She strolled over cautiously toward the garage and looked around for Mr. Harvey. No sign. The radio was playing and the paint on his hillside depiction of the trees looked wet, so she figured he’d ducked inside for a moment. The man had talent, and her thoughts went back to the rocking chair she’d seen on his porch the day Grant drove her here, promptly sparking a reminder that “keeping a good house” or even having the talent to capture the emotions in a fall hillside did not a good man make.
“What are you doing here?” a gruff voice snapped.
Ali wheeled around just in time to take a quick step out of his raging path. He swept into the room and threw a tarp over the paintings. All of them. As if they were a dirty secret.
“I asked you a question,” he growled again. “What are you doing snooping around in here?”
“I’m sorry. I saw the paintings and—”
“These paintings are none of your business.” He reached up to grasp the roller door. “Go away.”
Ali stepped back just as the door slammed down hard, almost cutting her in half. But she wasn't upset or even insulted. In fact, she was bristling with inspiration. In the daylight, Mr. Harvey looked different than she first thought, and his general demeanor was a perfect fit for the murderer of her story. She would distract the reader with his mean but charming disposition and his cute smile—make them trust him and fall in love with him—then spin them on their asses with a massive twist when he truly did turn out to be the killer. It was perfect.
She would have to stop by here more often to ruffle this guy’s feathers, and now that she knew he did actually have a softer side, a creative side, she wasn’t quite so intimidated by him. Last night, when she met him face-to-face, she’d placed his age at about fifty, even remembering his hair to be gray. But, in fact, his short hair had that dark kind of look to the roots, with tips that would go blonder in the summer months. His unkempt three-day-growth and eyebrows were the same color, and there was something in the hard set of his eyes that spoke volumes about just how manly he was—the kind of man that probably even thought twice about using hair conditioner. Two lines along his brow and two between them showed his age, but they were subtle enough to give him more sex appeal than Old Man status in Ali’s eyes. He’d looked tired, though, like he didn’t sleep well, or was fed up with the world.
Still, even under the cold, hard look, it was easy to see he’d once been kind—a long time ago. It reminded Ali of a baby’s feet—how they start out so soft and perfect, growing, shaped by life and all it had to offer, until they were often twisted and bony and ugly. It said a lot to Ali that she just compared this man to feet, but that’s what his eyes reminded her of. She laughed to herself as the comparison sunk in.
Just as Ali reached her porch, a familiar cold chill went down her spine. She felt hungry or maybe panicky, casting her eyes in a random sweep up the turret on Mad Harvey’s house, certain that, for a moment, she saw a face peering out at her from behind the lace curtains.
The air seemed to stand still, and the house had a guilty look to it, as those houses with personality often did, and Ali could not shake off the feeling that something had been watching her.
She went inside quickly and locked the front door, racing upstairs to write the feeling down.
Hideaway Sam
Mrs. Beaty brought Ali another coffee and asked if she’d like cake, but Ali was too lost in the news article she was reading on her phone to hear. She felt a shadow pass over her head and only looked up as Mrs. Beaty frowned at the phone, reading over Ali’s shoulder.
“It’s research,” Ali insisted quickly, closing her phone.
The disapproval in Mrs. Beaty’s otherwise kind eyes made Ali feel bad. “Now don’t be letting Sam see you reading that. He won’t take kindly to prying, Miss Ali.”
“Sam?” Ali crinkled her nose, putting her phone away. “Why would he care?”
Before Mrs. Beaty could finish the sentence she started, Ali’s mind put several pieces of the puzzle together, but as the doorbell chimed and Sam entered, it was too late for Ali to finish the realization on her own. Her thoughts flashed back to the name describing the aggrieved man in the newspaper clip: Samuel Harvey.
Sam’s Cafe.
Mr. Harvey loading deliveries in that night they first met.
Sam was Mr. Harvey, and he was looking at her like she’d stolen his last Twinkie.
“What are you doing here?” he snarled.
