“Her daughter went into labor last night, and she has to babysit the other three for the next few days,” Doris said, smiling at Sam as he helped her out of her coat.
“I see you’ve brought your sketch pad,” he said when she set it down.
“I was up half the night designing our new label,” Doris said excitedly, sitting down and opening her pad. “That’s why I’m late this morning. I also tried to come up with a list of names for our product.” She opened the pad on the table and turned it toward Sam. “I figure it should be something catchy. This label,” she said, tapping the page with a pink fingernail, “is one we could use if we decide to call them Angel Cakes.”
“Angel Cakes!” Phil sputtered. “Ain’t nothing angelic about lobsters. They’re one of the ugliest creatures God ever created.” He reached over and turned the pad to see for himself. “Why, this isn’t a lobster dressed like an angel, it’s a kid.” He pushed the pad back. “What’s a half-naked, fat little kid got to do with lobster cakes?”
“He’s not a kid, he’s an angel. And if you weren’t so tight with your dollar and would go to the doctor and get stronger glasses, you’d see that he’s eating the lobster cakes.” She flipped to the next page. “Or we could make it look like the cakes themselves are angels. See, I put wings and a halo on this one.” She smiled at Sam expectantly. “What do you think of my ideas?”
Sam picked up the pad and studied the labels, flipping to the first page and then back to the second.
His first thought was that he was going to have to apologize to Willa. He could see now how her seniors had completely usurped her authority, since his own little gang had certainly taken over his idea to open a business.
Yesterday morning, on the way to the warehouse he hoped to buy, he’d found out that Sean Graves had already negotiated the price with Avery Ingall the night before, over beers at Avery’s home. Sean probably got the property for a lot less than Sam would have, but he’d been looking forward to going up against one of these Yankee traders.
Then, yesterday afternoon at the auto dealership, Phil Grindle had grabbed Sam by the arm and dragged him away—twice—from the deal he was being offered. Who knew there was so much negotiating room in the price of an automobile?
Apparently, Phil did.
Just how was he supposed to tell an eighty-year-old grandmother he really wasn’t all that enamored with angels?
“Sam. Sam!” Phil said, his voice rising along with the force of the smacks he was giving Sam’s arm. “Willamina’s out there pacing back and forth. If you don’t want to spend the day bailing her out of jail, you better get out there before she works up the nerve to come in looking for you.”
“Oh, heavens.” Doris gasped. “She’s not allowed in here, Sam. If she steps one foot inside that door, it’ll cost her seven hundred and forty-three dollars.”
“And sixty-four cents,” Phil added.
Sam tore his gaze from Willa, who had stopped pacing and was now eyeing the door handle. “Why?”
“She broke a few things last time she was here,” Doris said, pushing Sam to his feet. “The owner said he wouldn’t press charges and she wouldn’t have to pay for damages if she promised never to come in here again.”
Sam headed for the front door but stopped when he saw Barry Cobb reach around Willa and open the door for her. The man then placed his hand on her back and ushered her inside, completely ignoring her protests.
Sam heard several gasps behind him, and all conversation suddenly stopped. Barry Cobb spotted Sam, and he grabbed Willa by the wrist as she tried to scurry around him and dragged her toward an empty table in the front window.
Sam walked back to his gaping seniors.
“You just gonna let her sit there with that gangster?” Phil asked in disbelief when Sam sat back down.
Sam didn’t know who had started the rumor that Barry Cobb might be tied in with the mob. He picked up his cup of coffee, took a sip, then smiled at his table mates. “I’m curious to see what might happen,” he said, glancing toward Willa’s table.
She was standing now, darting glances toward the back of the diner, then whispering something to Cobb. Cobb still had hold of her wrist, trying to get her to sit back down.
“Here comes trouble,” Avery said, and Sam followed his gaze toward the kitchen.
Trouble appeared to be a rather large man wearing a tight white T-shirt and a dingy white apron, standing in the kitchen door, glaring at Willa. Sam took another sip of his coffee, noticing that every last person in the diner had gone silent except for Barry Cobb.
