by Eve Langlais
It didn’t take long to get served, and the food came with conversation as Marjorie slid into the seat across from me.
“Glad you came in. I needed a break. We had a big breakfast rush around seven as the boys were heading into the mill. I swear, every day there’s even more new faces.”
Signs of the town revitalizing I hoped. “Are we still on for game night?” I asked.
Rather than stick to my old habit of watching television and falling asleep, which kind of resembled the rest of my week, I’d made plans. Or rather, Winnie, my bossy kid, had. She declared we needed a girls’ night in. Trish suggested board games. It sounded heavenly and lacking any drama or trouble.
“I’ll be over right after I finish my shift at seven. I just need to go home and shower first.”
“You’re working twelve hours?” I exclaimed.
“Thirteen actually. I came in at six.”
“That’s a long day.” A part of me knew that and yet never clued in to just how hard she worked.
She shrugged. “Long days make for bigger paychecks.”
“But what about you time?”
“Orville’s good about giving me time between the rushes to get stuff done. Don’t forget I have a few hours in the evening and my weekends off. Except for Sunday morning. I come in to help with brunch sometimes. And you’re one to talk. I hear you’ve been burning the midnight oil getting the shop ready.”
“Yeah.” And I’d probably be working even longer hours once it opened. At least until I could afford to hire someone to do some shifts.
“When’s the big day?”
“Soon.” I cradled my cup of coffee rather than squirm. When would I open and take the plunge?
“If you need help—”
I shook my head. I’d refused a few times already. My friends already had enough going on. “I’m pretty much ready to go. I just needed to put up some flyers and figure out a name.”
“You still haven’t chosen one?”
“Nothing that fits, yet.”
“It should be clever or quirky. The kind of name that grabs people’s attention. What about Naomi’s Treasures? Or Old but Cool?”
My nose wrinkled. “Not quite what I was going for.”
“Whatever you choose I’m sure it will be great. I am so jealous of you starting your own business. You’re on your way, Naomi.”
On my way.
For some reason I began humming a tune from my teen years, Mötley Crüe’s “Home Sweet Home.” It seemed apt. I was on my way and I’d found my home.
My place.
My tribe.
My destiny.
The breakfast filled the hollow spot in my belly, and despite my hunger when I sat down, I actually didn’t eat all the bacon. Rather than waste it, I tucked it into a napkin for later. Cold bacon made an epic snack.
Orville wouldn’t let me pay, so I left a super large tip before heading out again. I stopped in front of my shop and stared at the blank sign. Within half an hour, I’d borrowed a ladder from Mr. Peterson, who insisted I keep it as long as I needed. I also bought some stencils and gold leaf paint.
By the time I was done—with a few scary moments as the ladder wobbled—I had my store name. I stood back and admired it.
On My Way. An eclectic collection of treasures. I finally had a shop name, meaning it was time to stop procrastinating. The shop was now open, meaning I had to place some ads and print out some flyers.
I spent the afternoon working with a pad of paper, coming up with short and snappy blurbs to place in the classifieds. I also returned to the hardware store, bought some bristle board, and used the last of my gold paint to write, Open. I hung the sign in the window.
That very afternoon, to my delight and surprise, I had my first paying customer. A woman driving by had seen the tea set in the window. She bought it with cash without even quibbling about the price. The colored bills in my palm weren’t much. Not even a fraction of what I’d put into the shop, but they were priceless to me. Maybe I could make this work.
Around sixish, the bells on the door rang and Darryl walked in.
I couldn’t stop a stupidly wide smile. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” he said, sauntering to the counter. “Congrats on opening.”
“Thanks.” I almost ducked my head. Why be bashful?
“Sorry I took off last night and wasn’t around this morning. I had to go take care of something.”
“Oh, is everything okay?”
“Just some problems back home.”
“I thought this was your home.”
“Mine, yes. But not that of my extended family.”
Way to feel dumb. I could have slapped myself for not thinking of it. “Were you able to help?”
His jaw tightened. “Yes and no. It’s an ongoing situation.”
“I saw you hired someone.” I hope it didn’t come out sounding bitter or jealous. He’d offered me the job first. I’d turned it down.
“My cousin.”
Once more, I couldn’t stop the smile. “That was nice of her to help out.”
“Nice? Ha. She’s making me pay for it, don’t you kid yourself.”
“Speaking of paying, do we know what’s wrong with my car?”
“Nothing.”
“You fixed it? Awesome. How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. Because there is nothing wrong with it.” He shrugged. “It’s in excellent shape considering its age.”
“Then why didn’t it start for me?”
“Who knows? Could be the carburetor was flooded or the gearshift wasn’t fully in park. Whatever the case, I didn’t find a thing wrong.”
“That’s great. Thanks. But I really should give you something for taking the time to check it out.”
“Have dinner with me.”
“What? Now? But the shop…”
“Do you expect a rush of more clients tonight?”
Not really. Night had fallen outside, and I knew for a fact even the hardware store closed at six… “Give me a second to lock up.”
It took me but a moment to secure the doors and check my face and hair. I pinched my cheeks and lips, took a few deep breaths, and emerged to find him playing with a box. It was an ornate thing from his collection.
