the impact of her landing, she’d let go! The case that contained everything she needed flew from her hand and now skidded away from her on the wood—heading straight for the edge of the pier and the sharp rocks far below.
Lydia pushed up on her hands and knees and scrambled across as fast as she could to save it. Tears pricked her eyes as the edge drew near. She couldn’t lose her kit. Dr. Webber would kill her. Or at least humiliate her to no end. He would be sure to note that her father would never make such a mishap.
Lydia threw herself into the air to make one final leap at catching the case before it disappeared into the ocean. She landed hard on her elbows, the case centimeters from her grasping fingertips. The kit continued to approach the edge, and just as she was about to watch it disappear, a black boot came down hard, cracking the wooden planks and stopping the kit dead in its tracks.
“Fall again, Doc?” a man’s voice called from above, halting her scrambles. The only person who called her Doc was the sheriff. Slowly, she lifted her gaze from the boot in her face for confirmation.
“Did you attack me?” she asked, looking up and down the empty boardwalk. Then looked for his gloves. Bare hands. But he could have taken them off.
“Attack you? No. I just walked down from the road and saw you going after your case. You didn’t fall?”
Lydia stood on shaky legs, her case held close to her chest. She shook her head in answer to his question and observed various pain points settling in. “Someone tried to steal my case. I managed to stop them, but in the process got thrown to the ground.”
“Stay here,” Sheriff Grant said in his deep, commanding voice, but somehow it sounded more comforting to her now. He ran down to the other end of the walk, looking into the alleyways as he passed them. After a few minutes of searching, he came back with palms up. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Well, I’m not making it up.”
“If you say so, Doc.”
“Well, I do.” Lydia hiked up her case, perturbed with this guy’s quick switch from helpful to skeptic. “I’m not lying,” she huffed. Something in the sheriff’s life made him really distrustful, and that was too bad, but she wasn’t here to fix it. She was here for one thing only. “Can we just get started?”
“Don’t you want breakfast?”
Lydia glanced at the restaurant. “It’s too crowded. There’s not an empty table anywhere in there.”
“Doesn’t matter if there was an empty table, you wouldn’t be seated at it. That’s not the way Tildy runs the place. Nobody sits alone.”
“Tildy?” Lydia rubbed her throbbing elbows, grateful her plushy parka absorbed some of the shock.
He stopped in front of the glass door. “The owner. And the local news reporter.” He made quotation marks with his fingers around news reporter. “You want to know something about the goings-on here on the island, all you have to do is ask Tildy. She’ll be happy to explain it all to you. And I mean all.” He opened the door and waved a hand. “After you, Doc.”
“Lydia,” she corrected him, not moving from her place. “My name is Lydia.”
He paused for a few beats. “All right. I guess since we’ll be working together, first names are fine. I’m Wes.” He waved again for her to enter.
Her knees locked and her heart rate sped up. She could hear her own breathing and it didn’t sound so good.
“What’s the matter, Doc...uh, Lydia?” He shut the door.
“Nothing. It’s just—”
“Just what?”
“I—I don’t do well in crowds. I think I want to try the other place.” She jutted her burning, scraped chin in the direction of the restaurant at the end of the boardwalk.
“The Blue Lobster isn’t open for breakfast. Plus, I think there’ll be a lot of people disappointed if the island’s first anthropologist visitor didn’t come to be welcomed appropriately.”
“What’s the big deal? I’m not some spectacle at the zoo.”
His hands went up surrender-style. “Whoa, I didn’t say you were, Doc. They’re good people. I know they’ll want to meet you. Come on. I’m going in with you.”
“I don’t know you any more than them.”
He smiled a Cheshire Cat grin. “You’re right. Maybe I should hold off introducing you and sell tickets in a big-top tent. I could put out flyers inviting one and all to the greatest spec—”
“Stop it, Wesley.”
He froze. His icy blue irises pierced her through his long strands. His Adam’s apple bobbed a couple times before he jerked a nod. “Sorry.”
“You know, I’m not even hungry. Let’s get over to the site and get set up. Did you get access to the list of supplies I gave to Owen? The tent and boxes?”
“Already been delivered. Owen’s there now getting ready. We can head over right after I grab a bite to go.” He peered through the glass door. “You can wait here if you want.”
Lydia looked down the boardwalk for the man who tried to steal her tool kit. Her decision came swift.
She went inside.
What she thought should only take thirty seconds turned into ten minutes. She stood by the door while customers smiled at her as warmly as the fire blazing in the stone hearth at the back of the restaurant. Wood beams and the old country with the friendly camaraderie relaxed her anxious nerves of crowds. She found herself smiling back at the islanders, but still not sure of what to say.
Lydia looked for Wesley and found him behind the bar pouring his coffee and talking to a young waitress dressed in a cobalt-blue dirndl dress. Lydia knew the garment’s technical name, having done her dissertation in Germany. The white front laces and apron shone brightly against the vivid velour—but not as brightly as the girl’s smile aimed at Wesley. Someone was sweet on someone. But then, Lydia couldn’t blame the girl. Lydia had looked the same way when she’d caught her reflection in the window before.
“How do you take your coffee?” Wesley called to her. “Sugar, cream?”
“Black, one sugar,” Lydia answered.
The swinging doors at the back of the restaurant burst wide. An older woman with a pouf of frizzy, bleached-blond hair bounced out. “A girl after my own heart,” she announced as she zigzagged through the maze of tables and patrons until she stood in front of Lydia. “Strong, but a little sweet. Hiya, I’m Tildy, and you must be the anthropologist. I’ve never met an anthropologist before. To be honest, it sounds a little creepy to me, but please come sit. Tell us all about it.”
Wesley saved her. “Actually, Tildy, we can’t stay. We’re eating while we work today,” he informed her as he passed Lydia a tall white to-go coffee cup and a brown paper bag of some kind of food.
“Oh, right. Those boys found some pirate bones, I hear.”
“Pirate?”