“Oh, come on, Willa,” Cobb scoffed, holding her wrist. “They can’t stop you from coming in here; this is a public diner.” He leaned forward, still not realizing he had an audience. “Will you relax? I’m glad I ran into you this morning. I want to ask if you’ll go to the dance at the high school with me tonight. We could have dinner in Ellsworth first, if you’d like.” He smiled. “I’ll even buy you a corsage. What color dress will you be wearing?”
Sam smiled. Whatever the color, it would definitely be wrinkled.
“Willamina Kent!” a gruff, challenging voice called from the back of the diner. “You’d better have your purse with you!”
Barry Cobb finally shut up. Willa took advantage of his being distracted by the man walking toward them and jumped to her feet to dash for the door.
Cobb also stood, blocking her way. “Excuse me?” he said to the man, pulling Willa against his side. “Is there a problem?”
The man, obviously the owner, pointed at her. “She owes me seven hundred forty-three bucks and sixty-four cents.” He turned the hand he was pointing at Willa palm up. “And if she doesn’t give me every last penny, in cash, in exactly one minute, I’m calling the sheriff.”
“Sam, do something!” Doris hissed, pushing his arm and spilling his coffee. “You need to save her!”
He looked over at Doris. “Don’t women today prefer to save themselves?”
“That is a crock of shit,” she snapped. “We still want to know we can count on a man in a crisis. This is your chance to prove what a good husband you’ll be.”
Sam blinked at Doris. Had she just said what he thought she had? He looked back at Willa, realizing she hadn’t spotted him yet. He stood up and sauntered over to stand beside the owner, who was still holding out his hand, apparently expecting it to fill up with money in the next thirty seconds.
“You carry that much cash on you, Cobb?” Sam asked, stifling a grin when Willa gasped. She tried to wriggle away from Barry again, but he merely pulled her closer.
“I’m not paying this man anything,” Barry said, looking from Sam to the owner’s outstretched hand.
“Not even to save your girlfriend from the sheriff?” Sam asked. “She’s going to look awful funny wearing a corsage in jail.”
“Butt out, Sinclair,” Barry snapped.
“Ten seconds,” the owner growled. “Martha!” he hollered over his shoulder. “Start dialing nine-one-one!”
Surprised that Willa still hadn’t done or said anything, Sam let out a loud sigh and reached back for his wallet. “Never mind, Cobb. I’ll get this one. You can bail her out of the next mess she gets herself into.”
Willa went from zero to sixty in one second flat. “You’re not getting one stinking dime, you greedy man! It wasn’t my fault the last time, and it’s not my fault this time, either!” she yelled, shoving Cobb toward the owner, making them both stagger into a nearby table. She grabbed Sam’s hand and headed for the door. “Come on!” she shouted over the roaring laughter of the patrons.
Willa pulled him onto the sidewalk, then suddenly stopped, undecided which way to run. Sam headed to their right, turning the corner at the first street they came to. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his key fob, hitting the unlock button as they approached his truck.
“Hop in,” he said, running to the driver’s side. She climbed in beside him and snapped her seat belt. Sam quickly snapped his own b
elt, looked over his shoulder, and pulled out onto the narrow lane. “Which way?” he asked. “We can’t go to your house. That’s the first place the sheriff will look for you.”
“Turn left up ahead,” she said a bit breathlessly. She suddenly laughed. “Oh, my God, did you see Craig’s face?”
“Craig?”
“The coffee-shop owner. Craig Watson.” She snickered. “I wonder what outrageous price he’s going to come up with this time. I didn’t even break any dishes today. Did you see me break any dishes?” she asked, batting her lashes at him.
He smiled at the gleam in her eye, then turned left at the first road he came to. “Nope, I didn’t see you break anything. I did see Cobb bump into a table and break some dishes, though.”
She giggled. “I’m trying to picture myself sitting in jail wearing a corsage.” She sighed. “I guess dinner and dancing is a no-go now.”
