Brynne laughed, though she was still dealing with a mild case of shock—not only were her parents coming home early, but they planned on taking over the family business. And, while they hadn’t said so outright, it hadn’t sounded as if those plans were temporary.
“No.” She smiled, shoving her hands into the pocket of her puffy jacket. “I’m pretty sure my dad would trust you with his life. I’m here to get some of my things from the storage shed.”
“Need any help?”
Coming to the house had been, for Brynne, that rare impulsive move. She hadn’t considered the volume of stuff she wanted to take home in comparison to the minisized car she drove.
Hank had a pickup truck.
“How much to have you deliver a full load of art supplies to the restaurant?”
If she was about to be unemployed, even partially, she wanted to use any extra time to sketch and paint.
“One week of free breakfast specials,” Hank said, with a broad grin.
“You’ve got a deal,” Brynne said, trudging on toward the large storage shed in her parents’ backyard.
Over the next half hour, she sorted through boxes and bins, deciding which pens and brushes and paints to take and which to leave. She wanted her easels—two freestanding and one designed for a tabletop—her extensive collection of watercolor, acrylic and oil paints, blocks of expensive paper, along with the appropriate brushes, and a stack of gallery-wrapped canvas nearly as tall as she was.
Hank loaded everything into the back of his truck, being very careful about it, and hauled the works over to Bailey’s, where he went the second mile by carrying everything up the stairs to Brynne’s apartment and into the first spare bedroom.
Brynne helped where she could, but she mainly got in Hank’s way.
He was too polite to mention that, of course.
When the job was finished, Brynne handed him a fifty-dollar bill and offered her sincere thanks.
Hank looked confused. “What about breakfast?” he asked.
“This is extra,” Brynne said. “How about an early lunch?”
“Mavis packed me a lunch, like she does every morning,” Hank said, reluctantly pocketing the fifty dollars. “Is there anything else that needs doing?”
Brynne smiled. “Not today. But you’d better show up for breakfast tomorrow, or I’ll come looking for you. And bring Mavis—she eats for free, too.”
Hank chuckled and shook his head. “You’re just like your dad,” he said. “Way too generous. With all the people he and Alice used to feed for free, even in the beginning, when they were trying to make a go of this place, Mavis and I used to wonder how they stayed out of the red.”
“I guess the old saying is right,” Brynne replied, with a soft smile. “It’s more blessed to give than to receive.”
“That’s in the Good Book,” Hank recalled.
“I know,” Brynne answered.
Five minutes later, she was in the bedroom she’d reserved for Davey, feeling guilty because her art supplies took up most of the space.
She managed to shift into a better mood by assuring herself that almost three months would pass before Davey and Maddie arrived to spend their spring vacation with her. In the meantime, she would find studio space—somewhere.
For now, she had plenty to keep her busy, between the restaurant, her parents’ imminent return and, of course, Eli.
Time with Eli, considering the demands of his job, was a catch-as-catch-can kind of thing, especially now that he was tying up the remaining loose ends related to the deaths of Tiffany Ulbridge and Freddie Lansing.
Judging by the rising noise level from downstairs, the lull was over and the lunch rush was underway.
Brynne put aside all thoughts of the recently, if not dearly, departed, and returned to the restaurant. In the kitchen, she washed her hands thoroughly and tied on a clean apron.
In her head, she heard her father’s voice. Time to hit the ground running, kiddo. We’re burnin’ daylight!
She was still smiling when she entered the serving section of the restaurant and came face-to-face with the last person on earth she would have expected to see.
Clay Nicholls sat alone at a table in the center of the room, holding a menu and pretending to be absorbed in the selections.
The lunchtime chatter, so lively only moments before, died away completely when Brynne came in.
She stopped as suddenly as if she’d run smack into an invisible force field, blinked a couple of times, devoutly hoped she was hallucinating.
She wasn’t.
Clay was there. Live and in person.
Shit.
There was nothing to do, she decided, but to brazen this thing through. Looking neither to the left nor the right, though she could feel a few dozen pairs of eyes fixed on her every move, Brynne marched over to the table, grabbed the menu out of Clay’s hand and slapped it down hard on the tabletop.
“What are you doing here?”
Clay looked up at her calmly. A corner of his mouth quirked in amusement.
Brynne wanted to slap him. She really did.
“Is that how you greet all your customers?”
“No, Clay,” Brynne said, her voice taut, “that’s how I greet you. Unless Davey and Maddie are with you—and obviously they are not—you have no business being here.”
“I’m only passing through, Brynne. On my way to a law enforcement seminar in Seattle.”
“Sure you are,” Brynne retorted, “and Painted Pony Creek, Montana, is part of a direct route between Seattle and Boston.”
Miranda appeared at Brynne’s side and asked quietly, “Is everything all right here?”
“Yes,” Clay said.
“No,” Brynne said.
“I just want to talk to you for a little while, Brynne,” Clay pressed. “That’s all. Make some plans for when the kids come to visit—”
“All of that could have been done by email, or over the phone,” Brynne interrupted.
Clay smiled. Once, that smile had been combustible, at least to Brynne.
Now it was simply obnoxious.
“Some things should be done—and said—in person.”
“And some things should just be forgotten,” Brynne insisted.
“Oh, look,” said Miranda, a little too loudly, craning her neck to peer past tables and booths full of paying customers to Bailey’s front window. “Here’s Eli.”