Page 20 of Hometown Heart

He clapped me on the shoulder, heading toward his office. "Sunday at two. Bring whatever gear you've got."

The afternoon sun cast long shadows through Tidal Grounds' windows when I returned. The morning rush had ebbed, leaving only a scattered handful of customers nursing their laptops and lattes. Behind the counter, Silas methodically wiped down the espresso machine, his movements unnaturally intense and precise like in the morning.

"Just missed the lunch crowd," he said without looking up.

"Actually came to check your Sunday hours." I pulled Brooks's flyer from my pocket, smoothing it against the counter. "Thought I might need coffee before attempting to skate with the locals."

"You're joining the pickup game?"

"Brooks made a convincing argument about community spirit. And eating ice."

"He can be persuasive." Silas finally met my eyes with an unreadable expression. "Though I'm pretty sure watching you attempt a slapshot wasn't part of his sales pitch."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." I managed a small smile. "Don't suppose you'll be there?"

The cloth resumed its circular motion on the machine. "I usually help Sarah open on Sundays."

"Right." I let the silence stretch for a moment, then added quietly, "I don't regret it, you know."

His hands faltered just slightly.

"I have to finish up here."

I nodded, understanding the dismissal.

Maybe Rory was right about ghosts, but I was starting to think somebody needed to challenge them, even if that meant risking a few falls along the way.

Chapter seven

Silas

My precious dark roast beans scattered across the counter. I desperately tried to sweep them into a neat pile, but my hands refused to cooperate. They let each coffee bean skitter away, half falling to the floor. Three in the morning was too early to be at Tidal Grounds, but sleep didn't come easy lately.

The coffee grinder's hum pounded in my head. It was too aggressive and loud. I'd overloaded it, and before I stopped the machine, it processed the Ethiopian beans into powder. I'd ruined them. The waste bin already contained multiple earlier mistakes: burned pastries, a collapsed quiche, and measurement errors that would have made my culinary school instructors cringe.

"Get it together, Brewster," I muttered, dumping the over-ground beans to start fresh.

Music from the kitchen radio filled the air. It was a late-night jazz station out of Portland. Normally, it was soothing, but even Miles Davis couldn't soothe my thoughts. Every note reminded me of the carnival and the firelight painting shadows across the handsome angles of Jack's face.

My kettle shrieked, startling me back to reality. Water sloshed over the counter as I yanked it off the heat.

I measured fresh beans carefully, determined to get the new batch right. It was a valiant effort, but I still couldn't stop my mind from wandering back to the parking lot and the soft press of Jack's lips against mine. I remembered how his hand gently rose before I bolted like a spooked deer.

Getting lost in the memory made me fumble the pour-over, splashing hot water dangerously close to my wrist. The resulting coffee would be bitter, extracted too quickly and carelessly.

Sarah would arrive in three hours, expecting to have everything prepped for opening. I had a long way to go. My empty display case—no scones or morning glory muffins—was evidence of my scattered focus.

Outside, a gull's cry pierced the pre-dawn quiet. It reminded me that the harbor would be stirring soon. The lobster boats would rumble to life while their crews prepared for another day at sea. They had an admirable certainty in their routines, following the steady rhythm of the tides.

My own certainty was feeling paper-thin.

I slowly filled the bakery case as morning edged closer. Each item I managed to prepare looked almost but not quite right—muffins golden but slightly lopsided, scones a touch darker than usual, and the morning's coffee cake missed its usual streusel topping. Sarah would notice.

I wiped down tables, adjusted chairs, and straightened the local notices on the bulletin board. A flyer for Sunday's pickup game caught my attention. Someone—probably Brooks—had scrawled "ALL SKILL LEVELS WELCOME" across the bottom in bold marker. I started to pull it down, but then I let my hand drop.

The eastern horizon bled purple to pink beyond the harbor. It was time to unlock the doors, paste on a smile, and pretendeverything was normal. I flipped the sign from CLOSED to OPEN just as Vi's shadow appeared on the sidewalk. She was right on schedule with her crossword puzzle tucked under her arm.

The morning regulars filtered in. Vi claimed her usual table, and Joe MacPherson began his usual morning monologue about the weather before he reached the counter. The predictable rhythms should have settled me at the start of a new day, but my nerves remained on edge.

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