“Unless you wouldn’t mind if I stood in for Cobb,” he said with a smile, puffing out his chest to better his chances. “I’d be right honored, Ms. Kent, if you would let me take you to the dance this evening.”
She giggled again, then suddenly pointed. “Here! Turn left here. This is Route One, and it’ll take us toward Prime Point. I know a secluded beach we can go to.”
That sounded promising. “Mind telling me why Craig Watson says you owe him seven hundred and forty-three dollars?”
“And sixty-four cents,” she tacked on. “Um, a few dishes might have gotten broken the last time, but Craig started it.”
“And you were just an innocent bystander? Did anyone else get banned from the diner?”
“No. I was the only one in the diner with Craig at the time. His wife, Martha, had just left for the night.”
“You were alone with Watson?” The man didn’t look like anyone he’d want Willa to be alone with. Ever.
“I wanted to talk to him in private.”
“Why?” he asked, sensing a community-crusader story coming on.
“Craig had just purchased the diner about four months earlier, and he wasn’t…um, he wasn’t doing things the way the previous owner had.”
“I don’t suppose he was obliged to.”
She turned in the seat to face him. “Okay. Let me tell you about Gertrude, so you’ll understand. There used to be a little old lady named Gertrude Bliss who lived in town. She was ninety-four, she lived alone in her big old house, and all she had for income was a small social security check. Gertrude also had six cats. They were all the family she had, and they meant the world to her, even if she could barely afford them.”
“Let me guess. You paid for their upkeep.”
“I took them to the veterinarian for her and paid for the visits. And the previous diner owner always saved a small bucket of clean food scraps for them. Gertrude would walk to the diner and pick up the scraps every morning, along with her cup of hazelnut coffee. When Craig bought the diner, he started charging Gertrude for the scraps, claiming it caused him a lot of extra work to sort them out. He also charged her for the coffee.”
“And you decided to have a little talk with Watson to get him to give Gertrude the food for free.”
“Well, yeah. Gertrude was a very proud woman, and she didn’t want anyone in town to know how destitute she was. Her husband hadn’t planned properly for their retirement, likely because he hadn’t expected them to live so long. When he died five years earlier, they were already down to just their social security. But when a husband dies, his check stops coming, and a surviving wife is left with only her check, which is usually only half of what his was if she never worked outside the home.”
“So you confronted Craig Watson about charging Gertrude for the scraps. How did it escalate to broken dishes?”
“When he wouldn’t agree to stop charging her, I might have threatened to tell all his customers what a rat he was. But I was bluffing, because that would mean embarrassing Gertrude.” She gave him a furtive glance, then looked out her window. “I accidentally knocked over a stack of plates sitting at the edge of a shelf.” She looked at Sam, her chin raised. “I wave my hands sometimes, when I get worked up about something.”
“You knocked over seven hundred dollars’ worth of plates?”
“The plates might have hit a couple of turkeys he had thawing on the counter, and they might have fallen into a sink full of soapy water.” She waved her hand in the air. “I don’t remember, exactly. But I’m betting Craig still served those turkeys the next day, even though he added them to my bill. He probably tacked on a few other things, too. I didn’t exactly stick around to take inventory.”
Sam was trying so hard not to laugh that his side started to ache. “Okay, then,” he said, forcing a straight face. “Would you like me to talk to Watson about the table scraps?”
“It’s too late; Gertrude died six months ago. I took in her cats, but four of them died of old age soon after. The other two were fairly young, and they’re living at Grand Point Bluff with Ida Bates, Shelby’s mother-inlaw.”
“What happened to Gertrude’s home, since she didn’t have any family?”
“She left it to the local humane society.”
“Good for her. So back to tonight. Will you do me the honor of going to the dance with me, Willamina?”
“That depends.” She looked down at her lap. “If you still want to after we talk…then yes, I’ll go to the dance with you.”
Sam frowned. “What’s bothering you, honey? Why did you come to the diner looking for me this morning?”
