Chapter Seven

Walker

As soon as I cross the threshold of the pie shop, everything seems to go quiet. Like in one of those old western movies, when the sheriff sidles into the saloon and makes eye contact with the gun-slinging outlaw parked at the bar, demanding his next shot of whiskey. The crowd parts, the barkeep disappears, and an uneasy silence settles over the entire room—which had been bustling with activity, raucous laughter, and an out-of-tune piano not a moment before.

My eyes lock on Mason’s. He smiles. I glare. The waitresses in their uniforms, circa 1954, steer clear as I walk slowly toward his table. When I arrive at my destination, I just stare down at him.

“Hi,” he says, with an obnoxiously friendly smile.

“I’m not doing this,” I reply flatly.

“Not doing what?”

“This,” I say, using my hand to gesture around the restaurant.

Mason’s eyes follow my motions before landing back on my gaze, this time with a hint of amusement. “I don’t know, seems to me you’re already doing…this.” He imitates me, incorporating a bit more dramatic flair in his hands.

Unbelievable.

“Look, Mason whatever-your-name-is—”

“Stevens,” he cuts in.

“Stevens,” I echo. “I told you. I’m not going to go out with you.”

“I haven’t asked you out. I asked you to have a cup of coffee and a piece of pie with me. As a thank-you for the ride home.”

I open my mouth to say something, but what? He’s right. He hasn’t asked me out. Not technically, anyway.

“Oh, Walker, there you are!” Janet calls out from across the room as she flies through the swinging double kitchen doors.

She’s got two slices of pie on a tray, which she delivers to our table—setting one down in front of Mason and the other in front of the empty seat across from him. “One coconut custard for the gentleman and, of course, your favorite, Walker—warm apple pie a la mode.” She watches me staring at it, and her eyes narrow in suspicion. “Something wrong? Doesn’t the pie look all right?”

I hear a subtle note of challenge in Janet’s tone. And God knows, she’s not someone you want to cross. Ever.

“Nope. Nope, nope, nope,” I offer quickly, sitting down and digging into the tip of my slice as if to prove a point. “Mmmmm!” I say while nodding enthusiastically.

The smile returns to Janet’s face.

“Excellent,” she murmurs, shuffling away to deliver someone else’s dessert destiny, and leaving me with a mouthful of pie and an eyeful of Prom-King-Quarterback-Class-President.

“So,” he begins.

“So,” I respond.

“Thanks for agreeing to see me again.”

“Like I had a choice?” I grumble. “That’s all I need—the entire town wondering who’s the guy waiting for me in the window of the pie shop.”

“Oh, please!” He’s rolling his eyes. “I’m not exactly wearing a sign that says I’m waiting for the hot bartender from O’Halloran’s Pub. You could have ignored me and I wouldn’t have come looking for you again. I wouldn’t have professed my love with a skywriter, or a thousand balloons, or a ten-pound Kit Kat.”

“Yeah, right.” I take another bite and chew quickly, hoping he’ll get the idea and take the frying-pan-to-the-head hint that I want out of here and fast. But he doesn’t.

“And thank you for seeing me home safely the other night,” he continues.

“I’m glad it helped.”

“It did. It was really a huge help. I’d probably still be walking if you hadn’t taken me.”

I shift a little uncomfortably in my chair, holding up my empty coffee cup and giving a little wave to Joanie. She’s there in a matter of seconds, hot pot in hand. When she’s done filling my mug, she leans over and tops off his as well.

“Mason, Janet asked me to tell you ‘ticktock,’” Joanie informs him.

He looks thoroughly confused.

“That’s it? Ticktock?” he asks.

She shrugs. “Dunno what it means, I’m just delivering the message.”

All three of us twist around toward the counter, where Janet is looking at my not-date and tapping her watch.

“What’s that all about?” I ask.

“I have no idea. She gave me some cryptic message about a missing piece of pie…”

Now, that’s interesting. I file away the clue in case I need it later.

