelves. To Niall’s resigned face when he joked about that miracle he needed.
Chuck had never put much stock in miracles, but he knew what it took to turn a wreck into something sturdy again.
The windows and porch needed help too. In Candle Bay, dry rot was no joke. He could see it, suddenly, the whole place fixed up—a rambly Victorian heap transformed into a haven for folks looking for a story. “Just a thought.”
“If you want work,” Lydia said after a slow appraisal, “Joyce down at the chamber of commerce mentioned they’re looking for someone to help with that Shakespeare thing they do every summer for the tourists. Building sets or whatever. It pays. That Donut King dummy donates a fortune so his daughter can be in the shows. Hecht, I think his name is. Glazed donuts.” She cocked her finger at him and fired, proud of having remembered.
“Yeah. I’m not the community-theater type.”
“No, but you are the flip-a-table type. And the hiding-back-home type. And the sleeping-with-a-Seattle-slicko type.” Lydia got fierce when she fixated like this. “So I thought you might be the type who needs something to do besides sitting on my porch tearing apart my old lawnmower so you can put it back together when I don’t even have a lawn anymore.”
“Sorry.”
She scoffed. “Screw sorry. Waste of time. Sorry doesn’t fix squat. Do something different. Make a change. You want to moon around that bookstore, fine. Or you want to go build thrones for the Paper Bag people. Do that. Not my circus. I don’t care one way.” Lydia stood with a groan. “Some options. I’m turning in. Don’t stay up all night with that hunk of junk. Cheaper to buy one new.”
Chuck watched his aunt shuffle inside, and the screen door slapped shut behind her. He turned back to the mess of lawnmower parts on the porch.
Lydia was right; he needed something to do—something to keep his hands busy and his mind off Seattle, off Jeremy, off the career he’d torpedoed in one spectacular moment of rage.
Maybe he’d check out the Shakespeare-set thing. Maybe he’d wander back to the bookstore. Maybe he’d even offer to help Niall Ashworth with those repairs.
Or maybe he’d just fix this lawnmower and stay out of everyone’s way. That would be far safer.
But since when had Chuck Mitchum ever chosen the safe, sane option?
THE NEXT morning Chuck made his way back to Driftwood Books, coffee in hand. Truth be told, two large coffees.
The place was empty except for a teenage girl slouched at the counter, eyeliner raccoon thick, thumbing through her phone with bored intensity.
