It was a toss-up between a brewery and a bakery. Since I don’t drink and Austin accidentally came up with those ridiculous and delicious cakes, we ran with it—just like James runs out the door. Not to get home to his wife, but to keep up with his glutes.
I check the time and have to leave, otherwise I’ll be late for a meeting.
4
PATTON
Ten minutes later,I’m standing inside the bay of the old firehouse with the contractor, a building inspector, and a couple of our town’s more eccentric characters who seem to be everywhere all the time and have opinions no one asked for.
Dressed in full 1850s prospector gear, Silver Sam Howell holds the halter of his burro, Buttercup. “This establishment maintains the spirits of those who came before,” he announces. “The good captain walks these halls still.”
“It’s not haunted,” I say flatly.
“The spirits don’t require your belief, young man.”
Lucky Donahoo—former card dealer, current gas station owner who hopes to be the one who provides the next lotto winner with their ticket, and perpetual pain in my neck—adjusts his dealer’s visor. “You should name a Crush Cake after me. The Lucky Strike. Has a nice ring to it, eh?”
“Probably not,” I mutter.
“Your loss.”
The building inspector points at the cement floor in the main bay while the dog sniffs every corner as if he’snever been here before. “You have cracks here. And that beam needs reinforcement before you can open.”
More delays. More costs. More permits.
“How long is all of this going to take?” I ask vaguely, fully expecting that the contractor won’t have an answer on the spot.
The inspector pipes up. “Depends on Parks & Rec approval. They control the timeline for anything touching parkland.”
Not what I want to hear. This means I need the help of none other than my Tacos & Trivia night partner.
With a sarcastic bite, I murmur, “Cue the thrills.”
Sam leans in conspiratorially. “Perhaps an offering to the spirits would expedite matters.”
I’m quite sure he’s had a few too many “spirits” of the liquid variety.
Lucky says, “Or you could just be nicer to that sweet Parks & Rec gal. I saw what happened at trivia. You were pretty rough on her.”
“I wasn’t rough. I was honest.”
“And equally at fault.”
I take no blame. Have no shame. “I was merely involving a friend in the game since, uh, he wasn’t there with us.” And I didn’t want to be on a team with Vincenza.
“About as likely as the ghosts Sam is talking about being real.” Lucky’s chin dips with a nod and I can’t be sure whose side he’s on.
I leave before I say something I’ll regret. Oreo waits by the truck, and we drive back to the municipal complex as the sun disappears behind the mountains. Amid the dead winter grass and the bare trees, the glass walls of the Parks & Rec office glow from within like a beacon.
Time to finalize this pointless permitting process. I grab the rejected documents and head inside.
With any luck, Vincenza is gone. Maybe I can just leave them on her desk with a note.
But she’s here.
Through the glass wall, she sits at her desk, head down, blonde hair falling forward. She’s not moving. For a second, I think she fell asleep, but then she sits up, rubbing her eyes.
She looks exhausted. Not her usual bright, annoyingly cheerful self. Just … tired.