“Well, don’t ignore it,” I warn, pointing my fork in his general direction. “Janet is always right.”

He leans forward across the table. “Is she really…you know…psychic?”

“It’s not so much that she can see the future…it’s more like what Joanie just said. Janet just delivers the message she gets from wherever. Or, sometimes, from whoever.”

He grimaces. “That’s kinda creepy.”

“I suppose we’re all just used to it. A lot of times she has no idea what any of it is about. She just feels compelled to bake her pies and pass along comments from the Great Beyond.”

“Have you ever gotten any messages?” he asks with a curious tilt of his very-chiseled jaw.

I shake my head and avert my eyes before any more rogue jaw thoughts sneak in, focusing instead on dumping sugar into my coffee and giving it a good stir. I suppose there’s nothing wrong with sharing a little harmless information with this guy. If I can hang in there for a little bit longer, I can cut him loose with a clean conscience. I’ll have done my penance for doing the good deed that I never should have done in the first place.

“Nah. My two older sisters have—Henny and Jameson. Even their husbands. Not me, though.”

“Well, maybe you’re doing everything right,” he suggests.

I snort. “No, more likely people are pissed off at me—even from beyond the grave.”

This statement makes him stop, mug paused midway on its journey to his mouth. “Now why would you say that?”

The question takes me aback. People don’t usually respond to comments like that. But lucky me. I’ve got the one who actually cares enough to follow up.

“Oh, uh, I don’t know…just a theory I have.”

“Are you talking about your dad?” he asks softly. “Your pops?”

“Dude, I am not talking about my pops with you,” I hiss, trying to convey my annoyance without attracting attention from Janet or anyone else around us.

He doesn’t look the least bit concerned by my menacing tone, and that makes me all the more agitated.

“Okay. No worries. I’m happy to focus on you. Because, you know, you’re really, really beautiful.” I stare at him. It’s like he’s speaking that African clicking language. I can hear the sounds coming from his mouth but I can’t quite make sense of the words. “And funny, too,” he continues, either oblivious or indifferent to my discomfort. “Oh, and interesting…”

When I hold up my palms in a “halt” gesture, I end up knocking my spoon to the floor with a loud clank.

“Please, stop. Just…stop.” My voice has turned from threatening to imploring. “I hate it when people do that.”

“What? Give you compliments?”

“Just stop. Being. Nice. To me.” I bite off the words one by one.

Mason looks confused. And then concerned. “Why? Are people not nice to you, Walker?”

I huff in frustration.

This, this right here is what I don’t want—what I don’t need. How did I let things get this far? And what is it with this guy? Why won’t he just leave me alone like all the rest of them? I can’t remember the last time anyone was quite this persistent. And now he’s concerned?

Oh, hell no. I’m not having it. I lean over to pick up the fallen spoon, setting it down on the table a little too hard. Then, I wipe my mouth with the napkin, take one last swig of coffee, and get to my feet.

“There ya go,” I say. “I’ve eaten the pie and drunk the coffee. You’ve said ‘thank you.’ And I’ve said ‘you’re welcome.’ It’s been really lovely but, if you’ll excuse me, we’ve got a quiz on tonight and I’m about to spend the next several hours of my life dealing with loud, obnoxious, know-it-alls. Lucky me.”

“Oh, come on now, Walker,” he starts to protest, standing. “You’ve been here all of ten minutes!”

“Hey, you didn’t specify any minimum amount of time. And now, Mr. Stevens, I expect you to hold up your end of the bargain and stop pestering me…”

“Walker, wait just a second.” Janet has snuck up behind me.

I pause my hasty retreat long enough to face her. “Yes, Janet?”

“Honey, I just had a call from Father Romance. He says they’re short a player for the pub quiz tonight.”

“Oh…yeah, well, that’s not usually my thing, finding subs,” I explain, a little irritated that my great escape has been thwarted.

