by Jeff Shelby
We walked to the front door and he stood there for a moment, his eyes on the wood planked floor. He started to say something, then stopped himself and furrowed his brow and stared back at the floor.
“Is…is something wrong?” I asked.
He finally looked up. “Rainy, if you'd ever like to grab lunch or dinner or breakfast, I guess, at The Wicked Wich or any other place in town, or some place out of town would be fine, too, and as long as it's not on a Sunday, I would be happy...to accompany you.”
It all came out in a rush of words, like if he didn't get them out, they'd somehow get caught in his throat. His cheeks were now the color of tomatoes, and his neck was rosy, too. Gone was the calm man who’d sat next to me for the better part of fifteen minutes. The man standing next to me looked like a middle schooler who’d just gotten up the nerve to talk to a girl.
“Okay,” I said, a little unsure of what I was saying okay to.
“I just mean that if you'd like some company while dining out, I'd be happy to join you,” he said quickly. “I know that it can sometimes be awkward. Going to eat by oneself. Company is sometimes good. So feel free to call me. Or email me. Or stop by the church. Or don't! That's fine, too! I need to run. Goodbye, Rainy.”
Before I could respond, he'd turned on his heel and was hustling down the walk.
As I watched him slide into his car, a little white Prius with a fish sticker on the bumper, I was thinking that he hadn’t just invited me out to eat to be nice.
I was pretty sure Declan Murphy, the town preacher, was hitting on me.
SEVENTEEN
I was greeted the next morning by gray skies and the insurance adjuster.
I slept in, a product of having stayed up too late, unpacking boxes and thinking about the fire. The midday bourbon binge had probably played a role, as well.
The unpacking had been productive, but the ruminating on the fire was not. I felt like a dog chasing its own tail and when I’d finished the last of the boxes I’d mentally assigned myself, I'd switched my focus from the fire to my ham and au gratin potatoes dinner and the slice of strawberry pie from Ethel Williams. It was just as good as Declan had said it would be, especially paired with another glass of Merlot. Half a bottle later, with a full stomach of home-cooked food, I was finally asleep.
The normal morning sunshine I'd become accustomed to was nowhere to be found when I got out of bed, replaced by a dull, gray haze that gave everything out the window a haunted feeling. I showered, dressed, and had just poured a cup of coffee when the doorbell chimed.
The adjustor's name was Mary Sharp and she was dressed like a bumblebee, with a yellow blouse and black slacks over sensible black flat shoes. The black headband holding her blonde hair back just needed some antennae to complete the look. She was friendly and sympathetic to what had brought her to me, and she made sure to tap her clipboard several times, telling me we'd get to the bottom of things with a fair settlement for everyone involved.
I didn't trust her one bit, but that was my own skepticism creeping in.
We walked out to the bungalow—well, what remained of the bungalow—and she immediately began taking notes, asking me questions about the size of the building and how it was used and other things I didn't really have an answer for. She didn't seem deterred by my lack of answers and she was squatting down, looking at one of the remaining posts, when I heard footsteps behind me.
Gunnar held up a hand. “Morning.”
I waved back. “Morning.”
He came up next to me. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt with the logo for a 10K on it. His dark hair was damp, and he smelled like soap and pine and manliness.
He motioned toward Mary. “Insurance?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yeah. How'd you know?”
“Truck with the insurance logo in the driveway.”
“Duh. Of course.”
“Also, I don’t recognize her,” he added, grinning. I loved the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way his dimples popped on his cheeks. “And you’ve probably figured out by now that people in this town know everyone.”
I chuckled. “Yes. Yes, I have.”
“She tell you anything?”
“She's mostly asked questions I don't have answers to,” I told him.
He folded his thick arms over his chest. “Whatever she offers you to start, it'll be too low. Act incredulous at the offer. She'll come up.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
Mary looked up from the charred wood and smiled at Gunnar. “Oh, hello there. I'm sorry. I didn't know there was anyone else here.”
He held up a hand in greeting, but didn't say anything.
Mary stood and adjusted her headband, unable to take her eyes off of Gunnar. I didn’t blame her. “I didn't realize your husband was here, Ms. Day.”
“He's not my husband,” I said.
“Yet,” Gunnar said, winking conspiratorially.
My pulse quickened and I didn’t know whether to feel outraged at his forwardness or flattered that he found me attractive enough to consider marrying. And then I realized that, as per usual, I was probably reading way more into his comment than was required.
“Uh, he lives across the road…” I finally said, lamely.
Mary seemed confused by the conversation. I was glad I wasn’t alone.
Gunnar put his arm around my shoulders. “She'll come around.”
A vague flicker of disappointment rippled through Mary's eyes and she turned and moved onto the next burnt stump.
I gaped at him.
Gunnar let his arm slide off of me and winked at me. “I'm just keeping her on her toes. Make sure she stays focused on her job and not the handsome neighbor standing next to her client.”
Relief mixed with disappointment at his words. It was a weird feeling.
“If you do say so yourself,” I said.
He chuckled and shrugged. “I'm only teasing.”
