But there’s no one else here that could be her.
A sidewalk encircles the outside dining area, so I walk around the edge of the restaurant’s patio area. When I get to the other side, I duck into a souvenir shop so I can look out the window from the shelter of an upright miniature license plate display featuring names.
“Excuse me, sir,” an older man says from behind me. “Can I help you?”
“No,” I say, leaning to the side to get a better look at the woman.
“Are you shopping for anyone in particular?”
“No, I’m just taking a peek out the window.”
“We’re a shop, sir,” the man says dryly. “Not an observatory.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say, turning to look at him. I take a step backward when I see his lederhosen outfit—and nearly knock down the display. His shorts end above his knees, and he’s wearing knee high socks with loafers. His narrowed eyes and his commitment to his costume clue me in that he means business. I give my attention to the license plate display. “I’m looking for a plate for my daughter.” Giving him a cheesy smile, I spin the display to find the Js. He frowns, but a toddler screams out something about wanting cheesy puffs now, and he rushes over to the kid and his mother, probably worried about cheese dust getting rubbed all over his merchandise.
I pretend like I’m scanning the stand while trying to get a better look at the woman through the teddy bears hung around the edges of the picture window. Her head is turned to the side, and she’s holding her menu up high enough to partially obscure her lower face.
It’s possible she’s not my date, but I can’t imagine a woman coming to the top of Big Jump Mountain to have a solo lunch. It’s too much of a hassle to get up here, not to mention pricey.
“Do you need help finding a name?” asks a woman who’s sidled up next to me. She’s much younger than the man, but she has the same earnest look in her eyes, and her Bavarian style dress and apron are just as spot on as her coworker’s. I realize this must be a uniform, but they both seem fully committed to the look.
I’ve got the polite smile down pat. “I’m good.”
“If you tell me the name you’re looking for, I’ll find it for you.”
“Fine,” I grunt. “Jane.”
“Jane,” she coos. “Such a lovely name.” She scans the rack and sighs. “I’msosorry. I think we might be out.” She announces it like she’s told me I have stage-four lung cancer.
Jesus. I need to man up and walk over to the woman on the patio to get this over with.
“That’s okay,” I say. “I’ll try again the next time I’m here.”
“I can special order one for you,” she says cheerfully.
“Maybe next time.” I head for the door in a determined stride and go straight for the dining area.
A waiter is approaching the woman’s table, and she lowers her menu enough for me to get a good look at her.
Horror washes through me. I know her.
I. Know. Her.
It’s Millie’s sister, Calliope. Only she’s married to a finance guy and has a bratty kid named Apple. But she lifts her left hand, and I see her ring finger is conspicuously bare of the giant rock she usually wears.
Holy Shit. Cherrybomb is Calliope Labelle.
Even worse—shedoeshave a creepy doll collection.
I stop in my tracks and stare at her in disbelief. My brain is tripping over itself trying to reconcile Cherrybomb with Calliope, and I’m just not seeing it. Then again, to be fair, I haven’t had a conversation with the woman since Millie’s funeral, and I wasn’t exactly in a chatty mood.
Still, there’s no way I’m having lunch with Calliope Labelle.
No. Fucking. Way.
Has this whole thing been a ploy? Did the Labelles figure out a way to hack into the dating app so they could use it as a way to get information to use against me? It’s a ridiculous thought, given they’d have no way of knowing I was even participating in the app, but this seems like way too big of a coincidence—especially on top of that guy showing up offering to buy my brewery when I need money.
This has all the marks of some sort of Labelle family conspiracy, and I’m not playing into their hands.
