silence could be just as loud.”
“So Gran was right?” Abby said, grateful for the distraction he provided. She didn’t want to dwell on the red marks in the inn’s accounting ledger. “New York?”
“Born and raised, then I traveled some.” He leaned back and stretched his long legs out, crossed his ankles and sank into the late afternoon. “I like the peacefulness. Not sure for how long, though.”
“I know a couple of kids who could shatter that silence in a second. Say the word. My godson and his best friend have been known to violate the town’s noise ordinance.”
Jay’s brow furrowed. “Noise ordinance?”
“I’m joking.” And not doing a very good job of it, for a change. Maybe she needed a nap. “We’d have to have a lot more residents to need an ordinance, and I don’t think Luke would want that on his shoulders, anyway.”
“Would that be Sheriff Saxon? I met him while I was walking around town earlier. Nice guy. Nice dog, too.”
Cash. How many times had she thought about ways to snatch that lovable mutt from the sheriff? “He’d better be, since he’s marrying my best friend.” As far as Abby was concerned, Luke was one of the most decent men she’d ever known, even though he’d be the first to shy from the compliment. “We’re hoping he’ll be done using the cane before the wedding.”
The wedding. Abby closed her eyes, bit her lip. Darn it. Holly’s early August wedding was scheduled to take place at the Flutterby. Add that to the list of things to worry about.
“What’s that look for?” Jay shifted to face her more fully, something Abby appreciated as she went back to focusing on him. She’d never found beards particularly attractive, but on Jay it worked. Gave him a bit of a sophisticated air she’d bet would only be accentuated should he drop into a crisp white shirt and dark suit— “Abby?”
“What? Oh, sorry.” Yeah, her thoughts really were getting away from her. “Just checking things off on my to-do list. That reminds me. I brought back more vouchers for the diner if you need them.”
“Yeah. About that.” He flinched as if she’d struck him. “I drove up to Monterey for lunch. Diners aren’t really my thing.”
There was that tone again, that authoritative I’m better than you are tone that proved she hadn’t imagined his arrogance this morning. “Not your thing?”
“You know.” He shifted his gaze out over the water. “Pedestrian. Boring.”
Pedestrian? There wasn’t anything pedestrian about Holly’s diner. Or her food. “In other words, diners are beneath you and your New York sensibilities.” So what had all the small-towns-are-charming comments been? Polite chitchat? Disarming her before he plunged the dagger in her heart?
“I didn’t say that.” But as he spoke, she heard the doubt in his voice.
“There’s a reason why diners last through the ages. They’re steadfast, sturdy.” Holly’s diner could be considered the spine of a shriveling town. A town she’d do anything to make successful again.
“Diners are also predictable and ordinary.”
She shifted on the bench. “They’re comfortable and homey.”
“They’re cheap and greasy.”
“Wow.” Abby shook her head, unable to fathom his disconnect from reality. “I knew it. You’re a snob. And fair warning, I wouldn’t throw any of those adjectives around when Holly’s nearby. She’s likely to smack you with her grandmother’s rolling pin.” And if Holly didn’t, Abby might. Who did this guy think he was, coming into town and passing judgment on everything she loved? Everything she’d fight until her last breath to protect?
“I’m not a snob.”
Given the offense in his voice, you’d have thought she called him a serial killer. “Tilt your nose down once in a while, Mr. Corwin. Otherwise you can’t see where you’re going. Or where you are.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Well, you did. Maybe you weren’t listening earlier, but this is my home. It’s the only place on earth where I belong. The people, the businesses, the cracks in the pavement I used to ride my tricycle over. You don’t get to come here to hide and judge anything you’re not willing to experience for yourself.”
“I don’t need to experience something to know it isn’t for me. And who says I’m hiding?”
“I run an inn, remember? I know hiding. And boy, Gran was right. You are New York through and through. Oh, wait. I’m sorry, am I judging you on someplace I haven’t been? Shame on me.” She swallowed the rest of her wine and got to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to take Gran to dinner at the diner before her bunco game. And FYI, you might want to get some earplugs, because believe it or not, we take silly things like bunco very seriously around here. Good night, Mr. Corwin.”
* * *
HOW DID “DINERS AREN’T my thing” lead to offending his hostess?
He really shouldn’t talk to people. It never went well. He wasn’t a snob. His father—now, he was a snob, and he didn’t make any apologies for it. Jason gnashed his teeth at the thought of being painted with the same brush as his father.
He didn’t get the impression Abby disliked many people—not after having witnessed her interact with her grandmother and those she worked with. He must have really pushed her buttons, which fascinated him. He wanted to think his interest in her was merely a result of having more time on his hands. He didn’t have the pressure of the restaurant or contracts or budgets or...anything. He couldn’t recall encountering anyone like her before, someone with more layers than an onion and the more he peeled away, the deeper he wanted to go.
Butterfly Harbor might not have the bustling activity of his native New York, but it had its own charm. He’d wandered around a good portion of it today, noticing the intricate puzzling of homes dotting the edges of Monarch Lane, what he assumed passed as Main Street, USA. He’d explored a couple of antique shops and the hardware store, even the throwback gift stores that reminded him of the old-fashioned five-and-dimes his mother had once told him about. He found their offerings eclectic, including all types of...yep, butterflies. The post office, reminiscent of a different era, sat wedged into one corner of a neighborhood grocery that had one of the best selections of organic meat and fish he’d ever come across. Truth be told, the selection of produce and food could have put the Chelsea Market to shame given a little extra push. Butterfly Harbor impressed him, but not nearly as much as the wide offering of locally farmed fresh produce.
David would have loved it here—the selection, the tight-knit community. If Vegas hadn’t already been knocking on their restaurant door, they’d have explored the idea of opening smaller, more specialized restaurants in places like Butterfly Harbor.
Inspiration knocked featherlight against his mind. It might have caught hold if he hadn’t been reminded every five steps of that blasted food festival. A weather-resistant banner proclaiming its start had been stretched across the entrance to Monarch Lane.
He’d watched trucks and trailers roll down the street and disappear around the hill. The rumble of engines and
