Page 22 of Cool for the Summer

Between all the dog care and cooking and working on my tan (I know I shouldn’t, but a guy can’t help it), I haven’t made it back to town. I’ve been wanting to return to the thrift store and explore the bookshop Jack told me about. But the first thing I do after parking my GTI in a shady spot on a side street is make for Hot Brew.

I was too hungover the last time I was here to appreciate the cute black and white tile and the array of baked goods in the pastry case next to the clean white counter. The morning rush is probably over, because there are only a couple of people in line, but almost every table is full of chatting, caffeinated patrons. I take my time perusing the short but appealing food menu and what’s on offer in the way of croissants and muffins. I don’t see any cookies, which is disappointing until I remember I’ve got about five dozen leftover molasses cookies at home.

I’ve earned a stimulant after taking Cleo for an extra-long walk this morning, so when it’s my turn I ask the petite redhead behind the counter for a matcha latte. I think I recognize her from my previous visit, but my memory of that morning is mostly the splitting headache and Donovan being way too sweet to someone he just met.

Of course, at the time, he didn’t know we’d have to spend the rest of the summer together. It shouldn’t sting that he completely stopped flirting after he found out he’d actually be living with me. I guess it’s good we’re getting along, but it makes me sad that he doesn’t seem to believe he can get companionship and sex in the same relationship. I wonder, not for the first time, if he’s just one of those guys who’s not built to settle down, or if something happened to turn him off to the idea.

“What’s an Everything Muffin?” I ask the red-haired employee, hoping it doesn’t involve caraway seeds. I’m not a huge fan.

“Right now, it’s got blueberries, raspberries, and blackberries, with a hint of lemon,” she explains. “We change up the flavor every season.”

“Sounds delicious. Who does your baking?”

“Who wants to know?” A woman with ink-black hair, painted on eyebrows, and black lipstick leaves the espresso machine to stand next to the redhead.

I’m taken aback by her question until I notice her grin; I’m pretty sure I’ve met her somewhere before.

“Beck, right?” she says. “I’m Meadow. We met at your cousin’s wedding.”

“I remember,” I say slowly, the memory filtering through the drunken haze of that night.

“Jack told me you were house-sitting this summer. How’s it going rattling around in that big house?”

“Turns out Pete asked his friend Donovan to house-sit, too, so it’s not as, uh, rattly.”

The redhead lets out a small squeak and her cheeks turn almost as red as her hair.

“You okay, Ruth?” Meadow asks her coworker with a hint of concern.

Now I definitely remember Ruth from the other morning, and the way she seemed to melt every time Donovan threw a smile her way. Since I can relate, I give her a sympathetic look. “Anyway, so far, so good. But I haven’t had a chance to explore Rosedale yet. I’m fueling up here first.”

“Well, the muffins are terrific, but we don’t make them in-house. The croissants and other pastries come from the city—some poor schmo drives them up from a bakery in Manhattan every morning. But the muffins and quick breads come from a local baker, Stacy Robinson. She also makes the bread we use for our sandwiches.”

“I can’t wait to try everything,” I enthuse. “But I have to point out a hole in your menu. No cookies?”

“No, we’ve never carried cookies. I’ve mentioned it to the owner a couple of times, but she’s pretty happy with our current offerings.”

“Good to know. Well, this place is adorable.”

“Thanks,” Meadow says warmly. “Ruth, you can give him the friends and family discount.”

Ruth charges me what seems like a ridiculously low amount and passes me a wax paper bag with the muffin inside.

I thank them both and tuck an extra big tip into the jar next to the computer. I nibble on the muffin until the matcha latte is up a few minutes later. The drink is strong and not too sweet, and I’m instantly addicted.

“See you soon,” I call to the women when I leave, getting twin waves in return.

Outside, the sky is still overcast, but it’s not cold. Still, I’m glad for the warmth of my drink as I saunter down Main Street. The thrift store is up on the right, and the bookstore is somewhere a bit farther along. I see a cute-looking Italian restaurant not yet open for the day, and a real estate firm with photos of local properties in the window. I stop and browse the listings—a twenty-acre farm, a small ranch-style house, a one-bedroom apartment. I look for the abandoned dark blue house I’ve seen on my walks with Cleo, but it’s not there.

Second Time Around, the thrift store, is cool and dark inside. Before I pounce on the kitchenware, I reintroduce myself to the lady rearranging the window display, who says her name is Beth, and that she owns the place.

After poking around for a while, I decide I absolutely have to have some really cute vintage cocktail glasses I find on an out-of-the-way shelf. Beth rings me up, carefully wrapping each glass in tissue paper.

“Where’s your young man today?” she asks.

“Who?” I look around as if I can conjure up a boyfriend by sheer willpower.

“Your friend from the other morning,” she says, handing me a paper bag with my purchases.

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