You don’t need to solve it now, Trafford.So, instead of stressing, he’d wander down the street to pick up a coffee and try to enjoy being in a town where nobody needed saving.
“You’re our new neighbor, right?”
He turned and automatically slid his hand into Highlights’s outstretched paw. Colt stood behind his dad, staring down at the ground, looking miserable. “Dane Trafford,” he briefly stated. He never told people he was a doctor; he didn’t want people randomly describing their symptoms and expecting an on-the-spot diagnosis.
“Penn Peters. I live down from the cottage you are renting, the last house on the right.”
He sounded like he was looking to be congratulated. Maybe he thought his three-story, extensive house and property deserved a compliment. Dane simply looked at him, wondering why he had yet to introduce his son. He waited another ten seconds before extending his hand to the boy. “Hey, I’m Dane,” he said, pushing a little warmth into his tone.
“This is my son, Colt,” Penn said.
“Nice to meet you, Colt,” Dane said, ignoring his father. “Working out not your thing?”
Colt raised his head, looking for the judgment he expected to see in Dane’s eyes. Seeing none, he relaxed a fraction. He opened his mouth to speak but his father beat him to it.
“He’s into music and dance,” Penn said, making it sound like Colt spent his time killing kittens. “I dragged him along to help him get ripped.”
Dane’s fist clenched.Give the kid a chance to speak, asshole. He kept his eyes on Colt’s face, noting his tense muscles, the ticking muscle in his cheekbone. He recognized the seething anger buried deep. He suspected that pleasing his dad was an impossible task. He knew how that felt.
“Do you play an instrument?” Dane asked.
“Bass guitar. He makes a racket and drives me mad.”
Out of patience, Dane grabbed his car key fob, gym towel, and phone off the bench where he’d left them, and gave them a tight smile. “I’ll see you around,” he said, walking off. Jesus, it had been like looking at and talking to a civilian version of his father.Sorry, kid.
But not his problem.
The back of Dane’s neck tingled as he walked to his car. He was a general’s son, had some military training, and after working in pressure-cooker environments where emotions ran high and desperation ruled, he’d learned to recognize danger and trust his instincts. While he knew he wasn’t in danger—he was in a small Massachusetts town for God’s sake—he knew he was being watched. But by whom and where from? A part of him hoped it might be the sexy woman in the car. He looked around, but she was gone.Damn.
He stopped when he got to the edge of the park and turned to look back, scanning his surroundings. Dog-walker, jogger, the same walking group of ladies he’d seen earlier. A group of younger women were warming up. A couple of cyclists on the bike path. Empty bench, empty bench… He stopped and returned his gaze to the bench near the water fountain.
Did he sense movement from that bench, or was his PTSD-affected brain playing tricks on him? He narrowed his eyes and saw nothing but the iron frame and wooden slats. Was this fake-spooky town messing with him? Dane sighed, then ambled across the street to dump his towel and water bottle in his car.
A strong coffee would hit the spot, maybe a takeaway bagel for breakfast. Later, he might take his paddleboard out on the lake or do a trail run. And if he still couldn’t sleep tonight, he’d do a night run around town.
Because standing, or lying still, was when his thoughts and regrets became too loud to handle.
* * *
Holding just his phone and car key fob, Dane walked up Main Street to the pale pink building sporting a bow-fronted window. The bottom of a black and gold sign hanging over the sidewalk in a mostly unreadable font, brushed his hair.
A lion cub of a cat lay across the entrance to Spirited Grounds, his black fur absorbing the morning sunlight; a feline solar panel. Lurid Halloween decorations—a gaudy mix of ceramic pumpkins, glittering cobwebs, and stoned-looking plastic flamingos on either side of the door—clashed spectacularly with the animal’s sleek elegance. He lay there, one golden eye half closed, tail flicking lazily. Dane easily interpreted his look: yes, peasants, I rule this town. I will smite you if you annoy or inconvenience me.Customers gingerly stepped over him, but he barely moved, the picture of feline supremacy managing, just, to tolerate the lunacy of humans.
Dane appreciated his what-the-actual-fuck attitude.
Inside, Dane joined the long queue waiting to be served and looked around. He’d seen and experienced plenty of strange things in his life—triage under a high-rise building in danger of collapsing; performing a tube thoracostomy to treat a hemothorax with a Leatherman; his high-school portrayal of Kenickie fromGrease—but the organized chaos that was Spirited Grounds on a Friday morning, on any morning to be fair, was still a shock to his system. Honestly, it looked like a Victorian tea parlor high on hashish, with a side hustle in caffeine.
The place—all velvet drapes, yellow and blue striped wallpaper, and gilt mirrors—reminded him of those crazy mirrors at county fairs. The interior designer must’ve believed inmore is more, slapping tacky, flea-market finds onto every horizontal surface with impunity. Teacups—bright and mismatched—swung from the ceiling on hooks at the end of thin wires. Everywhere he looked, there were candles, cat statues, and second-hand books—available to borrow!—carelessly and chaotically stacked.
A spray-painted mural—by a fairly talented artist—covered the wall to his right. The woman depicted wore a short cape and a long apron, and what he thought was a bonnet; the man next to her sported a big hat, a huge collar and toted a rifle over his shoulder. Puritans, he decided. In all the pictures he’d seen of the Protestants, they all looked like they had sticks up their asses.
But these two—Jeremiah Blackwood and Constance Merriweather, apparently—were both smiling, and looked … well, relaxed. Like life wasn’t all Calvinist theory and moral diligence. Artistic license? Maybe.
Strangely, really strangely, the whacky décor worked. The air smelled like espresso, cinnamon, dust, and warm milk. The baristas wore black aprons and ready smiles, and a wonky chalkboard announced today’s special as The Boo-rista Blend, featuring “notes of Columbia, caramel, chaos, and confusion.”
He found himself grinning despite himself. This was H-Town—he’d recently discovered that only tourists called it Solstice Springs—half charm, half insanity, and very different from when he was a kid. Surprisingly, he sorta kinda liked it.
The whispered, electronic “boo” signaled another customer entering the shop, and Dane listened to the footsteps of someone joining the queue behind him. Light, fresh perfume filled his nose… God,gorgeous. He resisted the urge to turn around. Somehow, it was enough to simply stand in this crazy coffee shop, inhale the feminine perfume, and decide whether he wanted a hot Americano—the Dark Séance,strong enough to raise the dead—or cold—the Witch’s Cold Shoulder,dark, cool, and done with you.
