style="font-size:15px;"> Both the artist and Joan glanced her way, appearing concerned. She cleared her throat and smiled lamely. At least she could talk again. “No, thank you,” she repeated levelly, without looking at Roth.
“I’ll have some,” Joan said. “I love lots of good, honest, real cream in my coffee. None of those nondairy, nonfat, non-taste counterfeits for me or my guests.” After pouring herself a healthy shot, she placed the container between her plate and the artist’s, then she broke off a piece of ham and leaned down, looking below the table. “Here, Missy Mis, now be a good girl and don’t beg.”
“I don’t eat fat,” the artist said, her voice low and husky as a man’s.
Joan glanced toward the thin, austere woman. “Mona, dear, I’m aware of that. But you’re a fine artist, so I forgive you that shortcoming.” She patted Mona’s knobby hand. “Have we all met each other?” She glanced at Hannah and Roth.
“Hannah and I have met,” Roth said.
Joan’s expression closed for the briefest second. “Yes, I recall.” Her smile returned, though not as jolly. “This is Mona Natterly, a frequent visitor.” She patted Mona’s hand again. “Every year she abides with me for the entire summer, then an occasional stopover during the rest of the year.” Joan indicated the couple across from the artist. “Mona, this is Hannah Hudson, my dear Internet friend and this…” She hesitated, giving Roth a peculiarly disapproving look. Or did she? It was so brief Hannah couldn’t be sure. “This is Ross—Johnson.”
“Roth Jerric,” he amended, smiling in Mona’s direction. “Happy to meet you.”
Just how do you know he’s smiling, Hannah? She berated herself. You promised yourself not to look at the man, and here you are staring at his profile. She shifted her attention away.
“By the way, Ross,” Joan went on, undeterred, “did you give my message to the sheriff?”
“He called.”
The older woman looked perturbed. “He called? He didn’t come out?”
“He had to respond to a wreck.”
Joan sniffed. “Well, it’s his loss.”
“He said something odd on the phone—apologizing about the blue moon?”
Joan’s attention had shifted to her coffee mug, but at the mention of the blue moon, she refocused on him. “As I said, it’s his loss.”
“What did he mean?” Roth prodded.
Hannah glanced his way, curious about the turn of the conversation. She scanned the side of his face, his sharp cheekbones, slightly arched nose and handsomely sculpted chin. Her gaze caught and held on the slashing dimple in his cheek, sinisterly charming.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss it now,” Joan said, stiffly. “Perhaps in a few days, when I’m less crestfallen.”
The remark surprised Hannah. She glanced at Joan. The elderly woman met her gaze then shifted her attention to Roth. “Fate has spoken.” She sighed loudly. “I’ll buck up.” She patted Roth’s hand. “I’m sure you’re a nice man, Mr. Johnson.”
“It’s Jerric, but thanks,” Roth said.
Hannah couldn’t tell from his dry tone if Joan’s eccentricity of continually botching his name annoyed him or if he was merely unsatisfied with her response. Nevertheless, she refused to check his expression. She’d stared at him more than enough for one morning. Disturbed that she’d noticed him at all, she forced herself to concentrate on her hostess. “Why are you crestfallen, Joan?”
The woman’s smile grew melancholy. “Sweet girl, one of these days we’ll sit down and have a good talk about—everything. But right now, forgive me. It’s too close to my heart at the moment.” She peered at Roth, then resumed eye contact with Hannah. “I just hope Madam Fate knows what she’s doing,” she said, regaining her pleasant expression. “Now, enjoy your breakfast. A sour disposition brings on a sour stomach, and I certainly don’t want any sour stomachs at my inn.”
“But—”
“Eat, dear,” Joan cut in, then shifted her attention to the artist. “Mona, how is your oatmeal?”
“Fine.”
Hannah lost hope that Mona would hold up her end of any conversation. She scanned the aging hippie’s face, unable to decide how old she was. Her skin was leathery, as though she’d spent years outdoors. She might be thirty-five or fifty-five. “Do you paint landscapes?” she asked, assuming anybody as sun-dried as Mona must specialize in nature scenes.
Mona shifted her eyes from her oatmeal to Hannah. “I paint thoughts, musings, inklings,” she said in that gravelly basso voice. She closed her eyes, as though listening to a lovely strain of music. “On those providential days when my muse is in ascension, I paint raw, unadulterated adoration.”
“Yes,” Joan said. “Yes, she does. Most exquisitely.”
That was as clear as mud. “Oh…” Hannah wanted to ask more, like what in the world an “inkling” looked like, or what it took to get a muse into ascension, but she recalled her vow to be mute. So far, she hadn’t done very well. She took up her fork. Apparently Mona got a special nonfat breakfast, since the rest of their plates were heaped with pancakes drenched in butter and syrup, a slab of ham on the side. Oh, well. She could diet when she got home. It wouldn’t be hard, considering she was nearly broke. “Breakfast looks good,” she said, then remembered her vow of muteness. Don’t be so hard on yourself, she told herself inwardly. A compliment to the cook is no great crime.
“Why, thank you, dear.”
Hannah took a bite, deciding if she had food in her mouth she would be less likely to babble. Why did Roth Jerric have to smell so nice? And why did his elbow have to brush her arm? Every time it did, she experienced a troubling flutter in her chest.
“I serve pancakes a lot. They’re a special favorite of most guests. As are my egg dishes. Especially my spicy Eggs à la Peterson, sunny-side up.” When she said “up” she threw her hands over her head for emphasis. The move startled Hannah, already so nervous she jumped. Why did it have to be just as she lifted her coffee mug? The resulting lurch sloshed coffee on Roth’s pancakes.
“Oh…shoot!” That’s all she needed, to have to face the guy and apologize for ruining his breakfast. She did it as quickly and with as little eye contact as possible. “Sorry.” She plunked her mug down and hefted her plate toward him. “Have mine. I’m not hungry.”
“No need,” he said.
“I insist.” She scooted her chair back so abruptly it nearly overturned. Roth caught it just in time. She could feel his gaze, but she kept her focus on Joan. “I’m not feeling well.”
“Goodness.” Joan pushed awkwardly up to stand. “You’re sick?”
“No.” Hannah circled to the back of her chair. “Just—just…” She held up a halting hand. “Sit down, Joan. I—it’s a headache. I’ll take an aspirin and lie down for a bit. I’ll be fine.”
“Are
