“Then yes, that’s it.”
After setting our shovels down, we paused for a few photos with Jay, and then left him to his work. He began barking orders, and the team moved in a perfectly synchronized dance, breaking apart to attend to their various tasks. Soon, the job site was a flurry of activity, the rumble of Diesel engines and shouted directions filling the fall air.
“Well, that was fun,” I said to Delia, wiping my palms on my jeans. “I’m going to head back into the city. Worry about my other businesses for a while.”
“Actually,” Delia said, halting me with a hand on my arm. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about first.”
“Okay…”
Delia laughed at my skeptical tone. “It’s nothing bad,” she said. “I promise. Just something I want to run by you about all this.” She gestured behind us at the backhoe now excavating a bucketful of dirt from the ground.
“Want to go grab a bite to eat and discuss it?” I blurted. My stomach let out a loud grumble, and I grimaced. “Clearly, I’m starving.”
“Growing boy and all,” Delia said knowingly, reaching out to pat my stomach with a familiarity that somehow didn’t bother me as much as it should have. “We can go to the diner. They have the best breakfast spread.”
“Perfect,” I agreed. “I’ll follow you down.”
The drive from the job site near the tip of the peninsula—not far from Delia’s parents’ house, she informed me—to Apple Blossom Bay took about ten minutes, mostly owing to the fact that the road was winding, the posted speed limit below fiftymiles an hour. It gave me time—too much, in fact—to consider what Delia might want to talk about, to worry if it would instigate another argument between us. But I had told her we make decisions together or not at all, and I meant it.
As I followed Delia onto Main Street and parked beside her. In front of us stood an old-timey box car with a sign out front indicating it was Sydney’s Diner. I took a moment to study my surroundings. I hadn’t spent much time in the area, mostly only passing through on my way up to the winery or that one day last week when I’d gone to Delia’s house. Unsurprisingly, it was the epitome of a picturesque coastal lake town. Striped awnings covered the entrances to businesses up and down both sides of the street, the brick facades painted bright, inviting colors. In the distance, down a gently sloping hill, lay the marina and the bay beyond, the water sparkling in the early morning sunlight.
Things here were quiet—slower. The slice of life I’d been chasing when I left Detroit with my tail between my legs after announcing my retirement. Living in Traverse City made sense because of its proximity to the businesses, and the Torch Lake house was my escape when I needed it but…I could see the allure of settling in a place like this.
When we walked inside the diner, greetings rang out in Delia’s direction, and she returned each welcome in kind, knowing the name of every person seated at every table. I had to remind myself that the Delatous were basically the first family of this place. I wasn’t overly familiar with their history, but I knew that Delia’s great-grandfather settled here in the early 1900s.
This woman—she was beloved by everyone here. It reminded me of home, of Dusk Valley and the community exactly like thisone that I’d left behind all those years ago.
“Well well well,” a woman said as she pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen, eyes landing on Delia. “Two days in a row? To what do I owe the honor?”
“It’s not you,” Delia said flippantly, sliding onto one of the chrome and leather stools bolted to the floor at the long Formica counter. “It’s the pancakes.”
“Pumpkin spice makes gluttons of us all,” the woman agreed, then turned her attention to me. “I know you.”
She didn’t, not in any way that counted, but I nodded. “Owen Lawless,” I said, extending a hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Sidney,” she said. “Before you ask, notthatSydney.ThatSydney was my grandmother. My name is spelled S-i-d-n-e-y.”
“Noted,” I said with a smile, dropping onto the seat next to Delia. “Now what’s this I hear about pumpkin spice pancakes?”
Delia turned to me, animatedly explaining the seasonal offerings, and how she recommended pretty much everything on the menu. Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have come within ten feet of anything so fatty or sugary, but after years and years of a highly regimented diet, I now ate what I wanted, when I wanted. It took some getting used to, the knowledge that I didn’t have to watch my weight anymore. I still worked out regularly and ate fairly healthy, but I didn’t beat myself up when cravings got the better of me.
And the scents of cinnamon and sugar and butter twining in the air were making my mouth water.
After we placed our orders, Delia folded her hands together atop the counter, her entire countenance shifting from playful to serious in a second.
“Am I…in trouble?”
Her brow furrowed. “No? Why would you be?”
“You just look…” I waved at her face and posture in explanation.
“I’m in business mode now.”
I snorted. “Okay then,” I said, crooking my fingers for her to continue.
“Before I go ahead and make our social profiles and start posting stuff, I wanted to talk to you about the distillery name.”
“What’s wrong with the name?” I asked. “It’s literally mine.”
