Page 118 of Summer Weddings
Mitch wasn’t the only disgruntled one. Christian met him outside the café. “Do you think Ben might have overslept?”
Mitch doubted it. “Ben?” he asked. “Ben Hamilton, who says he never sleeps past six no matter what time he goes to bed?”
“Maybe he decided to take the day off. He’s entitled, don’t you think?” Christian asked.
Mitch had thought of that, too. “But wouldn’t he put up a sign or something?”
Christian considered this, then said, “Probably.” He frowned at his watch. “Listen, I’m supposed to meet Sawyer over at his place.”
“Go ahead.” It was clear Christian had the same fears as Mitch. Something was wrong. “I’ll check things out and connect with you later,” he promised.
Ben’s apartment was situated above the café. Mitch had never been inside, and he didn’t know anyone who had. Ben’s real home was the café itself. He kept it open seven days a week and most holidays.Occasionally he’d post a Closed sign when he felt like taking off for a few days’ fishing, but that was about it.
The Hard Luck Café was the social center of town, the place where people routinely gathered. Ben was part psychologist, part judge, part confidant and all friend. Mitch didn’t know a man, woman or child in town who didn’t like him.
Growing increasingly worried, Mitch went around to the back door that led to the kitchen. After a couple of tentative knocks, he walked into the dark, silent café. Flicking on the light switch, the first thing he noticed was shattered glass on the floor.
“Ben!” Mitch called out, walking all the way inside.
Nothing.
The door to the stairs leading to Ben’s apartment was open, and Mitch started up, his heart pounding in his ears. He paused halfway, afraid of what he might find. If Ben was dead, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d come upon a body. The last had been when he’d found Lori.
He broke out in a cold sweat, and his breathing grew shallow. “Ben,” he said again, not as loudly. It was another moment before he could continue upward.
The apartment itself was ordinary. A couch and television constituted the living room furniture. Small bath. Bedroom. Both doors had been left ajar.
“Ben?” he tried once more.
A moan came from the bedroom.
More relieved than words could express, Mitch hurried into the room. Ben was sprawled across the bedspread. It took him a full minute to sit up. He blinked as if the act of opening his eyes was painful.
“Are you all right?” Mitch asked.
Ben rubbed a hand down his face and seemed to give the question some consideration. “No,” he finally said.
“Do you need me to call Dotty? Or take you to the clinic?”
“Hell, no. She can’t do anything about a hangover.”
“You’re hung over?” To the best of his knowledge, Ben rarely drank.
Ben pressed both hands to his head. “Do you have to talk so blasted loud?” He grimaced at the sound of his own voice.
“Sorry,” Mitch said in an amused whisper.
“Make yourself useful, would you?” Ben growled. “I need coffee. Make it strong, too. I’ll be downstairs in a few minutes.”
Mitch had the coffee brewing and had swept up the broken glass by the time Ben appeared, his eyes red-rimmed and clouded. His gaze shifted toward Mitch before he took a stool at the counter.
Mitch brought him a cup of coffee the minute it was ready.
“Thanks,” Ben mumbled.
“I’ve never known you to get drunk,” Mitch said conversationally, curious as to what had prompted Ben’s apparent binge.
“First time in ten years or more,” he muttered. “It was either that or… I don’t know what. There didn’t seem to be a whole lot of options. Fight, I guess, but there wasn’t anyone around to punch. Not that it would’ve done any good, since I had no one to blame but myself. Damn, but I messed up.”
