only so many times she could push her luck before Alex tossed her out, Stuart Lefkowitz’s threats be damned. By her count, she’d already pushed twice. Three times if she counted using the breach of contract threat as leverage. Therefore, Kelsey made a point of bringing Puddin’ to her room for the night, making sure the cat stayed out of Alex’s way.
“The less he sees of you, my friend, the better,” she told him. Puddin’, naturally, didn’t mind. He simply sprawled across her comforter and started bathing.
Next morning, she woke at the crack of dawn and deposited the now indignant Puddin’ on the doorstep before heading into town. The latest Grandma Rosie payment was due and she wanted to make sure the check went out registered mail. The storm had ended a few hours earlier, leaving only a few downed branches and puddles as evidence it existed. Pulling onto the main road, she saw a power truck restringing the line and was surprised at the small stab of disappointment. Surely she didn’t want to spend another night in the dark with Alex, with its odd mixture of intimacy and mystery. Did she?
She pulled onto Main Street, grateful the early hour meant an abundance of parking. Stockbridge was one of those sleepy towns that exploded in summer. Once a Gilded Age playground, the area had reinvented itself as an arts center featuring everything from symphony orchestras to offbeat art galleries. City dwellers flocked to the region, eager to soak up the pastoral atmosphere even as they disturbed it. For the residents, she imagined the crowds were a double-edged sword, simultaneously welcome and disdained.
Except for Alex. He simply disdained.
A sign on the post office window told her she had another fifteen minutes so she made her way down the street to the Leafy Bean. Farley’s grocery store captured the area’s atmosphere in one eclectic building. Part grocery, part café, part gourmet haven, the place featured everything from imported almond oil to homemade pastries served with a healthy dose of local color. And, as Kelsey discovered when picking up her grocery order, the store boasted an amazing selection of brewed coffee.
A brass bell announced her arrival. Farley was behind the counter, a large green apron covering his burly frame. His gloves and wrists were covered with flour.
“Morning, Farley,” she greeted him, getting a grunt in return. “Some storm last night, huh? Nuttingwood lost power.”
“Whaddya expect, up there in the middle of nowhere.”
Alone, where no one could find him. “That’s what Mr. Markoff likes about the place. It’s private.”
“Private like a hermit,” Farley muttered back.
The Hermit of Nuttingwood. The moniker fit. It was sad and enigmatic. Now that she knew his story, or part of it, she couldn’t blame him for wanting a little privacy, although retiring to the side of a mountain for five years still seemed a bit extreme. After all, she knew as well as anyone that life was seldom fair. The letter tucked in her satchel proved that. People used other people all the time. You learned to adapt.
Not to mention keep your distance. Mind your own business. Don’t get too attached and think too far into the future. For people who didn’t have the luxury of hiding on a mountainside, those rules were the key to survival. She knew because she’d been following them since she was four years old.
Except for this week. What was it about Alex Markoff that made her forget the rules?
“Better get your coffee while you can,” Farley said, coming around to pour himself a cup as well. “Once the tourists wake up, they’ll clean the place out.”
She took it as a supreme compliment that he didn’t lump her in with that group. “Isn’t business a good thing?”
“Pain in the neck is what it is,” Farley replied. “Always looking for some fancy flavor or asking if my beans are ‘fair trade’. Says right there on the sign clear as day. Can’t they read?”
Kelsey smiled over the rim of her coffee. “Guess not.”
The older man was about to add more when the doorbell jingled. A group of two men and three women, clearly tourists, entered. The men wore pastel island shirts and khaki shorts—an outfit that was nearly uniform among visitors—while the women wore various forms of linen. All of them wore some kind of hat—either straw or baseball—perched on their heads.
“Do you have cappuccinos?” one of the women asked as they approached the counter.
“Everything we’ve got is on the counter,” Farley replied, shooting Kelsey a look as if to say “see what I mean?”
“Who needs lattes, just give me a straight shot of joe,” one of the men said. He was tall and athletic looking with sandy brown hair. Smiling at Kelsey, he added, “Too bad you can’t hook up an intravenous line.”
“Then how would you add sugar?” Kelsey asked.
“Who cares as long as it’s going straight into my veins.” The stranger grinned, then after a pause, pointed a finger at her.
“Nels Bïrdgarten’s gallery showing, right? I was trying to think where we met. You look familiar.”
If she had a nickel for every time a stranger tried that come-on, she wouldn’t have to worry about paying off her debt. “Maybe our paths crossed somewhere in the city,” she suggested.
“Could be. Or it was a cheap excuse to introduce myself. Tom Forbes.”
At least he admitted the line was cheesy. Kelsey shook the hand he offered and introduced herself.
“So you’re from New York,” he continued. “Come to the Berkshires often?”
“First time. I’m here for the summer for a work assignment. You?”
“Every summer since I was eight. My parents have a place on the lake. Not a bad locale if you don’t mind quiet.”
You don’t know quiet, Kelsey thought to herself. “I don’t. Besides, you can’t beat the coffee.”
“Not New York standards, but it’ll do, I suppose.” Over at the register, Farley coughed. Oblivious, Tom raised the cup to his lips.
“Tom!” the female ringleader called over. “We’re heading to the arts and crafts store.”
“You go ahead, Moira. I’m going to finish my coffee, unless—” he flashed a bright smile “—I can talk you into breakfast at the Inn.”
Kelsey chewed her lower lip. She should head back to Nuttingwood. On the other hand, it felt good to have someone want her company for a change. What she wouldn’t give to have Alex toss even a hint of a smile in her direction.
She reached for a plastic to-go lid. “Why not?” she said, smiling back. “Breakfast sounds nice.”
She got back to Nuttingwood far later than planned. Tom turned out to be pleasant company: charming, talkative, entertaining. A tad pompous but nice enough. He described himself as a social gadfly, doing a little bit of everything. “You know,” he’d said when she asked, “a freelance project here, a blog article there.”
In other words, he was rich enough that he didn’t need to work.
When they parted
