Mulberry Moon

by Catherine Anderson

He rubbed his jaw. “I eat out a lot, so here’s my idea. I get four square meals for every full day of work I put in. The way I see it, I’d pay full price if I just dropped in, and with my appetite, I’d probably drop fifteen bucks a pop. So you’d essentially be paying me sixty dollars a day for my labor.”

  “Four squares? For most people, it’s three.”

  “I start working as soon as it turns daylight. When I’m about two hours in, I eat a big breakfast. I burn that off by midmorning and need more fuel. I normally eat lunch a little late so it’ll last me until dinner.” He held up four fingers. “Add ’em up, and no, that isn’t back at you times four.”

  He’d left something out, and she couldn’t let it pass. “What about materials? They must cost a fortune, or the bids I got wouldn’t be so high.”

  “I can get a lot of stuff at the ReStore in town, the one that recycles used building materials, and I’ve got several rolls of wire that have been sitting at my place for years. I might as well give myself some extra storage space by using them.”

  Sissy shifted her gaze skyward and chuckled in spite of herself. “I never saw this coming. Me, hiring Ben Sterling to build my chickens a coop and run. God must have a sense of humor.”

  “Am I that bad?”

  Sissy shook her head. “No. It’s just that you really aren’t my type, and having you around all the time, even short term, may not be a good plan.”

  He joined her in gazing up at the full moon. “I get the feeling that I am your type, and that’s why you act like a porcupine around me, because I scare you.”

  “Not a chance.” She would never admit to him that she found him attractive.

  He expelled a breath and slanted his head upward. “Well, that’s good, because that’s a mulberry moon.”

  It looked like an ordinary moon to Sissy. “What’s a mulberry moon?”

  “A September full moon. It’s an old Native American name for it.”

  “That’s strange. Mulberries ripen in June, so far as I know.”

  “True, but the American Indians fermented them and made wine, which they couldn’t drink until sometime in September. They marked the fermentation time needed by watching for the September full moon.”

  “Ah.” Sissy kept her gaze fixed on the sky. The moon under discussion was enormous and the color of churned butter with wisps of crimson and mauve ringing the bottom of its sphere.

  “There’s a legend about the mulberry moon.” His voice pitched low and husky. “They say that any man and woman who stand together under a mulberry moon are destined to fall in love and live happily ever after.”

  “Really? How fascinating.” She made sure skepticism edged her tone.

  “Worried yet?” When she shook her head, he added, “Even riskier for you and me, we’re not only standing together under a mulberry moon, but we’re near a distributary of Mystic Creek, which also comes with a legend about falling in love.”

  “I’ve heard all the different versions of the one about Mystic Creek.” Sissy gave him a sideways glance. “And both legends are undoubtedly a bunch of crap.”

  He nodded. “Yep, just BS. The way I see it, the Native Americans who fell in love under a mulberry moon were probably drunk from their wine.”

  She laughed. “I like that. BS with a cynical twist!”

  “But possibly correct. If you drink enough wine, practically anyone looks good.”

  “I’ll remember that and never serve you any fruit of the vine.” Sissy pushed away from the truck. “Moving on to the construction of my coop and run, it’s too cold out here to discuss the details. You’re shivering without a coat. And, after hearing about your appetite, I’m fairly sure you’re hungry by now. Do a Coney Island hot dog and fries sound good?”

  “You’re tired. I’ll just go home and grab a sandwich. We can discuss the details tomorrow.”

  Sissy beckoned for him to follow her. “I’ve decided to do my breakfast prep tonight so I don’t have to get up so early, and I didn’t have time for dinner. If I cook for one, I may as well cook for two.”

  He fell into step beside her, one arm positioned to grab her if she slipped. “You heard my stomach growling.”

  “Yep. I’m not deaf.”

  * * *

  Once inside the café, with Ben perched on a stool at the counter, Sissy wondered if she’d lost her mind when she invited him in. He had nailed it on the head; he was her type, and she was scared to death of him. Now her task was to make sure he never realized it. Bristling at him constantly didn’t seem to do the trick.

