Elmer Finch, town treasurer, waves from his usual booth. His weathered face creases into a smile. “Heard you and that firefighter were getting cozy at the old station!”
I plop into a seat at the counter, trying to be invisible. “We were working on permits and other paperwork.”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Judy asks from a nearby table.
“Sure, sure.” Lucky, parked a few stools down, winks. “That’s what they all say. In my day, we called it courting.”
“We’re not courting!”
“The captain’s ghost thinks you are!” Silver Sam materializes beside me. “I consulted with him last night. He appeared in a shimmer of mist and smoke, and relayed that I should tell you to stop being so stubborn!”
I stare at him. “The ghost speaks in complete sentences?”
“He’s very articulate for a specter.”
Peggy appears with coffee I didn’t order. It must be obvious that I’m desperate for a jolt of caffeine. “Everyone in town sees the way you two look at each other, dear.” She gazes at the ceiling for a moment. “It’s like you’re trying to solve a puzzle and have the edges but can’t quite figure out the middle.”
“We’re not—it’s just—we’re planning an event together!”
“Mmmhmm.” She pats my hand. “Whatever you say.”
I’m saved by my phone buzzing. I huddle around it so no one sees that the text is from Patton.
18
WINNIE
Lucky peers over my shoulder.“Is that him? What’s he say?”
“Privacy!” I clutch the phone to my chest. “What happened to privacy in this town?”
“Died in 1952,” Silver Sam says solemnly. “Took the secret of Hathaway & Sons Precious Metals with it.”
Everyone watches me with knowing smiles.
“You’re all terrible,” I announce, but there’s no malice in it. Just an observation.
“Terrible at keeping secrets,” Lucky agrees cheerfully.
“But excellent at spotting romance!” Peggy supplies.
The text will have to wait until later, when I’m alone. Can’t risk a game of “telephone” where something inevitably gets lost in translation. That’s how rumors start.
Later that day, I’m at the library using their copier because ours is perpetually broken despite Thomas’s repeated “fixes,” and the repair service can’t get out here until next week.
Peony helps me navigate the ancient machine while I find myself confessing more than I intend. It could be because she’s heard three different stories about Patton and me at the oldfirehouse, with no thanks to the entire population of Huckleberry Hill, but especially the diner’s customers. I have to clear this up and get the facts straight.
As the copier prints flyers, I say, “So hypothetically, if someone was maybe possibly developing feelings for a person they previously couldn’t stand?—?”
Peony’s smile is gentle, but knowing. “Hypothetically?”
“Yes, very theoretical.”
“I’d say that’s how the best love stories start.” She’s not wearing her wedding ring again.
“Hmm. Love, that’s quite a leap.”
“Are you asking for a friend?”