“I have a question for you,” I said. “If we're done talking about how good-looking you are, that is.”
“For now,” he said, grinning and sending my heart into a series of flip-flops.
“I’m serious.”
“Sure. Shoot.”
“I heard that this place had an offer on it before I put mine in,” I said. “Do you know anything about that?”
He watched Mary for a moment, then shoved his hands in the pockets of his worn jeans. “Why do you ask?”
“I don't know,” I said. “It just sounds like a bit of a strange story. The offer was supposedly for over the asking price, which was definitely better than what I paid for it. Just seems a little strange, and the last few days have given me plenty of strange.”
He squinted in Mary's direction. “Where did you hear that?”
“From the pastor.”
“The pastor?”
“Declan O'Ireland,” I said.
“That’s not his last na—”
“I know that,” I said. “I was kidding. Murphy. Declan Murphy. He told me that he'd heard about it at The Wicked Wich.”
A thin smile crept onto his lips. “You're starting to sound like a local now, Rainy.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Depends on the day, I guess,” he said.
“Hmm. Well, I don't think he was making it up. I asked him what he knew about the farm and he told me that was really the only thing he'd heard about it. Besides the fact that the old owner wasn't terribly nice to him.”
Gunnar raised an eyebrow. “Len? He's not nice to anyone. Well, except the sheriff. They’re buddies. O’Ireland shouldn't take that personally.”
“He tried not to.”
“Len's an old grump,” he said, his smile fading. “Always has been.”
“But did you know that someone wanted to buy this before me?”
He stubbed his toe on the ground. “I know he had lots of lookers, right from the get go. I mean, it's a prime piece of property and I don't think anyone ever thought it would be for sal
e. So I think a lot of people were interested.”
I watched Mary move to the far side of where the bungalow used to be. She glanced up at Gunnar, smiled, and then jotted something down on her clipboard.
“You definitely have an admirer,” I said, trying to ignore the pricks of jealousy stabbing at me as the pretty blonde eyed my handsome neighbor.
He snorted. “She’s young enough to be my daughter.”
“I'm just making an observation.”
He turned to me, his hazel eyes locking with mine. “How do you know I don't already have my eye on someone else?”
I felt the blood make a beeline for my face. If I wasn't sure before, I was now. Gunnar was flirting with me.
And that made two different men in less than 24 hours.
I hadn’t had a date in years. After a couple of failed attempts after the divorce, with friends urging me to try out Match.com and other dating web sites, I’d resigned myself to living the single life. I’d thrown myself into work, which hadn’t been hard. Mack had liked the fact that I was willing to put in 70-hour work weeks. And he’d paid me well for those hours.
Had buying a farm somehow made me more desirable?
I cleared my throat. “I guess I shouldn't assume anything.”
“No, you shouldn't,” he said, the grin back on his face.
“And I will take it then that you didn't know anything about the supposed high-priced offer that Len Konrath passed on.”
He shrugged his shoulders, and I tried not to stare at the way his muscles moved under his shirt. “I know there was a ton of interest.”
We watched Mary readjust her headband, glance up at Gunnar again, and give him a bigger smile than before.
“I can see there's interest here, too,” I said.
“On her part?” he asked. The smile was back, the eyes were crinkling, and my heart started that crazy flip-flop thing again. “Or yours?”
I knew I shouldn't have gone against one of my cardinal rules.
Never try to match wits with a flirt when you get embarrassed easily.
EIGHTEEN
Gunnar left and Mary seemed disappointed by his departure. She did, however, finish with her assessment and tell me she'd give me a call the following day to discuss compensation and the process. She gave me her card and I wondered if she was going to drive across the road to see Gunnar before she left.
And with that, I was alone. I still had more boxes to unpack, still had grass to mow and walls to paint and chicken coops to figure out, but there was one thing I needed first. Groceries.
My stomach was practically eating itself by the time I got to town and I decided to stop in at the Wicked Wich before heading to the store. It would give me the chance to eat but it would also mean I could start over with Dawn. Declan had said not to take things personally with her, but I wanted to see for myself. The last thing I needed was to make an enemy in town right off the bat, especially when I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong.
So I decided to try and make nice. And if it didn’t work, well, at least I could try out the jalapeno burger. If another one of my buildings didn’t burn down before I ate it.
I'd apparently beaten the lunch rush because there were only two booths in use and the bar was empty. An older man in the far booth held a coffee cup to his lips and he raised an eyebrow at me as I entered. Then he went back to talking to the younger man seated across from him. The two women a couple of booths over didn't even notice me, laughing over some photos spread out across the table.
I took the same stool at the bar I'd had before and set my purse down next to me. Dawn appeared from the back, wiping her hands with a towel. She glanced up at me and slowed her pace. She hesitated for a moment, then whipped the towel over her shoulder, grabbed a menu from behind the counter, and came my way.
She laid it on the bar, then set both of her hands on the bar rail. “Something to drink?”
“Diet anything,” I said.