  As she hurried to throw together their meal, she assured herself that her salivary glands were working overtime only because she was hungry and smelled food.

  “This won’t take long. The fryer is still hot from dinner and will reheat fast.”

  “No hurry. This coffee hits the spot.”

  When the hot dogs were prepared and in the warmer, Sissy went to stand facing him at the business side of the counter. She propped her elbows on the stainless steel work surface, a foot lower than the service bar. It offered a comfortable leaning spot for a short person. And she liked the security of a solid counter between them.

  “Like I said earlier, I don’t accept charity. I’ve had work done here, and paying a man only sixty dollars a day to do any kind of carpentry would be highway robbery on my part.”

  “Ah, but that’s my offer, and you really shouldn’t turn it down. You could hire someone else—somebody who doesn’t have my appetite and a habit of eating out—but he’d very likely know as little as you do about chickens and charge three times more.”

  “And you know a lot about them? Chickens, I mean.”

  He winked at her. “I’ve been around chickens since I learned to walk. I know how to design a coop and run that will work and keep them safe from predators. I’ve already built one for myself. If you put your chickens in the coop at night, they’ll be fairly safe. You’ll need a good latch, of course. Raccoons are nocturnal and pretty clever.”

  Sissy nodded, trying to envision the structure.

  He obliterated the picture forming in her mind with “That wire you built your run with is deadly.” He created a large O by touching his index finger to the tip of his thumb. “A hen can poke her head through openings that large. Skunks love chicken heads.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “Exactly. I’ve seen chickens lying headless in their runs without another mark on them. True fact.” He settled that twinkling, mischievous gaze on her face. “If you want a coop and run that’s safe, you’ll hire me.”

  Sissy toyed with her lineup of salt and pepper shakers. “I still don’t think sixty a day is enough to pay you.”

  He winked at her. “We’ll negotiate it out, fair and square. I’ll want extra desserts.”

  Sissy shook her head. “We need to have a clear understanding now. No negotiating later. When the job is done, I don’t want to feel indebted to you.”

  He shrugged. “So what’s your offer?”

  She could scarcely believe that she was about to hire him. He’d be on her property for God only knew how long, and even worse, he’d be eating at her café four times a day. The thought unsettled her so badly that she nearly changed her mind. But what about her chickens?

  “Here’s my idea,” she said, her chest tightening with reluctance. “After you finish the job, I’ll provide you with four square meals a day for an extra two weeks. Paying you with food works for me. The actual cash outlay is less than the menu price. So if I feed you for two extra weeks, your daily pay will go up to a fair level, but it won’t be as expensive for me as paying cash.”

  “Deal,” he said.

  He agreed a little too quickly for her peace of mind. But just then she heard an odd sound in the kitchen. She left the bar and entered the cooking area. After she glanced around for anything out of place, her
gaze settled on the shelf where she normally kept her watch and ring. Earlier there had been a piece of foil on the shelf. Now it was gone. She knew she hadn’t removed it. So who had taken it? A chill ran over her skin. And, again, she felt as if someone were staring at her.

  Just then, the fryer reached cooking temperature and beeped. The sound made Sissy jump. Stomach fluttering, she lifted the vat lid, lowered the fry basket into sizzling oil, and then turned the wheel to batten down the hatches. She set the timer so the fries would be cooked to a perfect golden brown.

  Once back at the bar, she asked a question that she thought, until that moment, would never pop out of her mouth to anyone. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  Chapter Three

  “Do I believe in ghosts?” Ben gave Sissy a solemn study. “I believe in spirits. The term ghost sounds too Halloweenish.”

  Sissy had expected him to laugh. Instead he’d answered her question with sincerity and conviction. That made her feel better, and less crazy, for sure.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Sissy shivered. “Weird stuff has been happening in this building. It’s starting to creep me out.”