“Samuel Harvey,” Mrs. Beaty gasped loudly, the back of her hand curled against her hip. “What on earth has gotten in to you? Where are your manners?”
Several other costumers looked up in surprise. A few, who Ali assumed were locals accustomed to his ways, laughed to themselves.
“I’m drinking coffee,” Ali said without pause, her feathers not at all ruffled. Her calm gave her enough space to stand back and find the amusement in just how ruffled Sam’s feathers were. He’d gotten under her skin and into her stories, but she had clearly gotten under his skin too—in the worst way possible.
Realizing what a fool he’d made of himself by shouting at a customer, Sam opted for a speedy exit without explanation. The “Staff Only” door slammed a little behind him and everyone went back to their day; the locals continued their previous conversations, while the tourists spoke in hushed whispers about how rude that man was and wondered what that skinny woman must have done to offend him.
Ali looked up into Mrs. Beaty’s pinched face, unsure if the look of fury was directed at her or at Sam Harvey.
“He’s charming,” Ali said.
The old woman sat down on the chair across from Ali and exhaled, threading her hands together on the table. “You’re a lot like her,” she explained, although that didn't mean anything to Ali.
“Like whom?”
Mrs. Beaty nodded to Ali’s hands, where she’d been holding the phone moment ago. “You look like his late wife, bless her, the poor thing.”
Ali waited while Mrs. Beaty composed herself, waving her hands as if to fan the emotion away. When she spoke again, it was in a softer voice than before, and she seemed to have drifted closer to Ali.
“He don’t mean to be rude, luv. He’s just living with a very deep pain for it all, and I suppose you remind him of her in ways.”
“How so?” Ali couldn't recall seeing any pictures of the woman, but she would certainly hunt them down now.
“The hair, perhaps.” She smiled familiarly at Ali’s long brown hair, curling itself into messy ringlets on the ends, while the straighter, more composed hair stayed closer to the warmth of her skull. “Or the build, the height, I guess. Sarah was about your size, always wore a red coat.”
“Oh.” Ali’s eyes widened a bit and then closed as she swallowed down a huge chunk of realization. She walked up to Sam Harvey that first stormy night in her red coat, with her messy dark hair. She wondered if she’d startled him some, if maybe he thought he was seeing Sarah’s ghost for a moment.
“Not so much alike as to mistake the one for the other,” Mrs. Beaty added, “but from Sam’s perspective, we don't get too many pretty young girls around here, and when we do, he steers right clear of them.”
“Why?”
“I suppose that’s my fault.”
“Why?”
The old woman sat back in the chair and glanced behind her at the couple waiting to be served. “I spent the first five years after her death pushing eligible girls in front of him. It wasn't until one went and broke his heart by leaving that he became colder, more distant than he was.”
“Excuse me?” the lady by the counter insisted. “Can we get served?”
“Be there in a minute, luv,” Mrs. Beaty called, turning back to Ali. She smiled warmly and sympathetically. “Never mind Sam, Miss Ali. Give him time and he’ll warm to you—soon as he’s certain I’m not trying to set the two o’ you up.”
Ali smiled back at the sweet old lady, but as soon as she walked away, the smile fell. Underneath the detest s
he had for Sam Harvey, a small, weed-like tendril of pity was turning into something that felt like compassion. Ali was worried that if she felt sorry for Sam, she might start to warm to him. And if she warmed to him, she might even befriend him. If that happened, and if what Grant said about him was true, she could stand to get very hurt by him, either emotionally or perhaps worse.
Although, for some reason, none of that made her get up. None of it made her leave the store and find another coffee shop. She stayed instead, intent on reading a book or two until Sam came out of his little hole in the wall.
But he never did.
* * *
With Halloween just a day away, and the Hamilton Street western-themed party set for that night, Ali was running out of time to bake the cake she volunteered to bring. For roughly forty locals to the street and any passers-by, she would need a pretty darn big cake, and she’d already chosen the style. All she needed now was to get this dratted oven to work.
