I spend all weekend trying to track down someone from the newspaper so I can get my retraction, but I fail utterly. I should know better—nobody mans the news desk at a small-town weekly on Saturday or Sunday. On Monday morning, however, my call to Editor-in-Chief Randall Bell nets me many obsequious and apologetic comments of the "goodness gracious…no idea" variety, plus a promise of a personal visit right away. I inform Randall I'll be at Deep Brew C awaiting my Very Special Apology and Retraction.
When I enter the restaurant, Beebs is behind the counter, Ornette in the kitchen. They call to one another, cracking jokes, and I get a feeling about those two that I've had before. Despite the fact that I want no part of this imaginary business the Bugle says I've started, I admit I do have a certain instinct about people, which I've acted on in the past. But not Beebs and Ornette. Not yet anyway. I don't know if they're dating, but if they aren't, they should be. I could help.
While Beebs warms up a blueberry muffin for me, I peruse a flyer taped to a pillar: Boat for Sale. My heart twists. It's Conn's boat in the photo—well the family boat, which he inherited along with the house when his parents decamped to hot, sunny Arizona for their retirement years. It's nothing fancy, just a clunky old thing good for carrying a pile of hyper kids and several gin-and-tonic-swilling adults up the coast and back again on a Sunday afternoon, but like Conn's house, it's familiar and constant.
And now he's selling it.
What if he's trying to sell off everything he owns to pay his bills? Even though I don't actually have proof that he's in financial trouble, it seems to make sense. Before I can decide what to do about it, there's a tap on my shoulder. I turn around with a beatific smile plastered on my face, the one I've been perfecting all weekend as I've put off strangers and random acquaintances yelping, "I need a friend!"
Nobody yelps this time though. Okay, I do. Because suddenly I'm nose to nose with my silent, moon-faced coworker Laura. Who has no concept of personal space.
"Ack! Laura!" I struggle to recover my cool as I stumble back a step. "I mean, good morning." As casually as possible, I collect my order from the counter. "What's going on? Does my dad need me?"
Her eyes widen behind her glasses, and she shakes her head. She follows me to my usual spot by the hearth, which is blessedly free of invading summer people this morning.
"Oh, are the Utkins arriving this morning? I thought they were coming in this afternoon. Can you let them into the house and show them how to work the water heater? I've got…a thing." I have no idea why I don't come right out and tell Laura I have an interview with a Bugle reporter. What's the big deal? They screwed up, and now they're going to make it right.
She shakes her head again and gnaws on the coils of a stenographer's notebook she has clutched in her hands, looking for all the world like a squirrel breaking into a walnut. No, wait—she did say something. I just couldn't hear her.
"Sorry, Laura—can you repeat that?"
Son of a gun. I could have sworn she said, "I'm here to interview you."
"You?" I gape. Terrible manners, my inner Emily Post scolds. "I'm sorry, you…really caught me off guard."
That's an understatement. I didn't even know Laura works for the Bugle. Okay, I don't know a whole lot about her in general, even though we've worked together for years, but that's beside the point right now. The only thing I can focus on at the moment is I'm sitting across from one of the most uncommunicative people I've ever known, and she's going to be the one responsible for the retraction and apology. I'd better take charge of the situation, or we're going to be here all day.
"Okay, Madame Reporter," I say with a wink, trying to get her to relax. "Let's talk about this retraction."
She blinks back at me and is silent for a few moments. Finally she manages to peep, "Retraction? I…I wasn't told anything about a retraction."
"I talked with Randall an hour ago. The article about me was completely false. I'm not starting a new business. You need to print a retraction and set everyone straight before all these people drive me crazy asking for help."
"I was told…" She clamps her rainbow-striped pencil between her teeth and starts flipping through the pages of her notebook. "…To interview you and get more details about how you're offering to be people's New Best Friend." She looks up at me and removes the tooth-marked pencil. "Randall says there's a feature story in this. Could be front page."
"Laura," I say patiently, "there isn't going to be a feature story. Because there is no New Best Friend business. Understand?"
"How much are you charging? Is it a flat fee or an hourly rate?"
Apparently she does not understand. She's sitting forward, her pencil poised over her notebook, and I resist the urge to yank both from her hands and fling them into the cold fireplace.
"Oh…I guess that's the wrong question to start with. Wait…"
She starts flipping pages again, locates her list of questions, and fires one at me, sounding almost authoritative. Whatever she asks doesn't sink in, however, because my attention is drawn to a familiar figure blocking the sunlight as the front door opens. Conn enters Deep Brew C, ushering in another man who's dressed in a well-tailored suit and carrying a briefcase. He's looking around at the coffeehouse in an assessing kind of way, and I'd bet my broker's license I know what he's here for. Those mannerisms scream "banker." And the suit? It screams "not from around here."
I catch snatches of what Conn is saying to him—things to do with "seating capacity" and "revenue"—as the banker nods, looking appreciative. While I'm trying to eavesdrop, my brain dimly acknowledges that Laura is repeating the question I didn't hear the first time (or this time, for that matter), following it up with, "Melanie? Melanie?"