  He leaned closer, as if by proximity he could pry more information out of her. “What kind of weird stuff?”

  Sissy waved her hand. “It’ll sound stupid.” His expression went from curious to intense. “Things are disappearing.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Nothing really expensive or important. Just little things. For instance, I have this candy bowl upstairs on my coffee table. I limit myself to two pieces a night because I have a sweet tooth, and I don’t want to gain weight.”

  He lowered his gaze to take in what he could of her figure, stopping only when the counter’s edge blocked his view. Her skin burned. He might just as well have said it aloud. You don’t need to worry.

  A dimple flashed in his cheek as he looked back up. “Of course. Everything in moderation.”

  Distracted by the unexpected and tantalizing appearance of the dimple, she couldn’t jerk her gaze from that spot on his lean cheek. Not a dimple, really, she decided. It was more a crease, probably a dimple when he was a boy that had been chiseled deeper over the years by sun exposure. Who was she kidding by analyzing it to death? Dimple or crease, it was sexy as hell. I’m in trouble, she thought. I knew being around him was a bad idea. How do I get myself out of this?

  “Sissy?” He jerked her back to the conversation. “I hate cliff-hangers. Tell me about the candy bowl.”

  She hauled in a bracing breath and refocused. “My favorite candy bar is a Snickers. Only I don’t dare buy regular-size ones, because once I bite into one it’s history. So I get the fun-size variety bags.”

  He crossed his eyes at her. Then he grinned. “I asked for details about the weird shit, Sissy, not your junk food habits.”

  “Right. Only it’s all sort of related. Mini Snickers bars come in gold foil wrappers.”

  The fryer timer went off. Sissy excused herself to fill their plates. She remembered from his previous visits that he was a slow eater—unless, of course, he’d been procrastinating to hang around longer. According to the digital clock on the commercial appliance, Cinderella’s coach had turned into a pumpkin three minutes ago. If he lingered over his meal, he might be in her building half the night.

  Balancing plates, Sissy returned to the bar, slid Ben’s meal toward him, and set her own on the lower counter at what she considered a safe distance from him. With a muttered excuse she returned to the kitchen and went into the cooler where she got three more hot dogs, which she put on a paper plate and carried out front.

  “Whoa!” Ben exclaimed. “I think you’re overestimating my appetite.”

  She shook her head. “These are for Finnegan. Is he on the porch?”

  “Yes. He’s already learned the stay command, and that’s where I signaled him to wait.”

  “Well, I’d like to bring him in where it’s warm to enjoy his dinner. That is, if it’s okay for him to have these.”

  “He’ll love them.” Ben slid off the stool. He wore a hand-tooled Western belt, the buckle ornate and gleaming like a beacon to draw her gaze to what lay just below it. “I can go get him, but are you sure? Isn’t it against the law?”

  Sissy shrugged. “Service animals are allowed in public places, and today Finn did me a great service. Besides, the inspector would never show up at this hour.”

  Laughing, Ben went to get his dog. Sissy gave Finnegan an appreciative pat and set the plate in front of him. By the time she straightened, the three hot dogs had vanished. Glancing over at an amused Ben, she asked if the pup could have more.

  “Only three. I don’t want him getting sick.” He smiled at the eager canine, whose begging eyes were fixed on Sissy. “It’s really sweet of you to think of him. He’s still in puppy gear and eats every chance he gets. I fed him dinner earlier when I had my own, but as you can see, he’s running on empty already.”

  She repressed a grin. “Like master, like dog?”

  Ben shrugged. “If either of us starts putting on weight, I’ll worry about it.”

  Sissy doubted he would have to worry about it for a good long while. He had a gorgeous build, slender in the right places, yet padded with just enough muscle to look robust.

  She went behind the bar again and grabbed two prepared napkin rolls of flatware, then put squeeze bottles of fry sauce—a blend of ketchup and mayo—and mustard next to Ben’s plate beside the salt and pepper shakers. “Bon appétit.”

