by Sey, Susan
There was one, though. It was an option Addy had kept tucked away in an ugly old folio between some discarded closet doors in the carriage house these past four years. Kind of a rainy day option. A break-glass-in-case-of-emergency option. Putting it into play now would generate all the tourist traffic Devil’s Kettle needed, no problem. It would also create a flood of gossip-mongers and gawkers, and blow Addy’s self-respect into the next universe but, hey, nothing in life was free. All good things came at a price, and Addy had no problem paying when she had to.
But she might not have to. Not this time. Not if this big idea of hers actually worked. Which it would, because it was brilliant.
Optimism bubbled up inside her and she grinned. About the only thing that could make this morning better was a big old plate of Lainey’s famous sweet lefse.
Addy’s stomach gave an agreeable rumble. She pressed a hand to it, and checked her watch. Smiled again. It was time for Monday Brunch. Oh glory hallelujah.
There were drawbacks to living in a tourist town, one of which was working through each and every evening, weekend and holiday. But the upside? The biggest upside as far as Addy was concerned? Monday Brunch. In Devil’s Kettle, every single tourist operation shut down on Mondays — much like museums in New York City — and everybody gathered at the Wooden Spoon for brunch. It wasn’t an official thing, there was no set time or price. But every Monday around eleven or so, every shopkeeper in Devil’s Kettle walked past the CLOSED sign on the door and sat down for brunch. It was sort of like the family meal some restaurants put on for the waitstaff before they opened for the evening. Nobody ordered; they just ate whatever Gerte and Lainey brought them, and left a few bucks to cover expenses.
Devil’s Kettle, Addy thought fondly, operated more like a family than the family she’d grown up in. The sweet weight of gratitude settled in her chest and she rubbed at it with the heel of her hand. Diego’s legacy was a complicated one, certainly, and Addy didn’t always carry it comfortably. But this town and her place within it? She would always be grateful for that, no matter what it cost.
She shoved the papers from the printer into her bag along with her laptop. She tossed the bag over her shoulder and locked up the office. It was for form more than security, of course. Who would rob her when everybody in town was at brunch?
Still, it was a good habit so Addy locked up, jogged downstairs and hit Main Street at a brisk walk. Devil’s Kettle’s downtown was about three colorful blocks of quirky charm cupping one of Lake Superior’s smaller natural harbors, and Main Street ran parallel to the shore, from the southwest to the northeast. The first block was entirely taken up by the dignified red brick City Building Addy had just left, which housed the library and town hall on the main floor. Addy’s office, Nan’s newspaper office, the town’s single lawyer and a realtor were upstairs.
The next block was occupied by a long, low cinderblock building with a faux wooden front that created the illusion of both a second story and four separate establishments. The Wooden Spoon was the second of the four businesses. It was sandwiched between the Devil’s Tap Room (a tourist favorite for obvious reasons) and the Gilded Fish, where a person could buy anything from a singing refrigerator magnet to a hand-painted, four-hundred-dollar scarf.
The last retail space on the far end of the block was Buck’s Bait and Tackle, which sold exactly what the name implied. A separate-seeming facade wasn’t enough for Soren Buck, however, so he’d set himself apart by commissioning an enormous papier mache walleye to leap through the northeastern corner of his false second story. Good advertising, Soren claimed, and he was probably right. The thing had to measure forty feet from the jauntily flipping tail in the sky to the gaping mouth and bulging eyes that stuck out over the sidewalk like a bizarre awning. Addy’s mother-in-law had been understandably horrified when it had gone up, given that the Davis gallery had front row seats to the spectacle. To this day, Bianca made the sign of the cross every time she had to walk underneath it. Tourists loved it, though, which meant that Addy did too.
The Davis Gallery occupied most of the third block, of course. A gorgeous two-story building of glass and native pine, the gallery was ground zero for the art-minded tourist. The gallery itself seemed to expand with the force of Diego’s talent, all but pushing a little doughnut shop — its only neighbor — off the north end of the block. It hung on, though, a tiny fishing shack that Walt Kovacz had painted shocking pink last year and transformed into the Sugar Rush, a deep-fried, yeast-raised nirvana so small that it handled only foot traffic or drive-throughs. Bianca hated it, of course. (The giant walleye to her south wasn’t enough? She had to have a garish pink fishing shack to her north?) But Addy wasn’t complaining. Sweet mercy, the smell of that place. She looked forward to her shifts at the gallery just so she could breathe and dream.