“Have you managed to open it?” he asked, holding it in his palm.
I shook my head. “Haven’t really had a chance to try. I assume it’s some kind of puzzle box.”
“Rumors say there’s a treasure inside.”
“What rumors?”
He rolled his shoulders. “Family legend.”
“If you think it might be true, then why sell it?”
“What else would I do? Smash it? Seems a waste of something so beautiful.” He placed it back on the shelf. I made a mental note to examine it further. “Shall we?” He extended an arm in the direction of the door. My car was sitting at the curb as we emerged.
“You brought Betsy?”
“I thought after dinner you could drop me off at the gas station on your way home.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
Truly the least, given he wouldn’t let me pay for dinner. I tried, but Darryl was quite firm when the waiter appeared at the end of our meal and said, “Will it be separate checks?”
“No.” Darryl then proceeded to handle it and wouldn’t listen to my protests.
I gave in. Mostly because I wasn’t about to ruin the evening fighting over who paid. I was having too much fun. Darryl proved funny to chat with. Flirty without being a pig about it. Smart, but not too smart, more of a living-experience kind of guy. Being with him, I felt beautiful and engaging. We hit it off in a way that had me giddy and nervous.
So nervous, especially as we neared the gas station where I was going to drop him off. My knuckles were white as I gripped the wheel, plagued with anxiety. Would he kiss me? Would he not?
“So thanks for everything,” I said, unable to look at him.
“Thank you for an excellent evening.”<
br />
“We just talked.”
“Just?”
The way he phrased the word had me glancing at him.
He cupped my chin and drew me close enough that his lips feathered over mine.
Brief. So very fleeting.
Then he was getting out of the car and waving at me.
I grinned like an idiot all the way home.
As if to mock my happiness, Karma bitch-slapped me. The next day, after a night of vivid dreaming and waking in a puddle of sweat, I arrived to find my shop windows smashed and my store name vandalized to read, “On My Way to Hell.”
11
Officer Murphy was as big as I recalled, but not from fat. More like a man who used to be an athlete and got older and maybe a bit softer but was still powerful under it all.
Along with his badge, he also wore a wedding ring, meaning off-limits. Don’t look. Then again, why would I even bother with Darryl and me having moved to the next step?
Darryl had kissed me.
The memory kept me from completely losing my shit about what had happened to my shop. A good thing, because Officer Murphy was pissing me off. He wrote a report about the damage but didn’t hold out much hope we’d find the culprit. “Probably just a crime of opportunity.”
“Mine was the only shop hit.”
“And they didn’t do anything to the inside, indicating they were probably interrupted.”
“Does this kind of thing happen often?” I asked, arms hugging my upper body as I surveilled the damage.
“No. But you know how teens can get when they’re bored.”
“What makes you think it was kids?” I eyed the paint job and its use of Hell. Could it be someone with lingering superstitions about my family and our so-called witchy heritage?
“Kids. Adults. Either way, we’re not likely to find a culprit.”
“I would hope you’d at least try so this doesn’t happen again,” I snapped. Investigating crime was part of his job.
“If you can’t handle it, then maybe you’re in the wrong place.” Murphy tucked away his notepad.
I frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Seems to me, there’s been nothing but trouble since you came back.”
“What are you talking about? I’m the reason this town isn’t freaking out about a fake monster.”
“The truth would have emerged without you eventually. Been a lot of fires and broken windows since your return.”
“None of those were my fault.”
“Yet you knew everyone affected. Hell, one of the fires—and now vandalism cases—belongs to you.”
I pinched my lips. “Victim blaming? Is that how you manage to avoid doing your job?”
“Just saying my job would have been a lot easier if you’d stayed away like your grandmother wanted,” Murphy warned.
“Wait? What?”
“Nothing.” The big man turned from me, but I wanted an explanation.
“Did you know my grandmother? What did she say about me?”
But Murphy, the shittiest cop I knew, was done talking. He left, the door slamming shut behind him, the vibration causing a few more shards of loose glass to fall with a crash.
I sighed.
Some days I really wondered if this place was worth the trouble. I headed outside first with a broom and dustpan, intent on cleaning the sidewalk before someone got hurt and sued me. Before heading back inside, I eyed the sign.
My beautiful sign. Ruined.
I pressed my lips into a tight line.
Like hell.
Mr. Peterson sold me a bucket of paint at a discount, shaking his head and muttering about disrespect and in his day...something about a belt.
There were probably other things I should have been doing besides fixing my sign, and yet, in that moment, I could think of nothing more important.
Only once I’d eradicated all the nasty red did I stop to leave messages with a few window places, then I returned to my sign while I waited for a callback. Once the covering layer dried, it was time to stencil in my store name again.
On My Way.
And if people didn’t like it, they could suck it.
By the time lunch rolled around, I’d heard from one glass place, too busy to help. Who knew if the others could? I couldn’t leave the windows gaping open, so I did my best with tape and cardboard. Not ideal. If I couldn’t get it repaired today, I’d think about nailing plywood over them before dinnertime.
