He needed to find something to do to pass the time. He also needed to stay out of Morgan’s way, lest the handsome man throw him out on his ass. Not that he thought Morgan would really do that. He seemed decent enough in spite of his glower and way of speaking as though he was on his last nerve and it wasn’t even noon.
Hard to tell what time of day it was, looking out at the storm, though the clock on the stove told him it was quarter till eleven.
If he’d been on a train headed somewhere that Star deemed they needed to go, he’d be occupied with the scenery or going through his green duffel bag to try to find something to eat, or thinking long and hard about wanting a nice, cool drink of beer.
But he wasn’t. He was here, feeling a little bit stuck, but at the same time safe. Safe and warm and fed. He needed to pay Morgan back for that. Somehow.
He slipped silently down the stairs and peered into the office where Morgan was frowning at his laptop as he munched idly ona gingersnap. That was good; the sugar might sweeten him up a bit.
Then Nimble went into the store. The long room, with the blinds closed on its banks of windows, was empty and still. The metal shelves were only half-filled, and the air smelled of molasses and straw, plus a hint of leather and grease. Dust layered the blank areas of the shelves, and there were clumps of dirt here and there on the floor, as though someone had tracked it in on their boots.
Nimble went down one of the aisles. At the back of the store was one door leading out to the snowy yard and another that, when he opened it, revealed a storeroom filled with stacks of boxes and crates. As if someone had ordered items that had never been put out on the shelves.
The back of the storeroom had another door that Nimble imagined led yet again to the yard where he’d seen edges of hay bale stacks, the tarp tied over them flapping at the corners in the blizzard. Which didn’t matter very much, as the weight of the ice and snow would keep the tarps in place.
Shivering a bit, the nearby window draping him with cold air, he stepped away and surveyed the store once more.
His boots hadn’t fully dried yet, so he was sock-footed as he went, idly straightening the little half-empty plastic bins and placing tubes of glue back in a cardboard box, lined up like soldiers. Leaving in his wake an air of orderliness the room seemed to want.
All the while he hummed under his breath, keeping it low—or so he thought, until the door to Morgan’s office opened with a snap.
“What are you doing in here?” Morgan’s frown was firmly in place, his hair standing up as though he’d run his fingers through it. His dark blue robe swirled around him. His blue eyes were hard. “And why aren’t you wearing your boots?”
Nimble couldn’t figure out which was the worse offense in Morgan’s mind: messing about or doing it without proper footwear. Either was kind of funny in a way, a strong, handsome man like Morgan fussing like a librarian whose hallowed silence Nimble had disrupted.
Morgan’s eyes narrowed, glimmering, and Nimble realized that Morgan might think Nimble was laughing at him.
“I left ’em upstairs,” Nimble said. “Am I making a racket?”
“No,” Morgan said flatly, as if he were already tired of discussing it. “I kept hearing sounds, however. What are you doing in here?”
“Nothing,” Nimble assured him with all his good nature. “Just poking around. There’s hardly anything on the shelves, so it’s no wonder you don’t have any customers.”
“There are no customers because we’re experiencing a blizzard. There are no customers because my aunt died. And besides, I was going to sell off the place as soon as I got here. But after the funeral—” Morgan sighed and ran his hand through his hair, looking tired. “I was informed on good authority by Mabel and Gus and the three geezers, as well as my aunt’s lawyer, that?—”
Morgan paused to wince, as if the idea of having to listen to local folks tell him what was what—Nimble bit down hard on another surge of amusement—was more than he could bear.
“That selling the place wasn’t a good idea, because not only would no one be interested in buying until spring, butalsoit’s a local cornerstone. So I’m stuck here in this miserable town, and the reason I didn’t restock the shelves was because?—”
He paused again and tried to glare at Nimble once more.
“I got busy with the funeral and all the paperwork. I honestly thought I could sell up right away and just hand over the keys and all the problems, like restocking and sweeping. Not tomention the old geezers, with their endless demands for coffee and donuts, none of which they seem willing to pay for.”
“Endless coffee?” Nimble asked, perking up. “Donuts? I love donuts. And coffee, especially the endless kind.”
“There was a sort of coffee station over here.” Morgan’s tone was as grumpy as could be, in spite of the fact that he was moving pretty easily across the flat surface of the store, his cane allowing him to walk at a brisk pace to the far corner of the room, where Nimble had not yet been.
There was a bench seat against the wall and another beneath the window, with an old card table shoved between them as if the last occupants had left the area in haste. Two spindle-backed chairs were on the other side of the table, tucked in close as if someone had decided they weren’t allowed to take up much room.
Next to one of the bench seats was a small, flat-topped buffet cabinet that looked old, with grime draping the scrollwork and drawer pulls as if it had been in use a good long while.
On top of the buffet were a coffee maker, a tray with containers of sugar and tubs of cream, wooden stirrers, and white china mugs all in a row, along with a flat paper box that had once contained donuts.
Nimble knew what it had held because there was a pink outline of a donut on the lid.Donut King,it read. The box was empty, and everything was covered in dust.
“Evidently they come and they sit and expect to beserved.” Morgan spat out the last word with such ferocity that Nimble half feared for those old guys’ safety, but luckily, they were hunkered down for the storm in their own houses. “My Aunt Oralee evidently enabled them in their freeloading. The lawyer tells me she enjoyed their company.”
“That coffee maker looks old,” Nimble said, eyeing the glass carafe that was dark with layers of old coffee.