From behind her heavy-rimmed black glasses, Ali perused the manual and, when the stupid oven still failed to light up, she Googled the brand but couldn't find any information on how to repair it. It was an old oven, installed in the forties, according to the manual, which meant she needed a specialist repairer. But if she didn't get this cake baked today, there’d be no way she could show her face at that street party on tomorrow night, and then she would commit a cardinal sin by beating an antique to within an inch of its life.
Ali gave it another hard kick but the stupid heap of iron only laughed at her, didn't even dent. She thought about calling Sam Harvey, but given his current aversion to her, thought better of it and called Dianne.
“Petal, you need to call Sam,” Di said, a little breathless as she hurried around her kitchen. “I promise he won’t bite—”
“But he does,” Ali whined, taking off her reading glasses. “And he bites hard.”
Di laughed. “Would you like me to call him for you?”
“Would you? Ooh! Maybe I could leave and he could just come in and fix it while I’m out—”
“My lord, he really has offended you, hasn't he?” She laughed. “So, tell me, what did he say?”
“It wasn't anything he said, per se,” Ali confessed, sitting on the floor by the open oven door. She noted that Di seemed to have stopped rushing around as well. “He just seems really angry at me all the time.”
“That’s just his nature, petal. He doesn't mean any harm.”
“Neither does a bee, but it still stings.”
“I get it. I do. Young Sam’s snapped at everyone around here at least once or more since Sarah passed, and he can be as cold as he can kind, petal, let me tell you.” Di sighed. “But he wasn't always this way, and I guess us folk around town are a little more forgiving, you know, having seen his softer side.”
Ali sighed too. “What can I do to make him stop hating me?”
“Call him,” she advised. “There is nothing that man loves more than a damsel in distress. Show him your vulnerable side and he might show his softer one.”
Ali didn't like the sound of that—a man that needed a woman to be vulnerable in order to be kind to her. It sent up a red flag. But if it would get the oven fixed and maybe even a few other things around here, then she could play the helpless damsel around him. She would just be certain never to let him get so kind that her guard dropped and she started to see him through a rose-colored lens. “Fine,” she surrendered in a breathy voice. “I’ll call him. Is he at work today?”
“Not likely. Usually takes two days off mid-week during peak season. Pretty sure today’s his fishing day.”
And the penny dropped. Ali understood now why Di had been so insistent that Ali call him herself. If this man was anything like her father, calling him before or during a planned fishing day was like asking to borrow a tooth.
Di hung up before Ali could announce her change of heart, and so she sat there with the phone in her hand for a good five minutes before deciding that Mad Harvey hated her anyway, so how much worse could it be?
Three unanswered calls and an hour of wasted baking time later, she still hadn't reached him. At this rate, she would have to run next door and use Di’s oven. In fact, she decided, what a great idea!
Ali looked up as she got to her feet and moved away from the oven, and there, outside in the crystal-clear day, captured in perfect orange light, was Sam: his rod cast into the shallow water, his legs outstretched and propped up on the sun lounger he’d dragged out there.
Storming out of her front door, she followed the lounger’s chunked-up grass trail and ripped Sam’s floppy beige hat off his face, where he rested in the calm of the day.
“My oven is broken, and you're the caretaker! So, if not for the sake of the amazing cake I have planned for Halloween, then for sake of Mrs. Denver’s antique old stove, you had better reel that line in and come fix that damn oven!”
Sam didn’t blink, didn’t open his eyes or remove his hands from behind his head. He didn’t even start at the sudden presence of a screaming madwoman.
Ali’s eyes narrowed, wondering if he was made of wax, reminding her of the way her father would set his hat upon the old sewing mannequin her mother stored in the shed and sit it in the window so they all thought he was watching TV instead of sneaking off to go fishing. But it moved. The giant hulk of a mannequin moved, and Ali jumped back.
