Jenn grinned at me when it was finally my turn to order. “You look like shit.”
“Always a delight to see you, big sis,” I responded.
She turned and filled an extra-large mug, humming. “This is the rainforest blend you like. Breakfast?”
With a shake of my head, I dropped a few dollars into the tip cup. Jenn and Mel never let me pay, but I did a fair amount of repairs here, including maintenance on thatmonster Italian espresso machine more times than I could count, so I figured it usually evened out.
“Shouldn’t you be climbing a tree right now?”
“Meeting,” I grunted, the smell of the rich dark roast filling my nostrils.
She winced, wiping at the counter. “Good luck.”
Carefully, so my coffee wouldn’t spill, I wandered to the back rail, where I sipped from the large mug and mentally prepared for today. Here and there, I greeted folks, giving nods and waves to Father Coughlin, and Mrs. Woodson. People who’d known me since I was a kid with skinned knees and a crooked smile.
This morning’s meeting was at Sugar Moon, the facility I hadn’t been back to since the fire this summer. It had been arson, and it had taken out most of the corporate offices. My brother, a firefighter, had gone in and rescued his girlfriend and the mother of their infant son that night. It might have been the most traumatic day of my life. My chest tightened and it got hard to breathe when I remembered clasping my nephew to my chest as my brother ran into the burning building. One wrong turn, one delayed second, and the world never would have been the same again.
I shuddered, pushing away the images.
“Headed to the office?” Tony appeared, clapping me on the shoulder. He owned the pizzeria and was the high school football coach, and here and there, he’d helped me out during sugaring season. The man was the definition of a good guy.
I gave my friend a nod. “Yup.”
“Have they rebuilt that quickly?”
“Not sure. I assume they’ve got trailers set uptemporarily or something. Manufacturing is still going strong.”
“Calloway was complaining about insurance dragging their feet.” He shook his head, stepping closer to me. “None of this smells right. Why the offices? And Caleb?”
I paused, my cup halfway to my lips, my stomach rolling.
Caleb Dunne had confessed to setting the fire and then eventually to the murder of Will McManus. The town had breathed a sigh of relief when he turned himself in, feeling a bit safer with a violent criminal behind bars. But relief didn’t erase doubt; it just buried it.
Both Caleb and Will had done work for me over the years. Both were good kids. Young and a bit wild but good. And this mess had continued to snowball over the months. I’d just gotten the police off my farm when the FBI showed up. And then the CEO of Sugar Moon had been arrested in front of half the town, kicking off another round of speculation. Every answer we got created three more questions.
And I couldn’t help but think that the timing and location of the fire were convenient. Years of files had been destroyed, erasing God knew how many potential answers. Truth reduced to ash.
It wasn’t my business, of course, but since my farm was involved and folks had whispered bogus theories that I was involved, I couldn’t help but take it all personally. I didn’t like shadows on my land. I had too much work to do to be worrying about the implications of those crimes on the legacy my family had built.
Before I could respond, Marco, Tony’s brother, sauntered up, wearing a huge smile.
“How you doing, bud?” I asked, opening my arms for a hug.
Marco lived with Tony and worked with him at the pizzeria. He had Down syndrome and was one of the funniest, friendliest people in town. No agenda. No bullshit.
“Good,” he said, lifting his cup. “Jenn made me the best maple latte.”
“She’s awesome,” I added. “When are you coming to visit the farm? Wayne misses you.”
“Soon. This guy”—he shot a look at his brother, his lips flattening—“has been making me work nonstop.”
Tony huffed. “Speaking of,” he said. “We gotta head to the shop and prep dough. Call me if you need to talk.” The look he gave me said he knew I was carrying more than I was willing to admit.
I waved them off and focused on my coffee, desperate to get the upcoming meeting over with.
At a nearby table, Kate Bowen was sitting with her toddler son, who was chugging chocolate milk with gusto while she desperately swiped at crumbs from the blueberry muffin he’d just destroyed.
The sight sent my mind shifting to Celine. The set of her jaw as she busted my balls in the driveway this morning. The way she held her ground. That shock of red hair piled on top of her head. And the way her face had heated when I’d called her “Matchstick.”
