Denny froze, his mouth twisted in a snarl and his breath heaving. He resembled a charging bull brought up short by a fence. He stared Beckett down for a few seconds and then got back in line and placed his order without saying another word. But then he started talking again, keeping his gaze straight ahead while Mrs. Baker put his order together.
“I thought I recognized the woman you were talking to across the street. She sure filled out since last time I saw her in high school. She used to creep me out with those big eyes and the spooky way she used to know things. People say she’s cursed. I say she’s one of those phonies on TV looking for a quick buck.”
Beckett didn’t answer, but Denny sure had everyone’s attention. Anyone who cared to would know about Marnie’s abilities. It didn’t matter if what Denny said was false—he was giving them more gossip to chew on and embellish to their liking.
“She hasn’t been here but a couple of weeks,” Denny continued, his voice carrying through the quiet bakery. “I bet she’s already got her hooks in you. Word has it she came from nothing and she’s looking to move up in the world. Can’t say I blame her for setting her sights on a Hamilton. But I’d watch my wallet if I were you.”
A cold anger settled into Beckett’s bones. His hands fisted at his sides, but he kept his voice even.
“You’re going to want to stop talking now, Denny.”
But Denny was too stupid or too vindictive to heed the warning. “Just saying, a girl like that—with her background and her daddy being what he was—you never know what you’re getting into. Trash has a way of staying trash, no matter how pretty the package.”
Beckett moved before he could stop himself. His hand reached up and grabbed Denny by the collar, lifting him clear off the ground even though Denny had a couple of inches on him in height. The bakery went dead silent.
“You’re going to want to steer clear of me, Denny,” Beckett said, his voice low and dangerous. “And you’re especially going to want to steer clear of Marnie. I’m going to tell you this one time, and let that be your warning. I won’t fight you over Hazel. She’s not worth it. She wanted more than I was willing to give. That’s nobody’s fault but her own expectations.
“But Marnie is someone I will fight for. I’d better never hear another word about her come out of your mouth. I don’t want to hear that you started rumors about her father, about her, or anyone else. Because I promise you, Denny, if I do hear anything—and in this town I will hear—you’re going to regret it.”
Denny’s face was turning red, a combination of the grip on his collar and impotent rage. His hands were wrapped around Beckett’s wrist, trying to break free.
Mrs. Baker was quiet behind the counter, her eyes wide. Every other eye in the place was locked on them.
“Get out of my face,” Beckett said, and dropped him to the ground. “I’ve already wasted enough time on you today.”
Denny straightened his shirt and glared at Beckett as he headed for the door. “Better watch your back, Hamilton. This is far from over.”
He slammed the door behind him, the little bell ringing wildly, and the entire room seemed to collectively exhale.
Mrs. Baker cleared her throat. “Well,” she said into the silence. “I believe you were next in line, Beckett. What can I get you?”
He took a breath, forcing the tension out of his shoulders. “A dozen of those cinnamon rolls, Mrs. Baker. And whatever Marnie Whitlock’s favorite used to be, if you remember.”
The older woman’s face softened into a knowing smile. “Lemon bars,” she said. “That girl always did love my lemon bars. Used to come in here with Sloane O’Hara and they’d split one between them because she could never afford a whole one herself.” She shook her head, something sad passing through her eyes. “I always gave her extra when Sloane wasn’t looking. Didn’t seem right, a child going without.”
“Add a dozen of those too,” Beckett said.
“You going to tell her they’re from you?”
“No, ma’am. I figure I’ll let her think she’s got a secret admirer.”
Mrs. Baker chuckled as she boxed up his order. “Beckett Hamilton, your mama raised you right. Despite what Denny Trout and his trashy sister might say.”
He paid for his purchases and headed out the door, the bell chiming softly behind him. The afternoon sun had shifted, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. Across the street, he could see Hank through the window of Marnie’s shop, still working on that desk.
Beckett climbed into his truck and set the bakery boxes on the passenger seat. He’d figure out a way to get the lemon bars to her without her knowing. Maybe he’d enlist Mrs. Baker to make the delivery. Or one of the O’Haras.
His phone buzzed again—his mother, for the third time. He sighed and finally answered it.
“Beckett James Hamilton, I have been trying to reach you for an hour.”
“I know, Mama. I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy to answer your phone? I heard about that scene with Hazel in the middle of Main Street. The whole town is talking about it. And now I’m hearing you got into it with Denny Trout at the bakery not ten minutes ago?”
He winced. Small towns. “News travels fast.”
“It does when my son is making a spectacle of himself. What has gotten into you?”
