She chuckled again. “That’s what I always thought. Lofty ideals. Oh, there’s the yoga studio. That’s new. Leslie’s aunt—her name is Cherry, and she happens to be a big fan of Sargent Blue; the lady’s got good taste—anyway, she owns that. See, up there on the second floor? I bet those big windows give them a great view of Lake Michigan while they’re doing warrior pose and all that.
“And if you follow Pamela Ave out that way,” she said, pointing west, “and turn north onto Elizabeth Street—and it’s really just a street, not an avenue—you get to what they call B&B Row, where most of the tourists stay. That’s where all the painted ladies are, lined up like they’re parading down the street wearing their fancy hats and so on. The old Victorian homes just dripping with curlicue trim and garrets jutting out from the rooftops. Some of them even have little porches and balconies up there on the second and third floors—I forget what they’re called—but anyway, they call those old houses painted ladies because of all the bright colors they sport.”
“I know what a painted lady is,” Oscar said dryly. “I’m from Princeton, remember? Cape May is nearly in my backyard.”
“Oh, right,” she said, and just barely stopped herself from casually slipping her arm through his to walk along the sidewalk. Maybe after dinner…and a drink or two to loosen them both up. “And look at all the flowers—on every single doorstep and corner. They’re so beautiful—just spilling out of these pots, and so colorful. Ooh, I love this combination of silver, green, and purple.” She halted in front of the trough of mixed plants near the door of a restaurant. “Oh, this is Trib’s. I’m already in love with it, just from the flowers!”
“Looks pretty crowded,” Oscar muttered.
“That’s why I wanted to come early,” she said, breezing into the restaurant. “Hmm. I guess he likes Andy Warhol—he must have a print of everything the guy ever did hanging in here—and combined with an industrial look. But it really works. Hi, table for two, please,” she said to the man who greeted them at the check-in stand. On the wall above was a huge framed print of Warhol’sCampbell’s Soup Cans.
The host looked at her, a friendly smile on his face—then, in an instant, that smile bloomed into a grin and his eyes lit up. “You’re T.J. Mack,” he said. “Welcome—and thank you for gracing this humble establishment with your presence! I’m Trib.”
Teddy put his age around the half-century mark, but his was the face and toned body of a young, vibrant fifty. He had platinum-blond hair buzzed very close to his nicely shaped scalp—he wasn’t going for bald, but it was shorter than a brush cut. His goatee and mustache, neatly trimmed, were black threaded with iron gray, and his hazel eyes sparkled with pure pleasure. He wore a pink and white patterned shirt with a butter-yellow bowtie and a creamy linen jacket. The combination was fabulous.
“I certainly wouldn’t use the wordhumbleto describe this place,” she replied, shaking his offered hand. “It’s gorgeous and seems very comfortable. It’s a pleasure to meet you too. This is my friend, Dr. Oscar London.”
Oscar gave her a slight frown—because she used his title, she supposed—but it smoothed away when he shook Trib’s hand. “Nice to meet you. The place does look nice, and I hear you make the best pizza in the county. Is there any chance you have a table for two available now? Maybe somewhere not too—uh—loud?”
“A cozy table, and not outside,” Trib said with a glint in his eye. “For T.J. Mack and her guest, absolutely. I’m a big fan, you know,” he continued, leaning closer to Teddy but not bothering to drop his voice. “I have the mostdevastatingcrush on Sargent Blue. Put me out of my misery and tell me you based him on a real person, and that he’s single and you can introduce me to him.”
Teddy laughed as their host led them into the depths of the restaurant. “I wish I could—and you’re not the first person to ask. Unfortunately, Sargent is my own creation—let’s say fantasy, sort of—and he lives only in my mind and on the pages of my books.”
“I’m crushed,” said Trib as he pulled out a chair for her with a flourish. “But I’ll survive.”
Oscar, who’d started toward the same chair, pivoted and took the second one at the four-top Trib had chosen for them. Her housemate appeared mildly aggrieved at being cheated of the opportunity to pull out her chair. Or maybe he just wanted to sit facing the interior of the restaurant.
Trib insisted on comping them their first round of drinks, so once they’d decided on that—a Pinot Noir for Oscar, despite his mention of beer, and an Albariño for Teddy—he flitted off.
“See? It’s not too crowded back here, and it’s pretty quiet. Though it might have been nice to sit where we could see the street and—”
“And all the crowds walking by?” Oscar settled back in his seat and eyed her speculatively. “I thought most writers were introverts.”
“Oh, most of us are. I am.” When he gave her a quirked eyebrow that indicated his disbelief, she added, “I’ve just been saving up for the last five days—locked in my dungeon, working. Even introverts like to be around people—just not very often. And not usually in big groups.” She beamed at him. “And tonight’s a night for celebration, so I’m practically giddy.”
“Only practically?” he muttered, and she laughed. Their gazes met, and he joined her in the moment of humor, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he rumbled a laugh.
They were still chuckling when Trib himself delivered their drinks. “We’ve got another famous author in the house tonight,” he said, his eyes dancing. “Things are really hopping here in tiny Wicks Hollow, and especially at Trib’s.”
“You do? Who is it?” Teddy craned her neck to look around.
“Ethan Murphy—the one who wrote that bookThe Welcome Blue Light, about near-death experiences.”
“I know Ethan!” Teddy perked up even more. “He’s repped by the same literary agency I am. We’ve met several times. He’s here? I’d love for him to join us—Oscar, you don’t mind, do you?”
“No, of course not,” Oscar replied. But she could see he was unenthusiastic about the idea.
“Maybe just for a drink,” Teddy said, suddenly realizing that having more people at the table might derail her opportunity to get to know her nerdy housemate—and supremely excellent kisser—better.
“They’ve just been served their appetizers,” Trib said, looking across the restaurant. “But I’ll mention to Ethan you’re here and suggest he might come over to say hi later.”
“They?” Oscar asked, and Teddy smothered a laugh. He seemed to be even more cautious around new people than she was.
“Ethan and Diana, his main squeeze,” Trib replied. “They come up nearly every weekend, and spend most of July and August here in the summer. He’s got a spectacular log cabin on Wicks Lake. And she’s the one who inherited the old house that was haunted by her dead aunt,” he added, just before flitting off to speak to another customer. He tossed the last words over his shoulder: “Last summer.”
“Haunted by herdeadaunt?” Teddy said, looking after him with a curled lip. “Well, that’s kind of r—”
“I know. There seem to be a lot of ghost stories in this town,” Oscar said. “Probably helps to bring in the tourists.”