And she liked sweet lefse even better than doughnuts.
She crossed Second Street and broke into an actual trot as she closed in on the Wooden Spoon. Soren Buck stepped out of the bait shop at the far end of the block. “Hey, Addy,” he called from the shadow of his giant fish, and shambled her way. Soren was a big man who walked with the habitual stoop of a guy who’d conked his head on enough doorways for one lifetime, thanks. Between that, his lumberjack beard, and his prodigious gut, he’d always reminded Addy of a circus bear, the kind that wore silly hats and rode tricycles but with an injured dignity.
“Hey, Soren.” She stopped to wait for him next to the pansies joyfully overflowing the Wooden Spoon’s window box. She pulled in a bracing lungful of sharp air and grinned. It was sunny today, if cool, and the lake was flirting and winking like mad at the handful of art-minded tourists who’d set up easels on the beach. “Pretty day.”
“Eh.” Soren squinted doubtfully at the clear blue sky. “Won’t hold.”
“Well, it’s not summer or anything but—” Addy waved a hand toward the beach. “Look at that. We’ve got painters.”
Soren sniffed at the air like a giant shaggy dog and shook his head. “They’ve got until mid-afternoon.” He paused, considered. “At best.”
“You think?” She aligned herself to his view of the sky and followed his squint. Bucks had been hunting, fishing and trapping on the North Shore for generations, and Addy had to respect that but this sky was a perfect dome of sunny blue. “There aren’t even clouds.”
Soren tucked meaty hands into his pockets, rocked back on his heels and squinted some more. “Yet.”
She gave the sky one last doubtful look. “Huh.”
“Huh,” he agreed. Then his deep-set bear eyes skated past her shoulder and he nodded. “There’s your men.”
“My men?” Addy turned and found Jax and Matty ambling up the block toward her. Probably coming from the fire station and the middle school, which were both just off Main Street and up Second a few blocks. Devil’s Kettle Middle School didn’t have an open campus lunch policy normally but exceptions were made for Monday Brunch. Which meant more family time for Matty. Addy sighed. Just what the kid wanted, surely.
Soren ducked into the Wooden Spoon and left Addy to watch her menfolk coming up the sidewalk toward her. They were almost of a height now, she noticed, and the proof of Matty’s rapidly disappearing childhood put a pang of increasingly familiar regret in her stomach. But where Matty trudged along as if he resented sidewalk itself, Jax strode toward her like he owned it, a black t-shirt hugging his broad chest and strong arms while the sun pulled russet sparks out of the unruly mess of his hair. She reached up and tried to flatten her own curls which were, of course, bouncing madly in the breeze.
“Hey, Addy,” Jax said, smile-free as usual. “Waiting for us?” He made it sound like an accusation. She suppressed a sigh.
“No, I was about to go in. Then Soren showed up and started predicting the weather.”
“Yeah?” He arched a brow. Matty stood beside him in sullen silence, completely incurious. “What’s the word?”
“We’re in for a nasty turn,” Addy to
ld him. “Mid-afternoonish.”
“Ah.” Jax nodded. “Well, he’s usually right.”
“I know.” She peered at the sky again. She couldn’t help it. “But there aren’t even clouds.”
“I think he can smell it,” Jax offered.
“Maybe that’s it.”
They fell into their usual awkward silence, like strangers thrown together at a party with nothing left to chat about. As if they weren’t family, for heaven’s sake.
“Well,” she said, brightly enough to cover the frustration and hurt this particular silence always put in her throat, “should we go in?”
Jax reached past her for the door with obvious relief — she ignored the extra little dollop of hurt that brought on — but then Matty said, “Heads up.” He jerked his chin toward the beach. “Art lover, three o’clock.”
Addy turned and found a college-aged guy in a worn sweatshirt locked in on them like a heat-seeking missile. He jaywalked Main Street with fevered determination, a sketch pad clamped in paint-stained fingers. Apprehension snaked through her belly and she stepped in front of Matty. He looked so much like Diego these days, and Diego’s fans weren’t big on boundaries, as Addy had excellent reason to know. She could handle herself but she’d tried to shelter Matty. With that face of his...
