Chapter Six

Mason

She’s got me by the forearm and is pulling me out the front door before I can get within fifty feet of the bar.

“Hey…wait…” I object, but she’s freakishly strong for such a slight woman.

“What are you thinking?” she hisses at me once we’re on the sidewalk and headed around to the alley between O’Halloran’s and the building next door.

“I’m thinking I really wanted to talk with you and you weren’t returning any of my calls.”

“Dude! I have to work, you know? Jeez! It’s been only like twenty hours!”

“More like eighteen hours, thirty-three minutes,” I correct her, flashing an easy smile that seems to only agitate her more. “Should we go inside maybe? I’d love to meet your sisters…what were their names again? Jim Beam? Wild Turkey?”

She’s glaring now. And it’s so hot.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I didn’t want to talk to you? Jeez! Ever heard of ghosting?”

“Are you done?” I ask, unfazed by her little diatribe.

“Depends. Are you?”

“Not by a long shot,” I assure her with an amused smile. “I really just needed a ride home last night. But once we spent some time together, I realized you’re funny. Like really funny. And smart. Like really smart. And attractive—”

“Don’t,” she says, holding up a palm. “Just…just don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t tell you how much I like your personality? Don’t tell you how much I like that dark sense of humor?” I take a step closer so that we’re only a few inches apart. “Don’t tell you that I could spend days looking into those gray eyes of yours? That I’ve never even seen gray eyes like yours? Or that your long, slender neck makes me want to—”

“Stop!”

She says the four letters so firmly and intensely and with such anguish—anguish?—that she stops me in my tracks. “What?” I ask, all concern. “What is it?”

She just closes her eyes, puts a hand loosely across her mouth, and shakes her head. “I—I can’t do this…”

“I don’t understand. Do what?”

She reverses her actions, stopping the head, removing the hand, and opening her eyes. “I don’t do this. I don’t…I don’t do the guy/girl thing. You can’t ask me out, because I don’t go out with guys.”

Holy crap. Is it possible that my instincts are so out of whack that I’m hitting on a lesbian? This could be a whole new level of oblivious male behavior for me.

“I’m sorry…are you…? Do you prefer…?”

It takes her a moment to realize what I’m asking and then to revisit what she said. “What? No, no, I’m not a lesbian. That’s not what I meant. I just meant that I don’t date. Men. Or women, for that matter. Anyone, really. Or is it no one? Whatever. I don’t date. I just…I don’t.”

“Umm…okay…” I begin, more than a little perplexed by this statement. “Huh.”

Her face softens with my clear confusion.

“Mason, you seem like a really nice guy. And you’re not…you know…unattractive. But, trust me on this, you do not want to get anywhere near my baggage.”

“Pie.”

She stares at me blankly, looking taken aback by the random word. “Excuse me?”

“Pie. I’ve always wanted to try the Little Slice of Heaven Pie Shop. I mean, it’s like legendary! Is it true what they say? You go in for a piece of apple and come out with your fortune?”

“Yes… No… Sort of… There,” she manages at last, pointing to a storefront. “Just across the street and down a block. With the awning…”

“Oh, I know where it is. I was just hoping you’d come and have a cup of coffee with me. Maybe a piece of that psychic pie, too.” Now she’s looking a little annoyed, but I hold up my hand before she can snap at me. “No date. Just a thank-you.”

She pauses for a beat too long. A beat that tells me she wants to go with me, but that something is holding her back.

“No. I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Is it possible she’s figured out who my mother is and doesn’t want any part of that? No. Definitely not. I may not know her well…or at all, for that matter, but I can already tell that this woman is not one to play coy. If she knew and she had a problem with it, she’d have said something already. But she hasn’t.

Which begs the question. The ever-present question when I meet someone new. Do I tell them? And, if so, when? I shake my head a little, as if to dispel the concern. It’s not important right now. The only thing that matters at the moment is that I really like this woman, and I have a feeling this is going to be my only chance with her.

“I’ll be there waiting for you to join me,” I inform her with a cool nod toward the pie shop.

If she had any reluctance before, it’s out the door now, giving way to irritation. She puts her hands on her narrow hips and cocks a black, high-arched brow.

“Then you’ll be waiting a long time,” she says flatly.

I shrug. “Maybe. But some things—some people—are worth the wait.”

And with that, I spin on my heels and start off in the direction I’ve just indicated.

“I’m serious, Mason,” she calls after me. “Not. Coming.”

I don’t even look back at her as I raise a hand and wave.

We’ll see about that.

