ROMAN HOPED HIS stroll down to Monarch Lane, the main thoroughfare of Butterfly Harbor, would clear his mind of the image of Frankie Bettencourt slogging away on that elliptical machine of hers.
Walking out of the station, he realized it had been a long while since a woman had captured his attention so completely. Every time he turned around he seemed to discover something new about her. For instance, the drum and bass music vibrating through the firehouse so loud that he thought he could hear the walls whine.
Protests and demands had hovered on his tightly pressed lips but were kept quiet by the reminder that he’d thrown what had to be some high expectations for herself into the unknown. He knew what it was like to be blindsided; he didn’t like it and it was clear his captain didn’t like it, either. Far be it from him to rob her of her catharsis.
The notion she might be trying to irritate him on purpose was proven when, only seconds after he closed the door behind him, the classic rock gave way to one of his favorite sonatas. He’d stood there, looking at the run-down station house, taking in the music. Even the weathered wooden sign seemed to sag with exhaustion.
The SUV parked out front hadn’t been there last night, which told Roman this was the famous Dwayne, the vehicle Frankie had arrived in. Bright red, with Emergency Services painted in neon-yellow letters and LED lights poised on top of the roof, the SUV gained his immediate approval, even if he wasn’t convinced it should be used as a private vehicle. Clearly Frankie was used to doing things her way, but it was going to be up to Roman to decide if that was the right way or not. She knew this town; he didn’t. But what he did know was how to run a firehouse; he’d learned from the best. But...
That had been with a full department. Plus, the job wasn’t officially his until Monday. Before then, he’d make notes about what he’d need to explore in depth and what he’d need to pass on. Like the exercise room. She already had him on board with that facility and plan. She was smart, determined and dedicated to this town. He needed her if he was going to succeed. And he needed to succeed here if he ever had a shot at that federal inspector’s job.
A charming, decrepit saltbox home stood just across the dead-end road, with the windows boarded shut and the front yard overgrown to the point of being a fire hazard. Chances were the coming winter season might take some of the edge off, but it made Roman wonder how many other properties in the area—either abandoned or occupied—had similar issues. Not that a coastal town like this was a tinder box, certainly not like areas farther north had been recently, but it couldn’t hurt to be safe.
Head ducked, he pulled out his phone and tapped open his notes app, making notations about weed control as he headed down the hill into town. He’d lost track of how many times—yesterday included—he’d been advised on local customs and traditions. Maybe this would be one of those circumstances he could do a bit of exploring while earning some goodwill among the town folk.
When he looked up after slipping his phone back in his pocket, he skidded to a stop. The early-morning haze was just beginning to lift. The sun was barely poking its nose through the clouds, but there, at the bottom of the hill, beyond the curving waist-high stone wall, sat the ocean. Seagulls soared high above and low enough to skim the lapping water’s edge. As he breathed in, he could smell the faint hint of salt and promise. It was, he realized, an unexpected sight and worthy of attention and appreciation.
Attention that was interrupted by the growling of his stomach. Oh, yeah. Those protein bars had long worn off, and as tempting as the lemon ricotta pancakes sounded (his mother would approve), he had yet to find anything better on the planet than a down-to-earth, diner-style morning feast.
“Face it,” Roman told himself as he walked along Monarch Lane and enjoyed the fall decorating around shop windows and various buildings. “Frankie had you convinced at bacon.”
He’d missed the details yesterday, distracted by the idea of checking in at the firehouse and finding a place to stay. The collection of quirky stores and, even at this early hour, the wanderings of residents, were intriguing and appealing. He glanced to the left, catching sight of a group of older men standing in front of the hardware store. Across the street from that was a bookstore, the Cat’s Eye, with a hand-carved sign shimmering in the morning sun. He spotted an old-fashioned ice-cream parlor, a candle shop, a gift shop and...was that a comic book shop? Now that he put on his list for later today. If he could catch up on the three different series he’d lost track of, he’d be a happy man.
He passed a small bank, a shop offering glass suncatchers and other pretty little gifts, and a teeny, tiny hole in the wall, which sold the most exquisite hand-carved animals he’d seen in a long time. Not that he had a lot of giftbuying to manage, but this year could very well be the easiest holiday shopping season he ever had. There were quite a few souvenir shops offering everything from cold drinks and T-shirts to postcards (did people still send those?) and butterfly-shaped sunglasses for both adults and children. Pumpkins seemed to be multiplying by the second, stacked in front of doorways and in window displays, accented with lush orange, yellow and fire-red leaf-tipped branches.
The crisp November air raced over him, driving him through the jingling glass door into the Butterfly Diner. Retro for sure, but rather than red vinyl booths, they were in a rich orange hue complimented by the black trim on the wall. Formica tabletops and counters gleamed. Round orange upholstered stools whirled, and the aromas of coffee and frying bacon reached up and greeted him.
