“Afraid so,” he said, grinning. “Coffee’s become a treat.”
“I’m the opposite,” she said. “Coffee’s the fuel of life.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re running the shop.”
She smiled. “Tristan, it’s nice to see you back.” With that, she crossed the shop and disappeared behind the counter.
He watched her go, amused and slightly intrigued. She had an easy laugh, a confident way of moving, and a touch of chaos about her that he found oddly endearing.
He took another sip of coffee and leaned back, thinking about the conversation with his brothers the night before. Something about an upcoming harvest festival. His mother had wanted them to participate, perhaps set up a kissing booth. He’d laughed then, along with his brothers. But knowing their mother, she’d make it happen if she could.
An older man appeared with a broom, shuffling toward the tables.
“Howdy,” the man said. “Name’s Wilfred.”
“Morning,” Tristan replied.
“Lila tells me you’re a Jones. Descended from Ryder and Constance, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Thought so.” Wilfred nodded. “I’m sure she told you why we’re here. We’re covering for Tilly and Jack. If she didn’t, folks’ll tell you anyway. Everyone wants to know where those two ran off to.”
Tristan smiled into his cup. “I can imagine.”
“Yep,” Wilfred went on, sweeping steadily. “Everybody in this town fits somewhere, like gears in a clock. When a cog’s missing, the whole thing creaks. But it’s a good system. Comes in handy when someone goes missing. The whole town turns out to look for ‘em.”
Tristan thought about that. He’d lived in plenty of places since leaving home, but none had that kind of closeness. Clear Creek always had. “So, do you live around here?”
“Nope. Came to help out with the inn, and now this place.”
“Oh, right,” Tristan said. “My mother wrote that someone bought the Clear Creek Inn.”
“That’d be Talia and her husband Grayson King,” Wilfred said. “We refurbished it last year, then sold it to them. They’re off vacationing with Tilly and Jack right now.”
“That’s nice,” Tristan said. He ran a finger up and down his coffee cup.
Wilfred chuckled. “You looking for something to eat, son?”
Tristan glanced toward the bakery case. “Do they sell anything besides pastries?”
“Nope, just the baked goods, and the occasional ham and cheese croissant. But if you give my wife half a chance, she’ll start cooking meals back there.” He lowered his voice. “She loves to cook, but there’s no stove. Just them hot plates for keeping coffee warm.”
“Lila mentioned that.” Tristan tried not to laugh, pressing his lips together.
Wilfred finished sweeping, then straightened. “Well, if you need a refill, holler.”
“Will do.”
The older man disappeared toward the back. For someone who looked like he might creak when he moved, he was surprisingly quick on his feet.
Tristan leaned back again, the last of the coffee warm in his hand. He thought about staying for another cup, but the image of his mother waiting at home, arms crossed, questions loaded, made him grin. He’d stalled long enough. Time to face the music.
Or, in his mother’s case, the matchmaking.
Chapter Four
“Irene, coffee’s done,” Cyrus called from the storeroom.