  Ben lost no time in unwrapping his cutlery. “I never ruin a good Coney with condiments. And this one looks amazing.” He flashed her a smile, and she glanced down, pretending to be intent on her dinner. “You can’t distract me with food, by the way. I still want to hear about the Snickers bars.”

  Sissy squirted a blob of fry sauce onto her plate. “Sorry about the interruption. I have conversations in blips. Fries burn fast if you don’t remove them from the oil.” She salted her serving. “As for the Snickers bars, they disappear.”

  “Um, most things do when you eat them.”

  “Has anyone ever mentioned that you can be a smart-ass?”

  “Sorry.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “You walked right into it, and I couldn’t resist. You were saying?”

  “They disappear from the bowl. The other candy bars aren’t touched, only the Snickers. And, no, they aren’t vanishing because I eat them and then forget. Before I go to bed at night, I now count them and write the number down. The next morning, at least one is always gone, sometimes two.”

  “Wow. That is weird.” He hadn’t waited to swallow before he spoke. His cheek bulged with a bite of food. “Do you sleepwalk? My mom’s friend did, and she’d wake up in the morning with mustard all over her face.”

  Sissy sighed. “If I sleepwalked, I’d wake up with chocolate all over mine. And if I were gobbling all that candy, I’d have gained ten pounds. No, someone or something is stealing them.” She put another fry into her mouth. “Even weirder, the candy bars have disappeared while I’m eating them.” She stabbed an index finger at him. “If you say once more that things tend to vanish while we’re eating them, this story will end before you hear the good parts.”

  His eyes took on that mischievous twinkle again. “Well, I really want to hear the good parts, so I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  Sissy wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “So, I’ll be watching TV, right? And I’ll set my half-eaten Snickers bar on the end table, still partly wrapped in foil. After I’ve switched channels, I’ll reach for my candy bar, and it’ll be gone.”

  “Gone? Foil and all?” He sounded skeptical, and she couldn’t blame him. He forked some savory ground beef and hot dog into his mouth, worked his jaw, and swallowed. “Did you look to make sure the wrapper wasn’t between the couch cushions or on the floor?”
>
  “Of course. The candy bars just disappear, either out of the bowl or while I’m munching on them.” She suppressed a shiver. Somehow the whole thing bothered her more when it was dark.

  He reached for another fry. It was a man’s hand, blunt and capable. Burnished by the sun, his skin, dusted with golden hair, reminded her of melted butterscotch. She took a sip of water.

  “That is totally freaky,” he said. “Um, don’t take this wrong, because I’m not poking fun, but why do you think it’s a ghost?”

  “I don’t. Not really. It’s just—well, it’s been happening so much, and I can’t think of any rational explanation. Can you?”

  A vertical line between his eyebrows deepened. “No, I can’t. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”

  “Spoken like a true nonbeliever,” she retorted.

  “Honestly, I do believe in spirits. I just can’t wrap my mind around the idea of a nonphysical being that steals Snickers bars.”

  The open collar of his blue shirt revealed a V of tanned skin and a thatch of golden chest hair. Warmth pooled in her lower abdomen. Not good, she thought. She’d spent very little time with him, yet already she felt attracted to him. What was wrong with her? She might as well develop an addiction to strychnine.

  She almost jumped when he spoke again. “How in the hell can candy bars vanish like that?”

  “I have no clue.” Sissy’s skin prickled as she thought about the many times it had happened. “Maybe I’m nuts, but I’m starting to believe this place is haunted.”

  He considered that for a moment. “If it’s any consolation, I’d be a little spooked, too. What else is going on? Anything?”

  After months of wondering whether she was slowly losing her mind, a hint of empathy was all Sissy needed. “Yes, there’s a lot more.”

  She broke off as Finn came to lie at her feet. She felt the warm weight of his head on her shoe. He was so young and trusting. How did he know she wouldn’t step on him? She wondered, briefly, if she had ever felt that safe and relaxed.

  “Well, don’t stop there. What else is happening?”