“Oh, I know, dear. He was actually checking with me to see who might be around and available…”

Crap. No, no, no, no. Please tell me she didn’t—

“So, of course, I mentioned that Jason was here…”

“It’s Mason,” the Prom King corrects as he smiles with a disarming display of bright white teeth. “Maaaaaay-ssssson.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure Mason has other plans.” I’m speaking to Janet, but I’m glaring at him.

It’s my very best, most menacing, threatening, don’t-you-even-effing-think-about-it look. Which he is, apparently, totally immune to.

“Nope. I’m not doing a thing. I’d absolutely love to step in and help out,” he exclaims enthusiastically. “Where do I sign up?”

I glance at Janet, hoping she’ll take pity on me and predict our imminent demise via a tsunami in Lake Superior. No such luck.

“Now, off you go!” she says, shooing us. “Walker has work to do, and you’ve got to go get ready for your big trivia debut!”

Great. Just freakin’ perfect. Now the guy looks all awed and vulnerable. How am I supposed to kick him to the curb with that look on his face? It’d be like leaving a cat out in the cold without one of those sweaters from the Knitty Kitty.

“Oh, for crying out loud…” I shake my head, roll my eyes, and sigh in annoyance simultaneously. “Come if you’re coming,” I mumble as I brush past him on my way to the door.

…

“Son are you sure you’ve never been to a mass of mine? Or, perhaps, a catechism class when you were a boy?” Father Romance asks, dark, bushy brows pulled together as he puzzles over where he might have seen Mason before. “You just seem so familiar. And I’m not usually one to forget a face…”

They’ve been sitting like this, side by side on barstools for nearly an hour now, the priest listening intently to Mason’s plans to work as a mineralogist with one of the big mining companies here on the Iron Range. He shakes his head and holds up his palms toward the ceiling.

“Afraid not, Father. But I get that all the time. I think I just have one of those faces. Besides, I’m not Catholic, I’m Lutheran.”

“You’re sure I can’t convince you to change teams?” the priest asks.

“What, for the trivia challenge?”

“Oh no, I mean in church. I think you’d be a nice addition to our parish at the Basilica of St. Mary of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Mayhem.”

“Hah! Well, that’s very flattering, Father. Maybe Miss Walker over here will invite me to mass with her sometime.”

I spare a glower for them, even as I’m filling pint glasses for the growing crowd in the pub.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” I reply.

“Now, now, Walker,” the priest says, wagging a long finger in my direction, “we must be charitable and welcoming.”

“Uh-huh,” I say as I hold up the two glasses so Henny will see them and come pick them up.

“Thanks,” she says a few moments later as she breezes by to take them from me. “How you doing, Mason? Can I get you a bowl of chili or something from the kitchen? I’m guessing my sister hasn’t offered you anything since the pie this afternoon.”

“Not true,” I protest indignantly. “I offered him peanuts.”

“Oh, well, now aren’t you just a little Rachael Ray!”

Not two hours ago I was irritated that both of my other sisters, Jameson and Bailey, weren’t able to work tonight. But now that Mason McPrettyBoy is here, I’m relieved. I don’t think I could deal with snark from all three of them at the same time.

“I’m good,” he says happily.

“Son, you really should try the chili,” Father Romance chimes in. “In fact, Henny, love, would you mind bringing us two bowls of the stuff? With cheese and onions. Oh! And those little oyster crackers, too.”

“Happy to, Father Romance!” Henny says, sticking her tongue out at me as she leaves to drop off the drinks. “I’ll get that in just a minute.”

My sister is true to her word when a pair of steamy bowls appear a short time later, though she’s not the one who delivers them. In an unusual maneuver, Donovan himself has delivered the chili, presumably so he can give Mason the stink-eye. Again.

“Dominic, right?” Mason tries and fails.

“Donovan,” he corrects cheerlessly. “And you’re Mason.”

“I am,” he agrees, taking the hot bowl before Don can “accidentally” drop it in his lap, rendering him sterile for the rest of his days. “Sorry about that, Donovan.”

