Page 4 of Decked By The Grumpy Golem
She huffs away, muttering under her breath about manners and how I’m becoming a grumpy old bachelor, probably adding my name to whatever mental list she keeps of Saltford Bay's most problematic residents. I'm sure I'm already near the top.
"Don't mind him." My mother's voice carries across the room, warm and apologetic. "He's always like this when he's working, but the job will be done right."
I turn to see Martha approaching with a steaming cup of cocoa in each hand, her gray eyes sparkling with amusement. She's wearing oneof her hand-knitted sweaters, this one featuring a reindeer that looks like it's having an existential crisis, and her head is covered by a red knit cap with a pom-pom that bounces when she walks.
"Here," she says, offering me one of the cups. "You look like you could use this."
The cocoa is perfect, rich and sweet with just a hint of cinnamon. Trust my mother to know exactly what I need, even when I'm being an ass.
"Thanks," I mutter, then lower my voice. "And thanks for volunteering me for this without asking. Again."
"You're welcome," she says cheerfully, completely immune to my sarcasm. "The fireplace needed fixing, and you're the best stonemason in three counties. It's a perfect match."
"I had plans today."
"You had plans to sit in your workshop and brood over blueprints while avoiding any social contact. This is better for you."
She's not wrong, which only irritates me more.
I finish my cocoa and start packing up my tools, each piece settling into its designated spot in the worn leather case that used to belong to my father. The familiar routine is soothing, a ritual that marks the end of another job completed.
"Ready to go?" I ask her when I’m done.
"Not yet. Evelyn is supposed to relieve me at four, and she's running late." Martha glances at the ancient clock mounted above the entrance. "She'll be here any minute."
As if summoned by her words, the front door bursts open with enough force to rattle the windows. Mrs. Evelyn Primrose sweeps inlike a tiny tornado, her ridiculous beret perched at an angle that defies gravity over her perfectly coiffed lavender hair.
For a pixie who barely reaches my chest, Evelyn commands attention like a general reviewing the troops. Her eyes scan the room, cataloging every volunteer, every donation, every possible source of gossip with the efficiency of a well-oiled surveillance system.
"Martha, darling!" she calls out, her voice carrying easily across the crowded space. “I'm so sorry I'm late. Addison Patterson asked me to run an errand for her. Poor dear fell down on the ice this morning and broke her wrist.”
Evelyn approaches, her heels clacking on the stone floor like applause from an invisible crowd. “You'll never guess what I heard at the post office.”
Here we go. Evelyn's "news" is usually a mix of half-truths, speculation, and wishful thinking, but she delivers it all with the enthusiasm of a war correspondent reporting from the front lines.
She’s practically vibrating with excitement. Her idea of a conspiratorial whisper could probably be heard in the next county.
"I bumped into Candy Reyes this morning and she told me the most wonderful news. Her daughter is back in town," she stage-whispers, leaning in close. "Isn't it wonderful? The famous Lucia Reyes will be in Saltford Bay all the way through New Year’s!"
The name hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest.
Lucia.
My hand tightens around the handle of my toolbox, and I hear the subtle creak of leather stretching under pressure. The chisel in my other hand bends slightly, the metal yielding to my unconscious grip.I want to stop, release the pressure, but I can’t. Not when my mind fills with cotton clouds and my forehead feels like it’s on fire.
Lucia Reyes. Back in Saltford Bay.
Ten years. It's been ten years and still, every time her name is spoken aloud in my presence, it feels the same. My chest locks up like someone's wrapped steel cables around my ribs.
"How lovely," my mother says carefully, and I can feel her eyes on me, sharp and assessing. She knows. Of course she knows. Martha Flintman didn't raise an idiot, and she's been watching me avoid talking about Lucia Reyes for a decade.
"She's staying for two whole weeks, can you imagine?" Evelyn continues, oblivious to the way the air has suddenly become too thick to breathe. "Candy says she just showed up out of the blue last night. No warning at all. Makes you wonder what brought her home after all this time, doesn't it?"
I force myself to straighten the chisel, my movements careful and controlled. The metal protests slightly, bearing the impressions of my fingers, but it holds its shape.
"People come home for Christmas," I manage to say, my voice coming out rougher than intended. "It's not exactly shocking."
"Oh, but it is for Lucia," Evelyn says, warming to her subject. "She's barely visited since high school. Once, maybe twice a year, and never for more than a weekend. But two weeks? There must be a story there."