Sam pulled the EarPods from his ears and looked at her as though he only just realized she was there. “Miss Beaumont.” He got up off his sun lounge. “What is it?”
“Did you not just hear a thing I said?”
His eyes went from the floppy hat in her hands back up to her twisted face, and he laughed once. “No. Why?”
With a huff and a sigh, Ali threw the hat at his chest and stormed off. “I need my oven fixed. Now!”
“As you wish,” he said dryly, not making any sudden moves to follow her command.
Ali waited and waited, pacing the kitchen floor, mixing and remixing the cake batter and even taking time to go upstairs and use the bathroom before she heard a knock on the door. When she opened it, ready to blast the ignorant twit, the rise of her rant got stuck in her throat and came out as a breath of relief instead. “Grant!”
“Hey, so I heard you moved up here. Housewarming gift.” He came inside without being invited, handing her a small but heavy flowerpot with a half-dead daisy inside. “If you’d told me, I would have advised you against it.”
“Why?” She shut the door and put the flowerpot on the key table.
“Because I don’t want you living so close to that freak,” he said, stopping dead by the entrance to the kitchen. “What happened here? World War Three?”
“Oh, sorry.” She rushed past him to pick a few things up off the floor, including the dish towel she’d thrown in a fit of rage, and her black-rimmed glasses still resting on the manual. “Oven’s broken. I’m waiting on that arrogant twit to come fix it.”
“By arrogant twit, I assume you’ve met Mad Harvey.”
“Met him?” She folded her arms and leaned on the island. “More like encountered him.”
Grant laughed, leaning on the kitchenette opposite her, their toes touching. “I’m glad to see he hasn't attempted to charm you.”
“He hates me. He’d sooner toss me to the bears than befriend me.”
“Good.” Grant folded his arms, that sexy one-sided smile settling into its natural position on his face. “Then how ’bout I take you out to dinner, since you clearly won’t be cooking tonight?”
“That sounds great,” she said with a dejected sigh, “especially since it would get me out of here while jerk-face is fixing the oven. But I can’t. I have to bake.”
Grant’s eyes went to the massive silver bowl of cake batter. “What on earth for?”
“The party tomorrow.”
“Ah, right. So you’re going?”
“Are you?”
He shook his head once. “I avoid mixers that might bring me into c
ontact with Sam.”
Ali nodded in understanding. “So I guess that answers my next question.”
“Which was?”
“I was going to ask if you’d be my date.”
Grant’s expression changed. “Oh.”
“But that’s okay…” Ali started, moving away to busy her embarrassed self.
“No, really.” Grant followed. “If you were going to ask then, Sam or no Sam, I’d have said yes.”
“Oh.” She stopped again and leaned her hips against the island, feeling her cheeks blush. “Then, are you free tomorrow?”
“Why, what’d you have in mind?” Grant asked playfully, turning her by the shoulders to face him.
“If you’re not busy,” she played along, shrinking a little, “would you accompany me to the party?”
“I’d love to!” he announced. “What’s the theme this year?”
“Western.”
His lip curled and his eye got smaller. “Hm.”
“Yeah, it’s a bit tacky and not very scary, if you ask me,” Ali said with a laugh. “But it should be fun, and it gave me an excuse to go and buy some really cute red cowgirl boots.”
“Well, when you put it that way—you know, you in cowgirl boots and maybe a mini jean skirt—what’s a guy to do but go get his hat?”
Ai laughed, moving in to the warm circle of this sparkling connection between them. But it fizzled away quickly with a hard and very precise rap on the door.
“That’s Mad Harvey.”
Grant shut his eyes for a moment and exhaled. “I should go. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“Okay.”
They both looked at the parlor, obviously considering the same thing.
“You wanna take the back door?” Ali offered.
“Not before I’ve been to first base,” he joked with a cheeky glint in his eye.
Ali gave him a playful punch in the arm and shoved him out through the mud room, waving him off before setting her facial features into a cold look and heading for the front door.
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