Page 65 of Best Served Cold

Yes, I definitely like her.

“Is that for a dog or a kid?” I ask, pointing at the sweater.

“It’s for Bertie.” Which doesn’t answer the question.

“A dog,” Ann says, “but she treats him like a little king.”

Constance makes a dismissive gesture. “If he shit scratchers, you’d treat him like a king.”

Shaking my head in amusement, I take a step away from the table.

“Wait,” Dottie says, her tone almost frantic. “You haven’t drunk your tea.”

“And I won’t,” I say, honestly. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Suit yourself. But I feel, very strongly, that you need to carry the calcite everywhere.Please.”

How could I say no to that? I can’t, so I smile and nod.

“Try wearing that hat backward,” Constance says. “Women love a backward cap.”

“And a doorway lean,” Ann pipes up. “My granddaughter told me that’s why she married her husband.”

“Because he can’t stand properly?”

“Because he’s tall,” she explains. “He’s nice enough, but he has a face like a bunched fist and is about as smart as one. You seem much smarter, son.” She winks at me. “Don’t forget the scratchers. You may get lucky in more ways than one.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, smiling. “Good day, ladies.” I wave to the woman who gave me the wipes, and she waves back, a confused look on her face.

I’ve made it only a few steps from the tea shop before Dottie rushes out, stopping me.

“What is it?” I ask, turning toward her. Something in my heart softens. It’s been a while since I’ve received this kind of regard for my well-being from anyone but Mother Hen Travis.

She reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “Help her realize it wasn’t her fault, my dear. She needs to know.”

It feels like a bolt of lightning just split me in half, leaving both sides charred and burned.

I know she must be talking about whatever happened to Sophie, the event she’d like to erase from her past.

“Do you know what happened to her?” I ask.

She nods once, her chin firm. “And she’s been treated abominably, if you ask me. I hope you can change that, dear heart.”

“It’s a fake relationship, Dottie,” I say with a resigned sigh. “She’s just doing it to help me.”

“Oh?”

A few people step past us with aggravated expressions. New Yorkers, probably. Tons of them have moved here from the big city and brought their big-city mentality with them.

I lead her over to a bench on the sidewalk. We sit, and I tell her about Emil.

To my surprise, Dottie blots her eyes with a little napkin she retrieves from her apron. “You’re a good boy,” she says, squeezing my hand. “My great-nephew didn’t have the best childhood, but his mother left him with me when he was a teenager, and he grew to be awonderful, upstanding man. He has a beautiful family of his own now. Sometimes, all a child needs is one person to believe in him. We all want the people we love to have what we didn’t. If you need a character witness, you have one, my dear. I will stand up for you, and so will all of my friends.”

She hugs me, and I let her. Then I walk back to my car, lost in thought. Because she was right. I’m trying to give Emil what I never received, and I didn’t realize it until this second.

I take a few minutes to collect myself, and then I check the time—after nine thirty—and send a message to Nelly instead of calling, telling her about Sophie.

Five minutes later, she calls back and asks to meet my girlfriend.

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