Page 4 of Hand Picked
“Rusty Spikes?”
“Mmm. They’re whiskey and… something that tastes like fruit punch. My dad says they’ll make you forget your troubles. My mom says they’ll make you forget your name.” He grinned. “You don’t have to drink if you don’t wanna, though. You can just go for the hockey. That’s what my mom does.”
“Ah, well, I don’t know a thing about hockey either, so…”
“Wait. You mean you don’t know how to play hockey? Or you… you don’t follow the NHL?”
“Uh… both?”
“Oh, my God, Mr. Luke.” Murray’s eyes went round and shiny in the near-darkness. “You poor thing. Nobody ever taught you?”
I ran a hand over my mouth to hide my smile. Murray didn’t seem to pity me for the bomb crater in my farmhouse living room, but the fact that I didn’t understand the intricacies of strapping knives on your feet and heaving yourself around an ice field was enough to bring him to tears.
“I’m afraid it’s not on the curriculum in North Carolina,” I admitted.
“It’s the best thing in the world, Mr. Williams,” he said in a hushed voice. “You gotta get somebody to teach you.”
I liked how he thought the streets were crowded with people just dying to teach a man hockey…
Although, for all I knew, maybe here in Vermont they were.
“I’ll do that. One of these days.”
“M’kay.” Murray inched toward the door, a little reluctantly. “Really think about going to the meeting, you know? Winter can be lonely if you don’t get out and clear the cobwebs once in a while, and people would be glad to see you.”
I wasn’t sure why that simple sentence from him brought tears to my eyes—probably because I wished so much that it was true.
“Good advice!” I said with false cheer. “You drive safely, okay?”
I waved goodbye and closed the door behind him, then turned around and promptly tripped over a stack of books, crash-landing facedown on my bed.
After a beat, I let out a muffled scream.
I prided myself on seeing the silver lining of any situation, but I was having a really hard time at that precise moment.
My historic home was crumbling to dust even faster than I’d imagined. My trailer was barely warmer than the outdoors. And I was getting tired of my own company.
I wanted someone to pour out my troubles to. Someone who’d pat my head and remind me that things would look better in the morning. Heck, I wanted someone to help memakeit better in the morning, ideally with hot sex, strong coffee, a degree in roof repair, and a winning smile.
But since none of that was likely to happen, I needed to stop my pity party in its tracks because seriously,yuck.
So what I needed was to do exactly what Murray said—tomakemyself happier, if only for a minute. What I needed… was a Rusty Spike.
I flipped onto my back and contemplated the ceiling.
Was this a safe, sane, and responsible idea?Oooh, hard no.
Was it better than the alternative of sitting here all night and again tomorrow?
The wind blew through some unseen crack in my camper home like the shrill whistle of a teakettle, and I felt like fate had spoken.
So I jumped up, washed my face, grabbed my keys, and headed for the Bugle to see what fate had in store.
ChapterTwo
WEBB
“A vacation resort in Little Pippin Hollow!” my brother fumed. “Ridiculous. Everyone knows Jeremiah Fogg donated the land around Fogg Peak to the town! It’sbullshit!”
