Page 5 of Patio Lanterns

Robin cleared her throat. “It’s just that I got locked out of my cottage and can’t find my key. It’s getting dark, my phone is dying, and I really need to use the bathroom,” she said with a nervous giggle that squeezed her ballooning bladder.

“Sorry to hear that.” The man’s lips quirked to one side in a slight smile as he pushed the door open wider. “But you’re welcome to come in and use my bathroom if you want.”

For a total stranger, he seemed all right. He had nice teeth. Nice, kind eyes too. And he lived in a very nice cottage. Aidan’s cottage. She assessed the threat level to be neither severe nor substantial and calculated it would take her less than sixty seconds to pee and get the hell out of there. But still, she figured it wouldn’t hurt to lay down extra insurance. “Thanks very much. My boyfriend’s waiting for me up the road, and I told him I’d hurry back. He’s ex-military. Super protective.”

The man stepped back, holding the door open and ushering her in. Mutt suddenly galumphed around her, pushing his way inside like a furry fleabag home invader. “Get back here! Stay outside!” Robin commanded to no avail.

He laughed. “I take it this one’s with you too?”

“Sorta,” she said, embarrassed. “Sorry, his manners are atrocious.”

“No worries,” he said. “Uh… bathroom is down the hall, first door on your right.”

Robin realized that in all the years she’d known Aidan, she had never once been invited inside the Maple Leaf Lodge. As bizarre as that sounded, it was probably because the Blue Canoe was his and Lark’s preferred hang. In wide-eyed wonder, she looked around at the open-concept kitchen and living area which appeared far too modern in its design to be original. It had to have been renovated. Before she entered, she’d been ninety-eight percent sure it was Aidan’s cottage. Massive, murderous maple trees don’t lie. But these entirely foreign surroundings posed a whole litany of questions. What happened to Aidan? Where was he now? When did his mom sell the place? And just who the heck was that handsome stranger who’d opened the door?

The man’s bathroom was warm and fragrant with an intoxicating blend of spice, suede, and sandalwood. Condensation flecked the partially steamed mirror, and droplets of water pebbled the glass shower stall, evidence of its recent use. After washing up and flicking off the light, Robin walked back through the spacious great room, admiring its raised ceiling and exposed beams. It was definitely not how she’d pictured Aidan’s old place. If it even was the same place. Now she was maybe only seventy-three point four percent sure.

The man stood at the centre island in the kitchen, his head down and attention focused on chopping vegetables. He was tall, solid. Nice shoulders, too. He’d put on glasses with thick dark frames. The college professor look was definitely working for him, like it did most guys entering their silver fox era.

Mutt Lange sat perched at his feet, waiting for any tasty morsel to hit the tiled floor. His patience was rewarded a moment later with a thick round of cucumber.

“Sorry, he’s a real mooch,” Robin said.

The man looked up and smiled at her. “Not at all. He makes a fine sous chef.”

“Well, you can keep him if you want,” she said with a half-smirk because she was only half kidding.

“He has pretty unusual colouring. What kind of breed is he?”

She shrugged. “Somewhere between a Schnauzer and an Irish Wolfhound, I think, but he’s probably a Heinz 57. A mix of undetermined varieties.”

He twitched a grin. “And how did he lose the front leg? Sword fight? Shark attack? Second World War?”

She laughed along with him. “I don’t know. He arrived as damaged goods.”

“Maybe he’s like The Littlest Hobo,” he said. “Oh sorry, that’s a pretty dated reference.”

“Nah, I get it. That old show about the dog who went around helping people,” Robin told him. “I’ve seen it on one of the retro channels.”

“Does this little hobo have a name?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I call him Mutt Lange.”

The man bowed down to scratch the dog behind its ears. “Nice to meet you, Mutt. Although I once met Mutt Lange at a party in Vancouver, and you sir, are no Mutt Lange.” Mutt gave him a wide, panting smile and the man’s expression contorted to a grimace. “Whoa,” he said, straightening up as he fanned away the offensive odour. “He could really use a breath mint, and maybe a bath.”

“Yeah, I hope to remedy that tomorrow.” She’d have to make a trip to the general store first thing in the morning and spruce the old boy up before Lark and Dove arrived. Robin patted her hip, demanding Mutt’s attention. “Okay, boy, let’s go. Time to make tracks.”

“But didn’t you say you’re locked out?” the man asked.

“Yeah, but we’ll be fine. We can sleep in our van tonight.”

One of his eyebrows tented with concern.

“It’s no big deal, I practically live in it during the summer,” she said, an admission that she was painfully aware made her out to sound like a vagrant or a carny. “When I’m on the road with my band.”

“You’re in a band? Cool,” he said, his concerned eyebrow relaxing. “What do you play?”

“Oh, I’m not a musician, I’m just the manager. Well, a manager. Technically, I’m their merch queen,” she said, pointing out the stylized logo tightly stretched across her shirt.

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