He never heard her answer, only her blood-curdling scream when an oncoming delivery truck suddenly swerved into their lane and slammed into them head-on.
Chapter Twenty
Willa refused to open her eyes. She’d spent the last hour being poked and prodded, and she couldn’t remember ever hurting so much. Even her hair hurt. “Hey, sweet thing. Open your eyes for me.”
The voice was smooth and cajoling and belonged to the person who’d done most of the prodding since she’d arrived at the hospital. Willa slowly opened her eyes to glare at him and blinked against the brightness of the room.
His blurred silhouette moved over her, putting her eyes in shadow. “China blue—beautiful. I’ve always had a thing for blue eyes. I know you’re disoriented and would probably like to tell me to go jump off a pier, but we’re done messing with you for now, I promise. Let’s recap, shall we?” he said, his smile bright. “I’m Dr. Zeus, and you’re in my ER at Berry Bay Hospital. Can you tell me your name?”
It came rushing back to her in a vivid flash. The truck coming toward them, the deafening sound of impact, the airbag exploding in her face. Then the jolt sideways, another equally violent stop, her arm exploding in pain, her screams lost in the sounds of screeching metal and shattering glass.
She was also pretty sure she remembered telling at least three people her name, including Mr. Happy Face here. “S-Sam,” she said, her throat feeling as if it was on fire.
“Sorry, wrong gender. Try again,” he said. “Can you tell me your name?”
Willa strained to swallow. “Sam! S-Sam!”
“I believe one of the men brought in is named Sam,” a female voice said to her right. “Malcolm is with him.”
“I’ll make a deal with you, Blue Eyes. I’ll have Mary go check on your boyfriend if you tell me your name.”
“Willa.”
“Okay, Willa. Do you know why you’re in my ER?”
“Car crash.”
“We’re on a roll. You don’t look like you’re actually focusing on me, though. What color are my eyes?”
“Green.”
His smile widened. “You don’t happen to have a thing for green eyes, do you? Wait, I’ll turn down these lights,” he said, suddenly disappearing.
The pain in her forehead eased when the bright lights dimmed.
“You were involved in what should have been an unsurvivable crash, according to what the EMTs said when they brought you in,” he explained, his voice
moving back toward her. “They suspect what saved you was the size of your vehicle and its extensive airbag system.”
Willa concentrated on making him come into focus. “Sam?”
“Mary’s checking. Ready to hear a list of your booboos?”
“Water.”
“Definitely doable. Here, this should help your throat.”
A bent straw touched her lips, and Willa took a sip, carefully swallowing several times.
“Speaking of which,” he continued, “your throat hurts because your seat belt gave you quite a bruise. The belt also bruised your left breast and hip. You have a slight concussion, but it’s not as worrisome as it could have been. God bless those side-impact bags.
“Your right side, most specifically your wrist, took a bad hit when a tree decided your truck had gone far enough. That’s going to require a little visit to the OR, which is where you’re heading in about half an hour. We’re waiting for the surgeon to arrive.” His smile flipped upside down. “They don’t let me play with the really sharp knives; I only get to stick you with pointy things.”
“My legs hurt,” she said, the water having soothed her throat enough for a complete sentence.
“I’m getting there, Willa. Your knees and especially your ankles took a beating, which is typical in head-on collisions, because you automatically brace for the impact. But you were wearing some rather heavy-duty work boots for a babe, so nothing down there is broken. You probably won’t be jogging for a while, though.
“As for your insides, everything’s right where it should be. You’ve got a couple of cracked ribs that are going to hurt like the dickens for a while, but your spleen, kidneys, liver, and other important parts all appear to be happy and healthy.” He touched her hair, and his smile returned, crooked this time. “Don’t scream when you look in the mirror tomorrow, okay? You’re going to have one hell of a shiner, and there are cuts and other small bruises, all minor.”
He straightened and took hold of her left hand, being careful of the IV in the back of it. “There is one thing that I’m a bit concerned about, so I’ve called in someone to have a look-see. Are you aware that you’re pregnant, Willa?”
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