“Hello. Welcome to the Butterfly Diner.” A lovely woman with light brown hair and a friendly gleam in her big eyes approached. “And to Butterfly Harbor.”
“Is it that obvious?” He returned her smile and marveled at the crowd. It wasn’t even 8:00 a.m., and every table, every seat at the counter were occupied.
“Not necessarily. I know just about everyone in town, and you’re a new face. I’m Holly Saxon. This is my place.”
“Holly! We need extra napkins, please!” The frantic female voice exploded from the back of the diner.
“Twyla? Can you—”
“On it.” Out of nowhere, a young woman who moved as if she was wearing skates scooped up a pile of napkins and headed over.
“Always this busy?” Roman asked.
“Thankfully, yes. We have our slow times. But breakfast is a must at least one time while you’re here. Are you okay with the counter or would you rather wait for a table?” Holly motioned to one of the stools that had just been vacated by a bespectacled man in a brown plaid shirt and jeans.
“Counter’s perfect.”
“Great. Take a seat. Here’s a menu. Any questions? Give a holler. You a coffee guy?”
“Explicitly.” He found her friendliness charming and just a bit unsettling.
“Okay then. It’s on the way. You good to go, Kurt?”
“Excellent start to my day, as always.” The middle-aged man gave her a thumbs-up. “See you tomorrow, Holly.” He’d nearly reached the door when he was waved over to the far corner booth, packed to almost bursting with six, no, seven elderly folks.
Roman settled into the vacated seat and found himself sighing at the aroma of the coffee being poured into his mug. “Smells like great coffee.” He lifted the cup to his nose, inhaled deeply and sipped. “Now that alone was worth the walk,” he told Holly before she moved away to take care of her other customers.
The men on either side of him offered polite smiles as Roman silently drank his coffee and skimmed the extensive menu. Not just breakfast, but lunch and dinner, too, all at incredibly reasonable if not obscenely cheap prices. When he saw the diner also provided a delivery service for a small fee, he couldn’t have been happier. Of course, he’d have to taste-test first, not that he held any doubt. Diners, in his opinion, tended to have the best food around.
The hair on the back of his arms prickled and Roman glanced up, scanning the counter’s occupants until his gaze landed on a small boy sitting on the stool farthest away from him. He was wearing a neat white button-down shirt with a collar so sharp it could draw blood. The thin burgundy tie was about as crooked as one could get, his too-big sweater sagging off one shoulder, but it was the boy’s laser-beam gaze behind round glasses that caught his attention. Eyes he’d already seen in the face of the owner who had welcomed him just moments before.
“Simon, finish your breakfast, please.” Holly swept back behind the counter, dropped the coffeepot onto its burner and grabbed a damp cloth. “Don’t pay any attention to him,” she told Roman. “He’s not at his best in the mornings.”
“I can understand that.” If the boy felt guilty or uncomfortable for staring, he didn’t show it. If anything, he straightened on his stool and returned Roman’s curious gaze with a penetrating one of his own—as if he was trying to puzzle Roman out.
“So what can I get you?”
“Your bacon and eggs came highly recommended. I’ll take that, eggs scrambled, bacon crispy. And a couple of your pumpkin scones to go.”
“Great.” She didn’t bother writing anything down, just nodded. “I’ve got a fresh batch in the oven now, so as soon as they’re out, I’ll have Ursula package up two for you.” She retreated long enough to repeat his order to the cook. “So, where are you from...” She trailed off, and it was then Roman noticed the diner had dropped significantly in volume. Chatter had faded, and he had the distinct feeling people were waiting for his response.
“Ah, born and raised in Boston, but most recently Florida. And it’s—”
“Roman!” Bud Granger’s booming voice drowned out the tinkling of the howdy bell over the front door. “I just stopped by the station house to see if you wanted to grab breakfast, but Frankie said you were already gone. Morning, Holly.”
“Morning, Chief.” Holly’s gaze sharpened on Roman and, if he wasn’t mistaken, a bit of the friendliness faded. “And good morning, Chief.”
“I knew it.” Simon’s muttered declaration echoed through the diner.
Roman lifted his mug as if making a toast. “Nice to meet all of you. Roman Salazar.” Suddenly he felt like the new kid in an ultraexclusive school.
The collection of seniors in the corner booth, and, well, okay, it seemed everyone in the place, stared at him as if he’d just crawled out of a swamp. He swallowed more coffee, purposely kept his expression neutral. “Am I going to need a taste tester for my breakfast?”
“No.” But Holly’s denial didn’t exactly sound sincere. “Frankie’s got a lot of friends in this town. We don’t like to see her hurt or disappointed.”
