to drift over the edge of the Pacific on the other side of Butterfly Harbor’s miniature version of Hadrian’s Wall. The waist-high stone cobble wound its way from one end of town to the other, a break of sorts separating the beach from the narrow main street, which was in need of repaving. Waves crashed onto the shoreline, stumbling over rocks and shells. How she wished she could scuttle about and burrow into the protective sand like the countless hermit crabs Simon insisted on bringing home.
As Holly wiped her rag down the glass on the front door, she caught sight of the crowd headed her way and pushed open the door. “Ursula! The Cocoon Club is here.”
The aptly named group of seniors who had lived in Butterfly Harbor from the time they could crawl gabbed their way inside the diner for their Saturday midmorning outing. Holly caught smatterings of conversations that included family happenings and the upcoming Pig in a Poke BBQ Festival, one of those “new” events the Cocoon Club had been assigned as a test run for the town’s October Butterfly Festival.
These new traditions seemed to be, at least to Holly, overshadowing the town’s 125th anniversary celebration next month.
Holly did a quick wipe of the three hand-carved monarch butterflies fixed atop the frame of the diner door before she followed her customers inside.
“Myra, your new hairstyle looks beautiful.” Holly didn’t bother to hand menus to the four men and three women taking seats at their usual table in the corner of the diner. “Eloise, are you trying a new nail color?”
“Tangerine ice.” Eloise waggled her arthritic fingers. “Matches my hair. You like?”
“Very stylish.” Holly nodded. “Everyone getting their usual?”
Murmurs of assent echoed and Holly jotted down the seven items as her afternoon server breezed through the door for her shift. “Twyla will bring your coffee and tea. And one Dr Pepper,” Holly said as she smiled at Oscar, affectionately nicknamed The Grouch. Put a pair of tongs and a slab of ribs in the man’s hands, however, and he transformed into the Picasso of Pork.
“Same order every Saturday for twentysomething years.” Ursula Stevens, the ex-navy short-order cook and diner fixture grumbled from across the order counter as Holly approached. “You’d think they’d stretch their taste-bud boundaries. I’m an artist, you know.” Ursula’s craggy, cranky face wasn’t softened by the hairnet plastered to her skull.
“As evidenced by your cheeseburger soup.” Holly’s stomach rumbled as if planning its own lunch as she reached for the overstock of napkins for the dispensers before starting on the sugar and sweetener packets. “You make any progress on those new menu ideas? Starting first of the month we’ll be adding those dinner hours.” She understood the need for economic expansion. If the town she loved was going to survive, changes had to be made. But when those changes interrupted her meticulous schedule and eroded the already precious time she had with Simon, she couldn’t help but shift into panic mode. Longer hours meant hiring new staff, staff she couldn’t afford unless they stayed open seven days a week, which cost more money... Holly blew out a frustrated breath. Good thing she didn’t have a life beyond her son and the diner.
“You best be looking to hire me some help, ’cause I ain’t working no fourteen-hour days.” Somewhere between sixty and infinity, the five-foot-nothing Ursula had started working at the diner after Holly’s grandma Ruby had bought the place in the early seventies.
“Way ahead of you.” She’d stalled hiring new staff for as long as she could. She’d have to sit down this weekend and crunch the numbers. She didn’t know how she was going to pay for it...yet. “We’ll figure it out.” Holly didn’t know how to fail and she wasn’t about to learn now.
Twyla, all of nineteen with razor-straight black hair and a penchant for too-tight jeans and too-short crop tops, bounced out of the kitchen tying a black apron around her runway-model-thin waist. Holly gave silent thanks that their recent conversation about appropriate diner attire hadn’t fallen on deaf ears.
“Usual drinks for the club,” Holly told her.
“Got it.” Spinning a tray out from under the counter, Twyla breezed off toward the coffee station.
Ursula’s “harrumph” brought a strained smile to Holly’s face as the bell above the door chimed. “Be with you in a sec.” Holly pushed the order through the window and tugged her hot pink T-shirt down over her jeans as she turned around to greet the next customer.
Holly’s entire body froze as if she’d locked herself in the walk-in freezer.
Then her knees wobbled, but she kept her spine stiff and her voice low as the anger she thought she’d buried over a decade ago rumbled up from her toes. “Luke Saxon.” She shoved her hands into her back pockets and tried not to notice how quiet the diner had become.
“Hello, Holly.” A tight, guarded smile softened dark, angular features. “Good to see you again.”
She pressed her lips together so hard they went numb.
Every town, even Butterfly Harbor, had its bad boy. That boy who wore a black leather jacket and snug jeans to the point of female distraction. The boy who exuded a mind-numbing combination of hostility and romanticized misunderstanding. The boy every girl wanted to date but none dared approach. The boy other boys wanted to emulate, but none thought to befriend. Yeah, there were bad boys.
And then there was Luke Saxon.
And he still wore a black leather jacket and carried himself with a self-assuredness that was both enviable and off-putting. His onetime too long ink-black hair had been shorn into shape, his pasty complexion replaced by what looked like years spent in the sun. The sad stone-blue eyes she remembered in the face of a sullen boy had turned to steel in the span of twelve years. She saw life painted on his handsome face.
He’d grown up. Holly straightened. They both had. While Luke stood before her as a man, she couldn’t help but see the troubled—and dangerous—youth she remembered. His reputation for skirting the thin edge of the law had become legend in Butterfly Harbor.
“I’ll understand if you’d rather I eat someplace else.” The low rumble of Luke’s voice sounded foreign to Holly’s ears and prickled her skin. In her mind Luke was still eighteen, smelling of beer, blood and guilt rather than the intoxicating combination of sea air and orange spice.
“You know what Grandma Ruby always said.” Holly forced the words from her tight throat. “Everyone’s welcome at the diner.” Even you.
“I heard she passed.” Luke pushed his hands deep into his jacket pockets, rocked on his heels as he kept his chin up, his gaze pinned to hers. “She was always very nice to me.”
Holly cleared her throat and wished her grandmother was here right now—she’d always known what to say. “Thanks. You eating alone?” She grabbed a menu out of the cubby at the end of the counter and tried not to notice how her hand trembled.
“No. I’m meeting—”
“Sorry I’m late.” Butterfly Harbor’s new mayor, Gil Hamilton, pushed through the door and swept his long sandy-blond hair out of his eyes. “Hey, Holl. Must be a blast from the past, huh? Having Luke back?”
“Not to stay?” Holly blurted.
“For a while,” Luke said.
“A