…

Everyone who’s lived in Minnesota for any length of time has heard of the town of Mayhem. With its Dickensian streetlamps, quaint storefronts, and bustling Main Street, it’s a favorite among locals and tourists alike. But there’s more to this tiny hamlet than its mom-and-pop, small-town charm. People come from all over to visit the Knitty Kitty—a business launched by longtime Mayhem resident, Julie Freddino. She started off knitting sweaters for her own cats, but when her friends and neighbors caught sight of them, she suddenly had a waitlist. After that, it went regional. And now, with the help of some celebrity cat endorsements, Julie is a dot com millionaire and her business, set up in an old barn, employs dozens of people in the area. And, as a result, you can catch the most fashionable of felines lounging around town in store windows, on front porches, and out for walks with their proud humans—like the one I spot coming toward me right now.

I’m standing outside the space that serves as the Knitty Kitty showroom when she scurries down the sidewalk—holding a leash with a fluffy, pale gray cat attached to it. He’s big. Really big. Like, Godzilla-crushing-Tokyo big—his ample belly swaying from side to side with every step. Adding to his odd appearance is his smooshed-in face, frozen into an expression of perpetual disdain. The older woman catches me gawking.

“Good afternoon, young man,” she greets me as she approaches.

“Good afternoon. That’s some cat you’ve got there.”

“Oh, well thank you! His name is Winston Churchill.”

Of course it is.

“Do you…walk…him every day?” I ask.

“Well, I do try. But Winston Churchill is quite the lazybones, don’t ya know! Dr. Mitchell, the veterinarian, says he’s too fluffy.”

“Too…fluffy? Is that a thing?” I marvel, taking another look at the feline, who returns my stare with disinterest.

The woman leans over so she can whisper in my ear. “We don’t like to use that other F word. You know, F-A-T.”

Hah! I have to fake-cough to keep from snorting.

“Fluffy. Right. Well, glad to see you’re getting some exercise and fresh air, Mr. Churchill.”

“Oh, he’s been doing very well, indeed! We’re here to order his brand-new fall sweater in fact,” the woman explains. “Goodness, where are my manners? I’ve introduced the cat but not myself. I’m Lucy van der Hoovenwald. I own the Pink Lady Slipper Inn at the end of the street. Everyone calls me Miss Lucy.”

I proffer an impromptu little bow. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Lucy. I’m Mason. Mason Stevens.”

She smiles up at me, pink frosted lips and eye shadow glittering in the afternoon sun. “Lovely to meet you, Mason. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Winston here has finally settled on a navy cowl neck with some very stately gold buttons.”

“Ah, well, that certainly sounds befitting someone of Mr. Churchill’s stature,” I murmur as I pull the door open for her and the cat.

She’s thanking me as she steps through the entrance but pauses, mid-stride. I glance past her, inside the shop, curious to know what it is that has brought Miss Lucy and the venerable Winston Churchill to such an abrupt halt. I can hardly believe my eyes when I do. There, inside, already lounging atop the counter, is a substantial red tabby. And I’ll be damned if he isn’t wearing a navy cowl neck sweater with stately gold buttons.

Holy hairballs.

Miss Lucy gasps from the doorway.

“Well I never!” she huffs indignantly. “Prince Harry! You know Winston Churchill’s been wanting that sweater!”

A gorgeously sleek and slender Siamese cat with clear blue eyes springs up from the floor to join Prince Harry, purring as she rubs her head against his sweater. Clearly, she likes the way it looks on her man…wait. Wait, wait, wait…that couldn’t possibly be—

“I knew it!” Miss Lucy spits, stomping her foot hard enough to make the pudgy prime minister startle and meow. “Meghan Markle! I just knew you were going to be trouble the moment you came to town!”

I’m tempted to point out that Meghan Markle is now the Duchess of Sussex, but something tells me this is not the time.

A younger woman with purple hair comes rushing up to the front line, waving her black-nailed hands.

“Miss Lucy! I wasn’t expecting you today…”

“I can see that! Julie, I simply cannot believe that you would allow Prince Harry to steal Mr. Churchill’s sweater right out from under him!”

The idea of anyone being able to pry anything out from under the prime minister’s plump posterior is laughable…and I have to chew the inside of my lip so as not to do exactly that. Something tells me this would be a good time to extricate myself from the impending cat-astrophe, so I close the door quickly and firmly, insuring that none of the drama spills out onto the sidewalk. At least, not before I can get myself safely down the block. The yowling is a bit fainter by the time I slip under the green-and-white awning of the Little Slice of Heaven Pie Shop.