The art lover jumped up the curb and hurdled a big glazed urn of pansies. He landed on the sidewalk in front of them, staring, and Jax hooked a hand through Addy’s elbow. Her heart thudded twice, hard, then just stalled. Because Jax was touching her again. And not just touching her, either, but holding her. His wide, warm hand was clamped around her elbow like it meant business, and he stood close enough that his big shoulders actually blocked the lake wind. It pushed that delicious fresh-laundry-and-smoke scent her way and enveloped her in the heat from his body. No wonder he never wore a coat, she thought through her shock. He must run incredibly hot for her to feel him from nearly a foot away.
“You’re her,” the art lover announced, his eyes locked on Addy, panting a little from his exertions. Relief washed over her, cool and welcome. He was after her, not Matty. Thank goodness. A goofy smile spread across the stranger’s face. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “You’re Diego’s Angel.”
“In the flesh.” Addy smiled back and arranged herself a bit more completely in front of Matty. She nodded toward the sketch pad. “You’re an artist?”
He flushed and shook his head. “Not really. Aspiring, I guess. But I’m no Diego Davis.”
“Yeah,” Matty mumbled behind her. “Me, neither.” Addy stepped on his toes.
“But you’re her.” The guy grinned at her again. “You’re Diego’s Angel. You’re his masterwork. I was in the gallery yesterday and I saw it. Her. You. And now here you are, and you’re all her.” He wiggled all over like a happy puppy. “I’m sorry, this is ridiculously forward but—” He broke off, looked at his shoes, and the trickle of nerves in her stomach exploded into a bright flash of fight-or-flight. She threw both hands up but he’d already grabbed her shoulders and planted an enthusiastic kiss right on her mouth.
“Hey!” Jax jerked her into his chest but the guy — just a kid, really — had already let her go. Addy forced a startled laugh and put her fingers to her mouth. There had been a lot more energy than skill behind that kiss, and not one whiff of true desire. But it had still been pushed on her, and not even on her, which was sort of worse. She wasn’t a real person to this guy. She was Diego’s Angel.
The guy sighed. “I’m totally in love with you.”
Addy squashed the urge to sneer, and smiled kindly instead. Nothing in life was free, after all. “With Diego’s Angel, maybe. I’m just Addison.” She glanced at her watch. “And I’m sort of late, so—”
“Oh, hey, sure.” He gave her a cheeky grin and picked up the sketch pad that had fallen at their feet. “You ever want an instant replay, I’ll be right over there all week.” He hooked a thumb toward the stretch of beach framing the harbor where the aspiring artists liked to set up their easels.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” she told him and he loped off across Main Street.
“What the crap,” Matty muttered and disappeared into the Wooden Spoon.
Addy looked up and found Jax scowling after the art lover. “That guy just kissed you.”
“Yeah, I caught that.” She pressed a hand to her jumping stomach and let out a shaky laugh. “He was like a hugger times ten. If I had to choose, though, I’d take the huggers over the critics any day. They’re sweeter, I guess. Even the critics are more fun than the weepers, though. Those people are exhausting.”
“That wasn’t a hug.” Jax turned that scowl on her, and she blinked. Jax scowled at her about as often as he smiled, which was approximately never. He was Mr. Carefully Neutral where she was concerned, always. Except now he was glaring at her like she’d done something wrong. And interestingly, she could feel it in the backs of her knees, just like his unexpected smiles. “It was a kiss,” he snapped. “A total stranger just kissed you. On the mouth.”
“I know.” She shrugged, and realized that Jax still had his hand wrapped around her arm. And her knees — already beleaguered — went watery. What on earth? “Just like I know he’ll probably buy a bunch of art supplies at the gallery, do breakfast at the Sugar Rush, lunch at the Wooden Spoon and dinner at the Devil’s Tap Room every day until he leaves.”
“And that makes it okay that he kissed you?”
“Mercy sakes, Jax, calm down. It was just a kiss, and not even a very good one, frankly.”
He stared. “You rank them?”