Would that be enough? Would the vandal strike again? They might if this was personal. Was this act of violence against my shop a holdover from a few months ago when the town was convinced I was a witch? The Rousseau family had a history and reputation. I’d been trying to change it, but prejudice wasn’t an easy thing to overcome.
Since I couldn’t exactly do much until the window was fixed, I decided to head into the back and play with my pottery wheel. I was elbow deep in mud when I heard thumping from the front of the store. I’d locked the door and taped the windows, but that wouldn’t stop someone determined to come in.
With my lips pursed and gripping the cane I’d found in the umbrella stand at home, I edged out and then stopped. Brigda, a contractor I’d met previously when she was renovating the bookstore across the street, was in my front window, knocking out the broken panes of glass.
“What are you doing?” As she worked, it occurred that I’d not even thought of calling her. I would like to think it wasn’t because I was sexist. To be honest, though, I did have to admit, when I thought of handy men, they were, well, men.
“Heard you had a spot of trouble. I’m here to fix it.”
“Thank you.” I couldn’t help but beam at this sign of girl power in solidarity. And here I thought Brigda didn’t like me.
“Don’t thank me. Thank the boss. He pulled me off another job to come fix your mess.”
Apparently my first impression was correct. “Kane called you?” How did he know? Then again, in a town this small, who didn’t was a better question.
“Boss told me to get my ass over here pronto.”
“I appreciate it. How much do you think it will cost?”
“For you? Nothing,” she said with a curl of her lip.
“Excuse me?”
“Boss is covering the bill.”
“Oh no. Kane’s not paying. This is my problem. I’m the one who will be covering the expense,” I hastened to say. It was one thing for him to order one of his subcontractors to help, but I wouldn’t let him pay.
“I would love to overcharge you, but I’ve got my orders,” was her sour reply.
See if I got her any matching plaid socks for Christmas as a thank-you.
“Is Kane back in town?”
“Dunno.”
“Did—”
She cut me off. “Do you mind? I’d like to get this done before dinner.”
Annoyed, I returned to my spinning wheel and my very lopsided bowl. Maybe I could pretend it was an eclectic ashtray? Did anyone even buy those anymore?
Going stir crazy, I decided to go for a drive. It seemed polite to let Brigda know. “I’ve got to go out for a bit. I’ll be back in about an hour.”
“Don’t care,” was her muttered reply.
I wasn’t even sure where I was going until I turned onto the road leading into the mill. Once a place abandoned, the D’Argent family business had purchased it and renovated it, bringing not only jobs to the dying town but a sense of revitalization.
I might not agree with what they were doing—surely mining the mud and clay from the lake wouldn’t be a long-term thing, or good for the ecosystem—but at the same time, Canada had strict environmental policies. Surely they’d be keeping an eye on the company.
I pulled into a parking lot changed quite a bit from my last visit. Gone were the containers and construction materials. A fresh coat of paint had transformed the mill into something new. The parking lot was full of vehicles.
But I didn’t see a fancy sedan. Kane didn’t appear to b
e here.
Still, I’d driven all this way…
I entered the mill and was stopped at reception where a woman with long, light blonde hair halted me with a cold, “Can I help you?” Her very tone suggested it unlikely.
“Hi. I’m a friend of Kane’s. Is he in today?” Friend might be an exaggeration.
“I’m afraid I cannot divulge that kind of information.”
“Can you at least buzz him and tell him Naomi Rousseau would like to see him?”
“The witch?” The woman eyed me up and down. I could almost predict her next words. “I would have never guessed.”
Apparently, I didn’t impress too many people. “Well, it’s me, in the flesh. Mind letting him know I’m here?”
“I can leave him a message; however, Mr. D’Argent isn’t in the office today.”
Why couldn’t she have told me that in the first place? “Do you know when he will be?”
“No.”
“Thanks.” For nothing. I eyed the door leading into the mill. “How’s mechanical Maddy doing?” The fake monster had the town spinning a few months ago. She was the one that kept popping up in my dreams, but as a real monster.
“Our machinery is fine. Was there anything else, Ms. Rousseau?” Said with an undercurrent of “get out.”
“Nope. I’ll get going. Have a great day.” I turned on my heel and muttered under my breath, “And I hope you wake up with a great big zit on your nose.” Petty of me, but she’d gotten under my thin skin. I felt inadequate enough without little Miss I’m So Perfect rubbing it in.
As I walked back out into the sunshine, I pondered my stupidity in coming here. What did I hope to accomplish? Thank Kane for sending Brigda? Blast him for meddling? Ask him how he knew and why he cared?
Why did he care?
My phone rang, and not a ringtone I’d ever heard before. Pulling it from my satchel of doom, where things sometimes went to die, I glanced at the unknown number. My “Hello?” was tentative.
“I hear you were looking for me.”
My eyes widened. “Kane.” Rather than reply to his question, I posed one of my own. “How did you get my number?”
“As if I don’t know everything about you.”
Sexy or creepy? I was kind of seesawing. As to how he knew about my visit… I glanced back at the building. That lying receptionist obviously called him the moment I left.