Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
I thought about the meals my dad and sisters and I had while I was growing up, seated around the old kitchen table, dogs underfoot, my sisters both jabbering at once, and my father trying to hear Ernie Harwell calling the Tigers game on the scratchy AM radio he refused to get rid of because he said it brought his team luck. Those dinners were noisy and not terribly delicious and usually followed by an argument about whose turn it was to do the dishes, but they were never lonely.
How could her ex not have appreciated what he had?
“Anyway.” Maddie stood taller and brightened up. “My point wasn’t to get mopey, it was to thank you for inviting me here. I’m so glad I came.”
“You’ll always be welcome.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
On my way out to the barn, I tried to think of one thing that would be better than seeing that smile at the breakfast table every morning.
Nothing came to mind.
Not one fucking thing.
Six
Maddie
“That’s the Bellamy Creek Garage,” Mr. Weaver told me, pointing across the street to the old firehouse that had been repurposed into an auto repair shop decades ago by Griffin Dempsey’s family. “Frank Griffin owns it.”
I was fairly certain Griffin’s father was gone now, but I nodded and smiled. “I should take my car in for a tune-up. I noticed it was making a funny noise on the way here.”
“You should,” he said. “You won’t get better service anywhere else.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
Mr. Weaver moved slowly, but it was a gorgeous day, and I had no problem at all with his leisurely pace as we strolled up and down Bellamy Creek’s Main Street, ducking in and out of stores. Some had been there forever and some were brand new to me, but every shopkeeper we saw greeted Mr. Weaver fondly and introduced themselves to me—some of them even remembered me or mentioned knowing my mom. While Mr. Weaver didn’t seem to recognize anyone, he’d always shake their hands and nod hello.
Out on the street, he was playing the role of tour guide and seemed to enjoy every minute of it.
“See that building there?” He pointed at the old Main Street Theater. “That’s where I took my first date.”
“Really?” I linked my arm with his. “Tell me about it.”
“Her name was Evie Clemson, and I took her to see Vertigo. She looked just like Kim Novak.”
“A beauty, huh?”
He nodded. “Prettiest girl in our class.”
“Did you have a nice time?”
“Yes,” he said, “although after the show, we went to the diner and I accidentally dumped a chocolate malt in her lap.”
“Oh, no,” I said, laughing. “Did you have to take her home early?”
He shook his head. “Not that I recall. We were having too much fun. She was a good sport.” Suddenly he stopped, scratching his head. “I must have gotten turned around. The shoe store should be right there. And next to it the five-and-dime.”
I glanced at the storefront he was looking at and saw a striped awning that read Bellamy Creek Boulangerie in elegant script. “Oh, how cute,” I said. “It looks like a little Parisian pâtisserie.”
“Oh, wait a minute,” he said. “I think this is the place with the apple pie.”
I recalled Beckett telling me about Blair Dempsey’s bakery last night and figured this must be the place. “Should we go in? Maybe we can bring home a pie for dessert.”
Mr. Weaver liked that idea and moved ahead to open the door for me. Inside, the décor was bright and charming and French-inspired—small round café tables, tiny white octagonal floor tiles, huge display cases showing off dozens of pastries, quiches, and breads. I’d never been to Paris, but I felt like I’d stepped off the Champs-Elysées rather than Main Street. I breathed in deeply—the aroma made my mouth water and my stomach growl.
“We should have breakfast,” Mr. Weaver said, moving toward the display case full of croissants and scones.
“Well, we had breakfast, but how about lunch?” I glanced around, spying an empty table near the front window. “We can sit right over there.”
“Okay.” He began to study the offerings closely, leaning forward, his nose practically against the glass.
“Hi, Mr. Weaver!” called a woman from behind the counter. Her honey-blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore a bandana like a headband, the knot at the top of her head. She was strikingly beautiful, with big eyes, thick lashes, and a friendly smile. “How are you?”
“Good.” He looked up and struggled to place her.
“Blair Dempsey,” she said, placing a hand on her chest. “Griffin’s wife.” Then she looked at me, her smile widening. “And you must be Maddie.”
“Yes,” I said, surprised that she knew my name.
“Griff and I saw Bianca and Enzo last night,” she explained. “They talked about seeing the house with you.”
“Oh.” I returned her smile. “It’s so nice to meet you.”