“Of course I don’t. It’s rare, that’s all. The kissing. Which makes it memorable.” She sighed. “Look, they mostly just hug my neck or cry on my shoulder, all right?” Or slap my face. She didn’t mention that one. It had only happened once or twice. “Usually they just want to take my picture. My point is, they’re harmless.”
He gazed at her in open disbelief. “Harmless.”
“Mostly, yes. That guy in particular was about as dangerous as a mosquito. He got carried away, that’s all.” She met his eyes carefully, and the anger burning in them had her breath hitching in her throat. “He wanted to kiss Diego’s Angel, Jax.” She needed him to understand that for some reason. Nobody had wanted to kiss her. Not in years. “It didn’t cost me all that much to let him.”
“You’re not Diego’s Angel, Addison.” His grip on her arm tightened, and she found herself on her toes suddenly, face to face with his odd, unprecedented anger. Shock licked at her skin, cracked at her nerves. “You don’t have to be, anyway.”
“Oh, Jax.” She laughed, and it surprised her, the black, bitter sound of it. “Of course I do. I’ll always be Diego’s Angel. I don’t have a choice.”
“Bullshit.” He dropped her arm and stepped back, and his anger disappeared behind that awful neutral composure she was more used to. It stung far more than his fury. “You always have a choice. But apparently you’d rather sell your self-respect to tourists than look for it.” He held up both hands in a gesture of surrender and backed away. “Sorry I stepped in. I shouldn’t have.” His eyes dropped to her hand, which was spread stupidly in the air between them. Was she reaching for him? Goodness. His gaze touched deliberately on the enormous diamond on her ring finger, sparkling gaudily in the thin sunlight. “In the future, I won’t bother.”
Then he turned on the heel of one steel-toed boot and disappeared into the Wooden Spoon. She stood there on the sidewalk, baffled and hurt, and watched him go.
Well how about that? Soren had been right. The day had taken a nasty turn after all.
Chapter 7
A FEW MINUTES later, Addy stepped into the jingle and hum of Monday Brunch in full swing. She pulled the door firmly shut behind her. Maybe it was gorgeous out — for now, anyway — but when it wasn’t, the lake wind could belt a full cup of coffee clean off the counter. Tourists didn’t think about it, and locals didn’t have to think. They just shut the doors. Transplants li
ke Addy had to be careful.
You always had to be careful when you didn’t belong.
Jax’s parting shot still stung, so she pasted on her brightest smile and excused herself through the crowd. Counter seating faced the open kitchen on the right side of the room, a small forest of tables grew up on her left, and decades of foot traffic had worn the cement floor in between into a shallow groove. She followed it to the prime booth in the back corner that the Davises had claimed as their due for as long as anybody could remember. She caught a glimpse of Jax’s unruly hair through the crowd, and her gut tightened. He’d judged her pretty harshly, and it bugged her, though she couldn’t imagine why. It wasn’t like she’d lost his good opinion of her, she reminded herself. He’d obviously never had a good opinion of her. Still, she slowed her pace until she was sure her smile was good and bullet-proof.
She arrived at the table. “Hey, all,” she said with breezy good cheer.
“There you are!” Bianca’s smile was the real thing, all warm and welcoming. “We were starting to think you were going to stand us up.”
“When there was a chance of sweet lefse?” Addy forced a laugh. “I’m not sure you grasp my deep and abiding respect for dessert as breakfast.” Matty was sitting beside Georgie on one bench seat while Jax sat with Bianca on the other. Both men were on the outside and Addy made the wise choice. She poked Matty’s shoulder. “Budge over, buddy. I’m hungry.”
Matty elbowed Georgie, who only blinked at him like a beautiful owl. Matty looked back at Addy and shrugged. Jax rolled his eyes and rose to his feet. “I’m on call,” he said shortly. “You’ll have to sit in the middle.”
Addy maintained her plastic smile. “Sure, no problem.”
She scooted in and Jax slid onto the cracked vinyl booth beside her, his jeans warm and sturdy against her thigh. And once again, Addy’s system went on high alert. She snatched up a menu and studied it like her life depended on her order, overcome by an unexpected nostalgia for the days when Jax hardly looked at her, let alone sat practically on top of her.