“Yes.”
Mae tilts her head. “Honey, Sullivan Mercer is a haunted house witha notrespassing sign. Peopledon’tjust wander in and get repairs.”
I take a sip of coffee so Idon’thave to answer that.
“He’s good?”Mae asks quietly.
I look up.The question isgenuine. Not gossip, notnosing, buta woman who runs the café checking in on one of hers.
I think about his steady hands on the broken wood and how he didn’t look at me until he had to. Even standing right there, it felt like he was somewhere else entirely.
“He looked tired,” I say slowly. “He looked—” I search for it. “Like he hasn’t been around people in a while. Like he’s making peace with it.”
“Mm.” Mae’s mouth softens. “Yeah. That tracks.”
“He didn’t take the cinnamon roll right away,”I say.“But he took it.”
Junechokes onher coffee.“You gave Sullivan Mercer a cinnamon roll?”
“I threw it at him.”
“Tess.”June is laughing.“Tess. You threw it at him.”
I nod.“In a Tupperware.”
Mae wipes her eye. “You’re going to be very good for this town, sweetheart. You’re going to be very, very good.”
I leave the café at eleven with a paper bag containing two more cinnamon rolls, asmall jar of orange marmalade Mae pressed into my hand“for breakfast tomorrow,”and a list on the back of a receipt of every business in town that will not rip me off.
At the top of the list, in Mae’s looping pen:VEGA’S AUTO—for everything mechanical, for any tow at any hour.
At the bottom of the list,very small,almost anafterthought:Mountain Rescue—Eli Donner. Ifanythingever, ever goes wrong on the ridge.
I stop at a hardware store where the owner helps me find lag bolts, a real hammer, and a battery-powered drillthat’son salebecause the case is scratched.I’mloading everything into the truck when a voice comes from behind me.
“You out at Rosa’s place?”
Istraightenup. The man is in a sheriff’s uniform. The badge says GRANGER. His thumbs are tucked in his beltloops,and his hat is tipped just enough to see my face under the brim.
“I am. Tess Carter.”
“Sheriff Cal Granger.” He nods. “I knew Rosa. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“Switchback four gets greasy in a melt. Take it slow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything goes wrong up there, you call.”Hedoesn’tsay if, he says when.“And if nothing goes wrong”—he pauses and looks at me from under the brim of his hat—“you can still come down. Wedon’texpect folks to wait for an emergency.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hetouches the brim of his hatandisback across the street before I can think of anything else to say.
I leavetownwith my new tools, a coffee thermos, and a feeling Idon’trecognize.
It takes me untilI’min the truck, winding up the switchbacks toward the ridge with a bag of cinnamonrollson the passenger seat, to figure out what the feeling is.
