Chapter One
Poppy Fairbanks was having a day, and it wasn’t even noon yet.
In all fairness to her current situation, things had started to head south the night before. She’d been deep in dreamland when her dog, Mabel, a little brown-and-white girl of dubious lineage, decided to vomit all over the pillow two inches from Poppy’s head. Nothing will wake a girl faster than the sound of an animal puking.
She’d hopped out of bed so fast, she lost her balance and tripped over the area rug. That was when her cheek met the corner of the night table, and now, nearly twelve hours later, she sported a nasty bruise and had a strained wrist from a lame attempt to break her fall. Coordination had never been a strong suit.
After tossing everything in the washing machine, she’d eventually fallen asleep on the sofa, which meant her alarm clock was nowhere near her head at six thirty in the morning. And that meant she woke up late and had been running to catch up ever since.
“Great,” she muttered, staring at herself in the mirror. She angled her head a bit for a better look at the damage to her face. She touched it gently and winced. It was sore and purple and yellow, but at least the swelling had gone down.
With a sigh, she pushed out of the small bathroom of her boutique, Bella & Hooch, and looked at the clock on the wall by the back door. Christy, her part-time employee, was twenty minutes late, which put her ahead of George and the Turkish towels Poppy was waiting to take delivery of. She had maybe half an hour before she was supposed to leave, and things weren’t looking good.
The bell above the door jingled just then, and she glanced up hopefully, but it was a little boy who rushed in, not Christy, and definitely not George and the Turkish towels. Poppy set down a bunch of succulents she was going to display and walked over to the boy, who seemed to be mighty interested in the collection of exotic birds near the store window. All of them were fake, of course, but they were colorful and perfect for a patio or backyard, and the little guy studied them intently.
He looked to be about five or so, with thick dark curls that clung to his sweaty neck, and a pair of round glasses perched on the end of his nose. His legs were gangly, his knees stained from grass, and his white T-shirt was covered in dirt. He looked like any other typical kid who’d just been to the park across from the boutique, and she wondered who he belonged to.
Poppy glanced out the window, but it was July third, and the boardwalk, park, and river were busy. She cleared her throat and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hey,” she said gently. “You like the birds?”
He nodded and moved closer, pushing up his glasses and angling his head for a better look. “That one’s a cockatoo.” He pointed to another that she’d fastened to the ladder. “And that one’s a parrot.” He turned and looked at Poppy. “Does it talk?”
“No,” she replied with a smile. “It’s not real.”
“I know that,” he said, an indignant look on his face, before turning back to the parrot. “But some do. My dad has one in his man cave, and it says bad words.” He giggled, his smile wide open when he glanced back at Poppy. “Like the f-word and the s-word too.”
“That’s some kind of special parrot,” she replied, glancing through the window. “Do you know where your dad is?”
The boy shrugged and got back to his very intense perusal of the birds. “He was talking to some lady in the park.”
“Well, he’s probably wondering where you are, so maybe you should head back to him.”
“No.” The kid shook his head. “He told me to come here.”
“Did he now.”
The boy nodded. “I had to pee, so he told me to come here since there was a line at the outside toilet.” He shrugged. “Plus I don’t like spiders, and Josh told me there was a big one in it.”
Poppy spied Emily Davenport, a pretty blonde woman who’d been recently widowed, chatting with someone, but whoever it was, they were hidden behind an old oak tree. Other than Emily, there were dozens of folks out there and kids running mad, but no single men that she could see.
“What’s your name?” she asked, turning back to the boy.
“Benjamin.” He stood back and scratched under his nose. “But everyone calls me Benji.” He paused and frowned. “Except my mom and my nana.”
“Well, Benji, my name is Poppy.” She pointed toward the back. “Why don’t you follow me, and I’ll show you to the bathroom.”
“I’m thirsty,” he said, following her to the back of the shop. “Do you have a Gatorade?”
“No. But I have water.”
She scooted him toward the bathroom and, while he took care of business, grabbed a water bottle from the small fridge in the back. She waited for him to finish, sent him back in to wash his hands when he tried to sneak that one past her, and handed him a bottle before pointing to the door.
“Do you want to have a look and see if your dad is out there?”
“No,” Benji said, greedily drinking from the water bottle. He swiped at the corner of his mouth and pointed to a shelf above her sales counter. “What’s that?” he asked, taking a step closer to get a better look. “Is it a monster?”
“It’s called a gargoyle.” A leftover from Halloween, the fierce creature sat on the shelf between several small ferns and some pottery.
“It looks like a weird lizard.”
“You’re right. It does. They were used centuries ago to ward off evil spirits.”
His eyes widened. “Cool.” He took another sip of water. “Do you know what a pterodactyl is?”
“A dinosaur?”
He shook his head vigorously. “That’s what everyone says, but it’s actually a flying reptile. I read about it in the book Daddy gave me last week.” His face fell. “I wish the big meteor didn’t happen and they were still alive.” He scrunched up his nose and tugged at his glasses again. “What happened to your face?”
“I…” She laughed. “You sure do ask a lot of questions.”
“That’s what my nana says.”
“That so?” Poppy replied as she grabbed the gargoyle off the shelf and handed it to Benji.
“Yep.” He nodded. “She told me that if I’m not careful, my tongue is going to run away with me.” He frowned, turning over the gargoyle. “But that doesn’t make sense.” He looked up at Poppy. “Does it?”
“No,” she said with a chuckle, shaking her head. “It doesn’t.”
“Why do grown-ups say things that don’t make sense?”
“I have no idea.”
“My dad says it’s because he can.”
“That sounds like a dad answer.”
Benji shrugged. “I guess so.” He finished the water and had to stand up on his tiptoes to reach the counter, where he carefully set the empty bottle down. Then he turned back to Poppy, gargoyle still clutched in his hands. “Did someone hit you? Does it hurt? I got one last year from my friend Teddy, but it was an accident. His lacrosse stick caught me in the eye. Daddy says that’s what happens when you don’t pay attention and look where you’re going.” He angled his head. “Did you know it’s called a hematoma? My dad had a big one two years ago—”