Conn leads the important banker toward his office but is waylaid by local retiree and fishing aficionado Frank Comey. Never very good with timing, Frank marches right up to Conn and starts asking him about his boat. Conn claps him on the shoulder with a promise to discuss it with him later, and then he and the other man disappear into his office.
Once Conn and the banker are gone, Frank turns to some of his cronies at the bar, jerks his thumb toward the flyer, and declares quite clearly, "Had my eye on that baby for a while. Gonna get a good price for her."
Cheapskate, I think bitterly. Trust Frank to try to take advantage of Conn when the poor guy needs all the money he can get. What if Conn lets the boat go for the buck fifty Frank is sure to offer him? I can't let that happen. Hell, I'll buy the boat if I have to. I'll outbid him. I'll overpay—I don't care. Then I have an even better idea.
"Laura!" I exclaim, and she jumps. "Let's talk details about my very, very special service. You will have room for a list of fees, right?"
* * *
"Have you lost your mind?"
The best description I can come up with for Conn's expression is "incredulously perplexed." Or "perplexedly incredulous." I'm not sure which, and I'm not sure it matters. All I know is his facial muscles obviously don't know whether to frown or laugh, so they're doing both simultaneously, which makes me fear his face is going to seize up at any moment.
"Relax." I try to make my voice as soothing, and as confident, as possible. In all honesty I kind of wonder if I have lost my mind. This morning I sent Laura back to the Bugle offices to write her feature, her steno notebook bulging with juicy quotes and incredible detail about Your New Best Friend…all of which I made up on the spot. "I've got it all under control," I lie.
"I think it's a great plan, Melanie." Hannah, my most loyal supporter and true friend—take that, Connacht Garvey—blinks furiously at my side, her red-rimmed eyes brimming with tears.
"Thank you."
"It doesn't quite warrant tears of joy," Conn says, studying her with concern.
"Oh, I'm not crying. Not that your plan doesn't deserve happy tears," she rushes to assure me. "I'm just getting used to these."
She dabs at the corners of her eyes, which are now, as I'd always wished for her, turquoise. The contacts completely transform her face and look fabulous—or, rather, they will, once the inflammation dies down and she stops looking like a demon bunny—and I've told her so several times today so she'll keep them in and tough out the adjustment period.
"That right there," Conn snaps. "Your advice, I presume? And look at the poor girl. She can barely see."
"She'll get used to the contacts. Come on. Don't they look amazing?"
"Very zombie chic. No offense," he rushes to qualify, in case Hannah starts crying for real.
"And what does Hannah adjusting to her contacts have to do with it?"
"Everything." He plants his elbows on the bar, clasping his hands, and leans toward us. "Melanie Abbott, you know I love you, but I'm saying this for your own good: sometimes you give lousy advice."
I draw back, shocked. "I beg your pardon! I have impeccable taste and remarkable instincts."
Conn clamps his lips tight, likely to make sure nothing flies out that he'll regret later, then sighs in resignation. "Fine. Have it your way. You always do."
"Yes, I do. And with good reason." Maybe it's the second beer I've nearly finished, but I'm feeling pretty darn good about my plans. "It shouldn't bother you, anyway. All you have to do is make up a Reserved sign—which I've been expecting for years, by the way—and put it on my chair. Keep the food and drink orders filled for my many clients, and everybody wins. If it bugs you that much, I'll even give you a cut of my proceeds. Consider it chair rental."
I'm going to get money into Conn's pockets one way or another. The less he knows, the better, of course, because if he found out I was doing this for his benefit, he'd have my head. If he'd accept a cash gift to help him through whatever financial difficulty he's having, I wouldn't have to jump through these hoops. Damn his pride.
"What can I do?" Hannah pipes up. "I want to help."
"Honey, you can't even see," Conn says, not unkindly.
"I'll get used to them."
"No," I sigh. "I don't think you will. Go on. Take them out, Hannah."
"Oh thank God," she breathes, making a mad dash for the ladies' room.
Conn moves down the bar, serving the usual drafts to the usual local patrons, who now have to share their space with knots of vacationers sucking down mojitos. Conn hates to make those, but he doesn't bat an eyelash—just nods and smiles and reaches for some more mint fresh from the restaurant herb garden out back. I watch him work, the muscles of his forearm flexing as he conducts the dreaded muddling while he laughs with the regulars and makes small talk with the summer people.
He catches me staring and gives me one of his bright smiles. I knew he wouldn't stay mad at me for long. He never does. When he comes back over with a glass of seltzer with a lime wedge (he knows I always take a break after two beers), he says, "You realize I'm going to be keeping an eye on you while you conduct this ridiculous business of yours, right?"
"Wouldn't have it any other way." I take a sip of my drink. "Not that there's anything to protect me from, of course."
"You need protecting from yourself."
I just smirk. Whatever he needs to think.
With another resigned sigh, he says, "Potato skins?"
"You have to ask?"