“They are.”
“And you two are getting along?”
“We're neighbors. We get along fine.”
“Mmm.” The sound a woman makes when she doesn't believe you but has decided to let you hang yourself with your own rope. “Fine is a very beige word, Paul. People who arefinedon't fix running lights in the dark when nobody's watching.”
My jaw tightens. I don't know how she knows about the running light. I don't want to know. Information travels through this town like current through water—invisible, inevitable, everywhere at once.
“It was a safety issue,” I say.
“Of course it was.” She pats my hand. Her fingers are thin and cool and surprisingly strong. “Safety. That's what we'll call it.”
Before I can respond—before I can find words that don't make me sound like either a liar or a fool—Harold arrives at the table.
He's carrying two cups. One for himself. One that he sets down in front of Grandma Hensley with the quiet precision of an offering.
“Good morning, Vivian.”
The coffee shop doesn't go silent. That's not how it works—people don't stop talking in real life the way they do in movies. But a shift happens. A pause. A breath. Hazel's hand freezes on her latte. Mads looks up from her phone. Caroline's typing stops. Michelle, behind the counter, goes still.
Vivian.
Nobody calls her that. I've lived in this town my whole life and I have never once heard another person use her first name. She's Grandma Hensley. Mrs. Hensley. The institution. Not Vivian. Not a woman with a name spoken the way my father just spoke it—low and warm and deliberate, like the word itself is worth holding.
Grandma Hensley looks at the cup. Then at Harold.
Her face changes. Not the matchmaker. Not the gossip queen. Not the woman who runs this town's romantic intelligence network. Just—a woman. A woman who hasn't heard her own name spoken like that in twenty years.
It lasts half a second. Then she's back.
“Harold Spencer.” Her voice is crisp. Controlled. “I have shoes older than you.”
“I know. You've told me. Beautiful shoes, I'm sure.” He sits down in the empty chair beside her—the one nobody offered him—and picks up his cup like he's been sitting at this table every morning for years. “Cream and one sugar, right? I told Michelle to add the good vanilla.”
“You ordered me a refill.”
“Your cup was almost empty.”
“You noticed.”
“I notice a lot of things.”
Hazel is looking back and forth between them. Mads has her hand over her mouth. Caroline has abandoned all pretense of working.
“Dad,” I say.
He doesn't look at me. “Paul.”
“What are you doing?”
“Having coffee with a beautiful woman. Youshould try it.”
Grandma Hensley's cheeks flush. Subtle—you'd miss it if you weren't paying attention. But I'm sitting two feet away, and Vivian Hensley is blushing.
“You are a ridiculous man,” she says.
“I'm a Spencer. We come in two varieties—ridiculous and grumpy. I got the better end of the deal.”