She frowned, grabbed the soda gun, jammed the glass into the basin with the ice, and filled the glass. She set it on the bar next to the menu, then placed her hands back in the same place on the bar rail.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” I said, unsheathing the straw.
“You don't say.”
“If I did something to offend you, I apologize,” I said. “I assume Martin is your husband?”
“For now.”
I dropped the straw in the soda. “He sat down. I didn't invite him. He asked if I was the new person who'd just bought the Konrath farm and I told him I was. That was it.”
“Sure, if you say so,” she said, still frowning. “You ready to order?”
She was definitely prickly. My gut reaction was to frown back at her and dismiss the idea of ever making amends, but I reminded myself where I was. A small town. With no friends. An outsider who didn’t need enemies.
“I don't want there to be a problem here,” I said, folding my hands together over the menu, trying to maintain my composure. “I'm not sure what your assumption was, but if it involved me and your husband, you're wrong.”
“So you're married, then?” she said, smirking.
“Divorced and happily single,” I told her. “I'm not looking for a partner.”
She rolled her eyes. “Sure.”
I bit back a sigh. Making nice was pointless. She wasn’t interested in playing. I picked up the menu and handed it to her. “Same as yesterday. Since I didn't get to try it.”
She snatched the menu from my hand and walked back toward the kid working the grill.
I took a long sip from the soda and tried to calm my nerves. I'd gone there with good intentions, I reminded myself. I hadn't done anything wrong, and I wasn't going to act like I had. Maybe it just meant I was going to have to find another eating establishment to frequent in my new town. Except I was pretty sure there wasn’t another one.
I made a mental note to add cooking to my list of hobbies I needed to explore.
Ten minutes later, she returned with the burger and fries. She slid it onto the bar. “Need anything else?”
I tried a different tact. “Have you lived here long?”
“I meant with the food, not with conversation.”
So much for changing direction. “Then, no.”
She turned and left.
The burger was good, thick and flavorful, the fries crunchy with just enough salt. The kid on the grill had skills. Maybe he could teach me a thing or two.
I busied myself with my food and watched the sports recap on the TV, not really paying attention. Dawn refilled my soda one time without a word between us. A young couple came in and sat down at the bar, clearly non-locals, as they also asked what sodas were available and if there were any local craft beers on tap.
Dawn took care of their drink order and returned for my empty plate. She gathered up my unused utensils and dropped them on the plate. “Been here for forty years, for what that's worth.”
It took me a second to realize she was finally answering my question.
“That's a long time,” I said.
“Too long, most days.”
“Maybe. But I'd guess you have a handle on most things in Latney.”
She shrugged.
“I heard there was an offer on the farm I bought before I purchased it,” I said. “Do you know anything about that?”
Her lips twisted back and forth for a moment. “Why does that matter?”
“I don't know that it does,” I said. I played with the straw in my cup. “I'm just curious and that's what I heard.”
She dumped my plate into a giant plastic tub behind the bar. “I have no idea. But if you really wanna know, you should ask the guy who used to own the farm.”
Len Konrath. Grumpy Len, who was friends with the sheriff. Len, who hadn’t wanted to talk to Declan when he came by to introduce himself, but who faithfully showed up to church.
“I've never met him,” I said.
“Well, now's your
chance,” she said, forcing a fake smile onto her face.
“Now?” I turned in the direction of the entrance, expecting to see him standing in the doorway. But it was empty. “Where?”
“He’s sitting right over there.”
I whipped my head back to face her. “Right over where?”
She nodded to the back booth. “Len's in his usual spot.”
NINETEEN
It took me a moment to get myself to turn and look.
Len Konrath was the older man I'd seen when I'd first walked into the restaurant.
“That's him?” I said, turning back to Dawn.
She nodded. “That's him. So if you've got questions about your new home, go ask him.” She snapped her towel over her shoulder and sauntered away.
I wasn't sure why, but my stomach was in knots. I did want to know about the farm's history, but it was unnerving to be presented with the immediate opportunity to do so. I thought about what Declan had said about him, and what Gunnar had told me, too. I had no idea how receptive he'd be to being approached, and I wasn't sure I was ready for another confrontation that might go downhill. But I also knew that no one else had given me any real answers about the farm and if I wanted them, I was probably going to have to talk to the one man who could give them to me.
I took a deep breath, turned on my stool, and headed toward the back booth.
Konrath had a full head of gray hair and eyes that matched in color. His nose was short and pointed and it didn't appear as if he'd smiled any time in the recent past. He wore a red and yellow flannel shirt, the cuffs turned back at the wrists. He eyed me suspiciously over a cup of coffee as I approached.
“Mr. Konrath?” I asked, coming up to the booth.
His mouth was set in a firm, flat line. He nodded.
“My name is Rainy Day,” I said. “I'm the person who bought your farm.”
The mouth stayed in the same line. He nodded again.
I looked at the man across from him. He was decidedly younger, closer to my age. His eyes were the same gray, but they were warmer, less hardened by age and life. His dark brown hair was graying at the edges and he had the same nose as Len Konrath, but it looked better on his face. He had on a red golf shirt and a shiny silver watch on his wrist.