“You’re back.”

“I am. Is that…a problem?”

“Not for me.”

“Good. Hey, this chili looks amazing.”

No response, but still, he just stands there, arms crossed over his big, barrel-shaped, apron-clad chest, watching the poor guy as if he might try “something funny.”

At last, it’s Father Romance who intervenes. “Donovan, son, Mason here has agreed to fill in for Mary McPherson tonight.”

Our cook snorts. Loudly. The snort morphs into a chuckle which quickly spirals into a sidesplitting, bend-over-put-hands-on-knees kind of a laugh that has half the pub looking in our direction.

“What—what’s so funny?” Mason asks, unable to conceal the nervousness in his tone.

“Nothing, nothing at all, Mason,” Father Romance tries to reassure him.

“Hah!” Donovan snorts again, then looks over to me. “I guess you really don’t like this guy, huh, Walker? Jeez, it’d be less cruel to cover him with honey and stake him out on top of a hill of fire ants!”

“What’s he talking about?” Mason demands of anyone who’ll answer him. Turns out, that’s Hennessy.

“Don’s just trying to scare you, Mason. You’re going to fill in for someone on the seniors’ team. And they’re known to be a little…competitive.”

“Yeah, try cutthroat,” I pipe up with a tiny smirk, finding his discomfort a little bit entertaining. Just a little bit.

Mason must make a conscious decision to “man up” because he sits tall, straightens his shoulders and, very subtly, puffs out his chest.

“Whatever. I can hold my own. Ask me anything about mineral deposits, iron ore, or the history of mining in the United States,” he challenges. “Go ahead!”

We all gawk at him for a split second…and then we’re all roaring with laughter. Including the benevolent Father Romance.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mason,” he gasps when he stops cackling. “We don’t mean to be mocking you. But—just so you know—as the judge, I can tell you definitively that there will not be questions on any of those topics.”

To his credit, he doesn’t back down. “Hey, I’m a grad student. I’m sure I can answer most of the questions that come my way.”

I lean toward him across the bar top. “Suit yourself, Boulder Boy. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He smiles and also leans forward, so that we’re only inches apart and those crazy sky-blue, elfin-blue, sea-blue, color-of-earth-from-space blue eyes are crystal clear.

“Boulder Boy? Really? That’s the best you can do?” he murmurs.

“Oh no,” I assure him, “I can do much, much better.”

“Yeah? Well so can I. What say you and I lay a little wager? If my team wins the pub quiz, then you agree to go out with me on a real date.”

Crap. I walked right into that one. Still, all is not lost.

“Hardly a challenge if you’re on a good team,” I point out.

He seems to consider this.

“Hmmm…good point. Okay, how about this…if I get at least one of the answers right for our team and we end up winning tonight, then you agree to go out with me for reals.”

“You did not just say ‘for reals,’” I groan.

“Oh yeah. I went there. You in or you out?”

“And, if I agree, how do I know you’re not some serial killer?”

“Really?” His brows shoot up in amusement. “You think I’d be hanging around your family, your business, and all your neighbors, giving out my name and announcing my intentions to go out with you if I were a serial killer? I mean, not exactly ideal for someone who kills people…you know…serially.”

“Yeah, well, no one said you were a smart serial killer,” I mutter and he throws back his head with a rich, deep laugh that seems to expand and fill the very air around us. “Fine!” I say at last, needing for him to stop laughing, because the comfort I find in it is making me uncomfortable. “Fine, fine, fine. But if I win—no, when I win, you have to agree to leave me alone.”

He smiles again with that infuriatingly attractive blend of sweet and sexy and sincere. Jeez, this guy’s getting better looking by the second. I need to get him out of my life once and for all.

“Deal. And I tell you what, when I win, I’ll even let you pick the kind of date you’d like to have. Movies, dinner—whatever,” he offers, holding out his hand.

We shake. I smile. He’s a dead man walking and he doesn’t even know it.