Neither, Roman thought, did he. “Fair enough. I would imagine you don’t.” Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Roman spun on the stool and faced a stern-looking elderly woman with a bun so white and so high it reminded him of the Matterhorn. “Yes, ma’am?”
“I’m Celeste Hastings.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He held out his hand and tried not to smile at the reluctant appreciation on her face when she accepted. “Roman Salazar.”
“So I heard. I’ve known Frankie Bettencourt since before she could walk. She’s a good girl. A bit rambunctious and headstrong, but she’s a good girl. She deserved that promotion.”
“So I’ve heard.” And so he’d probably be hearing for the foreseeable future.
“Now, Mrs. Hastings—” Bud stepped forward then took one step back when Mrs. Hastings swung on him.
“Don’t you now me, Bud Granger. I might not be school principal any longer, and I might not be able to give you detention, but I can still put you in your place.”
Bud held up his hands in surrender and offered Roman a quick glace of sympathy. Roman had a decision to make. He could surrender, too, or he could make inroads from the start. “Mrs. Hastings, I completely understand your feelings and everyone else’s, as well. I can only imagine how upset you all must be that Frankie wasn’t given the job you clearly expected her to get. The job she obviously deserved.”
“He’s not wrong there,” a male voice muttered from the seniors’ table. The sentiment kicked a good-size hole in Roman’s ego.
“I can only promise to do the best I can as chief. With Frankie’s help.” Roman met Mrs. Hastings’s sparkling eyes. “And I hope you’ll all give me a chance to prove my being here isn’t a mistake.”
“Didn’t say we weren’t going to give you a chance.” Mrs. Hastings tapped her cane twice on the linoleum floor. “I just wanted to say my piece and let you know a lot of us aren’t happy about the entire situation. Frankie shouldn’t have been treated this way.”
“No,” Roman said. “She shouldn’t have.” He surprised himself when he realized he meant those words. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m here and I plan to do the job I’ve been hired for. I’m well aware I’ll need to earn your respect. And your trust.”
“You can do that by promising you won’t push Frankie out any farther.”
“Is that what you all think?” Roman couldn’t have hidden his surprise if he’d tried. “That I want to get Frankie fired?”
“Don’t you?” Mrs. Hastings challenged.
“You’re one of Gil’s lackeys, ain’t ya?” A rotund silver-haired man in overalls and a worn San Francisco Giants cap pointed a fork at him. “Just here to do the mayor’s bidding? He’s never liked Frankie. Not since she caught him under the bleachers with Penelope Carter before the spring fling. You ask me, he earned that nickname fair and square. Doesn’t matter who gave it to him.”
Was that what was behind Gil’s overlooking Frankie for the job? Had they dated at one time? Was there still something between them? Roman glanced at Bud, who, much to Roman’s frustration, merely shrugged. The retiring chief was obviously letting him endure this trial by fire on his own.
“Well?” Mrs. Hastings tapped her cane again. “What do you have to say about that?”
Roman glanced over at Holly, who looked to be the only one other than Bud willing to give him a chance. “I can only say one thing, Mrs. Hastings. I plan to do my job. Not the job Mayor Hamilton thinks I should do, but the job where I will put the needs of the community front and center. Always. But I am well aware my word doesn’t mean much at this point. Rest assured, it will. I promise you that.”
The sharp clang of a bell made everyone, Roman included, jump.
“Enough browbeating the boy.” A cackling, craggy voice echoed unseen from the kitchen. “How about we give him a chance? He’s already shown good sense choosing where to chow down.”
“On Frankie’s recommendation.” Roman had to wonder, however, if she’d anticipated the reception he’d receive once his identity was known. “The scones are for her.” He admitted to Holly and earned a thaw in her frosty gaze.
“See that?” The voice surged again. “Now back to eatin’, all of you. Boy’s got time to prove himself. I say we give him that time.”
Roman knew better than to turn his back on Mrs. Hastings. “Ma’am?”
“Hmm.” She narrowed her eyes, but there was an amused twitch to her lips. “You’ll do. For now. Come sit with me and we’ll chat some more. Holly?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hastings?”
“He’ll be joining me for breakfast. You, too, Bud.” She waved her cane at the current chief. “No need in me taking up a booth to myself, and besides, I like men with a healthy appetite. Come on.” She made her way back to the booth near the family in desperate need of napkins.
“You’d best go,” Holly said as she topped off his coffee and the restaurant returned to normal. “Ursula and Mrs. Hastings are pretty much the law of the land in this town. You earn her trust, you’ll be okay. But Chief Salazar?”
“Roman, please.”
“Fine. Roman. Just so you know, earning Frankie’s trust will go a lot further.”
“Understood.” Roman nodded. “Understood.”