Maybe that guy is having a bad day, and his aggression has nothing to do with me. Maybe he was glaring off in the distance, and it only felt like he was trying to detonate me into an explosion of blood and guts.
Yeah, maybe. But somehow, I don’t think so.
Asher and I finish our lunch and linger for another hour. After moving to sit at the serving counter for a round of pie, we face the fact that Miss Edna might not be coming this afternoon. The good news is, with the lunch crowd thinned out, there are only a couple of regulars nursing pie, and we get to talk with Tanner and Marty more.
As the eighth-generation Oakley to run the diner, Tanner embraced his birthright and took over Biscuits and Banter about ten years ago. Originally, he believed he was born for bigger things than a small-town diner and went to the city to study in some big culinary program.
“But the pull of Emberwood took hold, and I soon realized returning home to assume the family business was a better fit for me than joining the pressured rat race of anonymity in the city.”
“And a good thing he did, too.” Marty stands behind the counter, drying a rack of personalized mugs to stack them on trays ready for the next rush. “Otherwise, we might not have met.”
Tanner flashes him an adoring smile. “We would’ve found each other one way or another, I’m sure.”
Marty winks and then smiles at us. “I hauled freight for most of my adult life. Twenty-three years drivin’ the cross-country runtaught me the value of a decent cup of coffee and a meal that sticks to your ribs.”
Tanner laughs. “Biscuits and Banter was Marty’s favorite stop on his long-haul route.”
Marty finishes drying the mug in his hand and stacks it beside the others. “Not sure what hooked me quicker, Biscuit’s pulled-pork burger or the handsome blond servin’ it up. Either way, I fell fast and hard.”
“And you make one hell of a cute couple,” Asher adds. “Congrats, gentlemen. Score one for the boys’ team. You give me hope.”
Tanner arches a brow. “Son, I guarantee your Mr. Right is out there. I’ve known you for two hours and I’m ready to make our marriage an open relationship.”
Marty barks a laugh and reaches under the counter to pull out a worn, wooden bat. “I usually only pull Badass Betsy out to scare off rowdy drunks, squash the occasional rat, or bust the headlights of some idiot tryin’ to dine-and-dash, but mess with my man and I’ll bring her out for an introduction.”
Asher laughs and holds up his hands. “I have no desire to mess with Betsy. My search for the perfect man shall continue outside your marriage, I swear.”
Marty grins and sets the bat back in place. “Good to hear.”
Before I burst my buttons, I slide the last of my pie toward Asher. “All right. We’ve taken up enough of your time. Thank you for the great food and scintillating conversation. We’ll get out of your hair.”
Asher pulls over my plate and grabs his fork. “Where are we off to, Pops?”
“I’d like to go to the cemetery. The woman across the road said my parents were laid to rest in the Hallowind crypt. Is it close? Do you have Uber here?”
“It’s definitely walkable and on the way back toward Hallowind House.” Tanner grabs a paper placemat from behind the counter, flips it over, and Marty hands him a pen so he can draw. “Main Street runs this way, and you’ll want to stay on Main until you hit Willow Lane.”
The pen scratches across the placemat as he sketches out streets and landmarks. “Turn left on Willow, go past the old lumber mill, and you can’t miss the cemetery. All the Emberwood Elite have mausoleums in the old section, near the back by the creek.”
I fold the makeshift map carefully and tuck it into my pocket. “And is it open to the public? Are we allowed to walk around?”
“Of course. Just try to leave before dark. That area gets foggy when the night cools, and people driving might not see you walking home if you’re on the side of the road.”
There’s something in the subtext of what he’s saying that I’m not sure of. He’s definitely warning us to be cautious, but it doesn’t seem like fog is what he’s worried about.
“Thanks. We’ll be careful.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Emberwood is a private little town in the middle of nowhere with one stoplight and a guy named Darryl who pumps your gas at the fill-up station. The bank is an old brick house pretending to be a bank, and that theme continues to the law office and also the post office.
I wouldn’t exactly call it sleepy, because there are always people bustling about, but it’s definitely a closed community. And with us being strangers, the locals are keeping a very close eye on us.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say with as much calm as I can project. “They’re just curious.”
Asher snorts. “Or plotting our takedown. It feels like we’re about to be the starring characters in one of those horror films where the entire town turns out to be aliens living in the husks of people.”
I’d argue, but he’s not wrong.