This is another reason that Mayhem, Minnesota is a top destination throughout the entire Midwest. Not just because it has fabulous pie—which it does, but because of its proprietress. Part pastry chef, part mystic, part therapist, Janet Lahti has been dishing up heaping helpings of wisdom, predictions, and messages from the Great Beyond right alongside her apple, peach, and pecan pie. As a scientist, I’ve never really bought into the whole psychic thing—not from a professional standpoint, anyway. From the perspective of entertainment value, well, that’s a whole other thing.

I’ve barely stepped through the doorway when she comes running out of the kitchen toward me, reddish brown hair flying and long, print skirts billowing around her. She looks like something out of a movie. Or a music video. Or a carnival sideshow. All that’s missing there is a crystal ball.

“Is it Jason…or Mason?” she demands.

“I…uh… Sorry, what?”

“Jason or Mason? They sound alike so I wasn’t sure.”

“Uhhh…Mason?”

She nods, as if that’s what she suspected all along. “Well, Mason, come right over here. I’ve got your table ready. The one in the window.”

“You do?”

“Of course. I’ve been expecting you.”

“You have?”

She nods solemnly, waving me toward an empty table. Right in the window. Right where Walker O’Halloran can see me, should she glance out the front window of the pub. Which is what this entire plan is hinging on.

“Yes, of course,” she assures me as I slip into a chair. “Oh, here, Joanie,” the woman calls out to a blue-haired server in a pink, old-timey diner uniform.

Joanie has a cup of coffee in her hand and sets it down right in front of me.

“Light with three sugars,” Janet instructs the woman, much to my surprise. “That’s right, isn’t it?” she confirms.

I nod, stupefied.

“Great, thanks, Joanie,” Janet says, taking a seat across from me. The one that, I hope, will be occupied by a certain statuesque brunette bartender shortly.

“How did you—?” I want to ask how she knew to have a spot ready for me, but she continues as if I haven’t spoken.

“I’m glad you got out of the way before things got ugly over there at the Knitty Kitty.”

I stare at her. “You…you saw that? Like in a psychic flash or something?”

She snorts. “What? No! Julie called and asked me to send Miss Lucy a banana cream pie by way of an apology. She mentioned that you’d been in front of the showroom when Lucy and Winston Churchill came in.”

“Yeah. Well, it’s not every day that you see a woman walking down Main Street with a huge cat on a leash.”

She waves a hand at me. “Please, that’s one of the most mundane things you’ll come across here in Mayhem. Still, Miss Lucy should know better. That cowl neck is only going to accentuate Winston Churchill’s jowls. She should’ve just let Prince Harry have it. Now it’s going to be a ‘thing’ and the rest of us are going to have to suffer through all the…well…the catfighting.”

We both chuckle at her choice of words.

“So, if you don’t mind, I’m just going to sit here with the coffee for a little while. I’m hoping to have some company…”

“Yes, yes, I know.”

She does?

“You do?”

Janet Lahti, mystic maven of pies, nods solemnly. “Of course. I’ve seen this coming for some time now.”

“Oh, come on! I’ve never even been in Mayhem until the other night…” It occurs to me that we may very well be talking about two different things. “Hang on, what, exactly, have you seen coming for ‘some time’ now?”

A knowing smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “Why, you and Walker, of course.”

Yeah. We’re on the same page. Definitely the same page.

Still, I try not to gawk at the odd woman’s insight. “I don’t suppose you can give me any hints on how to get her to go out with me?” I venture.

She looks around, as if to be certain that no one can overhear us. “You’re not quite right, are you?” she asks in a hushed tone.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not all there.”

“Hey, now hang on a second—”

“No, I don’t mean it like that,” she says, frowning as she shakes her head and waves a dismissive hand at me. “I mean—I keep seeing a pie with a missing piece. It’s a nice enough pie, sure. But there’s a crucial element in that slice that’s gone. Something that changes the flavor of the whole thing.”

“I’m sorry…I have no idea what you’re trying to say.” I’m starting to feel uneasy with this conversation—whatever it is she’s getting at.

Janet sighs and levels a calm, uncomfortably knowing gaze on me. “What I’m saying, Mason-not-Jason, is that I can tell you’re a really good guy—and that you could be very good for our Walker. But it’s also quite clear to me that you’re holding something back. There’s something you’re not telling her. And that, young man, has disaster written all over it. My advice to you is to tell her whatever it is, before someone else tells her first.”

With that proclamation, the odd woman gets up and leaves with a flourish of skirts and hair and scarves.

Holy crap. She knows. I think. Maybe. At least, that’s what I got out of that cryptic pie metaphor. I’m about to get up and chase after her when the bell over the door jingles and I’m looking at Walker O’Halloran.