children don’t like being kept in the dark, Ma.”
“I’m not hiding anything.” She paused, before adding, “Not from you, I promise. Not anymore.”
He could live with that. If Iris wanted to keep the rest of the town from knowing the truth about her ongoing fight with seasonal affective disorder, well, that was her right. As long as she didn’t try to hide it from him. He never wanted to get another phone call like the one he’d received last winter—the call in which an artificially calm voice informed him that his mother had tried to kill herself.
But she was doing better now. She was gradually adjusting to life without his father. And it was summer, when the long light-filled days held her depression at bay. As long as he got her out of Comeback Cove before fall, she would be fine.
The trouble was that while Iris said she was ready to move, he had the feeling she was really hoping for some sort of reprieve. Something, perhaps, like convincing him to move back.
“So.” He sniffed the tea again, turned up his nose. “Where can I get a cup of real coffee these days?”
“The same place you always could. River Joe’s.” She looked him up and down. “You know it’s going to be crowded this time of day.”
It was a gentle hint that he might want to change. Little did she know that there was no way he was going to reveal the depths of his changes to this town. He could handle them rejecting the kid he’d been. The man he’d become, though—that was off-limits.
Besides, it was fun to put on the old ways and tweak folks a bit. He kind of missed letting his inner daredevil have his day.
“River Joe’s, huh?” A picture of the woman he’d spotted the previous evening flashed through his mind. Maybe the answer to her identity was closer than he’d expected.
He snagged his Rollerblades from beside the deacon’s bench in the front hall, then sat down and wriggled the first foot in. Keeping his voice casual, he asked, “Who’s running it these days?”
“Lydia Brewster.”
“Who’s she?”
“Buddy Brewster’s daughter-in-law.”
J.T. wound the laces around his hands, tugged and looked up. “Glenn’s wife? How did she end up with the shop?”
“Glenn’s widow, yes. She moved here with her children after Glenn and Buddy died.”
Memories raced through J.T.’s mind, outtakes from the one and only time Comeback Cove had gained national attention. There had been a tanker on the seaway—a common enough occurrence. But this tanker had been targeted by a nutcase with a statement to make and enough explosives to make sure he was heard. Buddy and Glenn had been out deer hunting when they stumbled across the man. They stopped him. But in the process they lost their own lives.
J.T. tied a quick bow and moved on to the next foot. “Must have been tough for her.”
“It was. I’m sure it still is.”
The slight catch in his mother’s voice was proof that she understood Lydia Brewster’s pain better than he ever would. He hunted for something to say that would keep them on even emotional ground. “What made her come here?”
“You say that like it’s a life sentence.”
“You mean it isn’t?”
“Maybe when you’re a child. But adults usually enjoy it.”
Any minute now, she’d start a commercial on the joys of life in Comeback Cove. “Lydia Brewster?” he prompted.
Iris sighed. “Well, she and Ruth were both hurting, as you can imagine. Ruth was all alone in that big house, and Lydia’s children were so small—the youngest was little more than a baby. She brought them here, and Ruth helped with the kids while Lyddie ran the store. It was good for both of them.”
It made sense. But he still couldn’t see how moving to the Cove could be in anyone’s best interests.
“This is her home now,” Iris continued, “and people are glad to have her. Losing Buddy and Glenn was terrible. It helps to have her and the children here, like a part of them is still with us. And Lyddie is so sweet and brave that everyone wants to help.”
J.T. could only imagine. From what he remembered, if the nutcase had succeeded, the resulting explosion could have destroyed the town far more completely than he ever had. Lydia Brewster must be the next thing to a saint around here.
If she were indeed the woman he’d seen, it explained the ease with which she’d been accepted into town. Even the Cove couldn’t keep a hero’s widow at arm’s length.
He gave the laces a tug vicious enough to risk snapping them. He hoped to hell that this Brewster woman either wanted to close the shop or had enough money tucked away to buy her building from him. Because even with skates on, he doubted he could outrun the wave of condemnation that would crash over him if he had to sell Lydia Brewster’s business out from under her.
* * *
THE WEDNESDAY-MORNING RUSH was in full gear, leaving Lyddie little time to worry about Tracy’s revelation of the night before. Good. If she let herself think too long about this, she could come up with a dozen possible outcomes, each one scarier than the last. She was all too aware that the worst-case scenario really could happen in a life.
She could lose her business. Have to start over in another location. Worst of all, she would have to say goodbye to another piece of her children’s history—the shop their grandfather started, the place where their father carved his initials into the kitchen wall.
But all that had to wait. Right now she had to draw a hazelnut roast for Jillian.
“Leave it black, please,” Jillian called, as though this were a new request. Every morning she ordered the same thing. Nadine and Lyddie were getting on in years, but even they could remember a medium hazelnut, no cream, no sugar.
On the other hand, Jillian hadn’t attained the office of mayor—and every other title in town, from Little Miss Fall Festival on up—by leaving anything to chance. Maybe Lyddie should take a lesson from her. Jillian would never find herself breathless and foundering while her building was sold out from beneath her, that was for sure.
“How about a blueberry muffin, Your Worship?” Nadine was in fine form. “Mmm, look at that brown sugar streusel.”
Jillian, queen of the Thighmaster, shuddered visibly. “No. Just coffee. No food.”
On the other hand, there had to be a more positive role model than an anorexic power slut.
“I need music,” Lyddie announced, and scooted around the counter to reach the long-outdated CD player. Usually she didn’t start the tunes until the morning rush had cleared and conversation had dwindled. But today she needed all the distraction she could get.
She thumbed through the CDs and shook her head. Gregorian chants, harp music, the sounds of relaxation... None of those felt right. She needed in-your-face vocals that would give her a socially acceptable outlet for the frustration perking inside her. She needed—
