The next morning,I’m up before the sun and there’s no sign of my new neighbor.All the windows in his house are dark, which is a good thing because I barely slept thanks to the cat orgy that started around midnight, and I’m not in the mood for a fight.Not even the sea can ease my ire this morning.The waves aren’t cooperating either, so I cut my surfing session short and head back home to get ready for work.
Thanks to my tiredness, I completely forgot about my flat tire, so I’m on my bike again.
At least I’m not running late.
Small victories.
“Tire still flat?”Old Tom asks when I set my bike near to where he waits by the fence outside Mugs.When I nod, he offers to send his grandson around to fix it, which is basically old-man speak for trying to hook me up with his grandson.
I like Young Tom well enough, and the fact that he actually lives on the island is a huge plus, but he’s three years younger than me, and I don’t like the idea of dating someone I used to babysit.
“I appreciate that, Tom, but I have it all taken care of.”Or at least I will once I swing by the garage and ask Marty to see if he can come take a look.He’s older than Old Tom and happily married, so there’s no fear of him asking me out.
The rest of the barnacles arrive when I’m putting out the handful of baked goods leftover from yesterday while I wait for Mrs.Norton to bring out a fresh batch.Mark gets his favorite blue mug with a sturgeon embossed on the front, but Harry is forced to make do with a mug from the NYPD.I usually give him the one covered in glittery green shamrocks, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure Mrs.Fitzgerald stole it yesterday.
I didn’t see her take it, but she did specifically request that mug, and when she left, it wasn’t on the table with the rest of the dishes.
Her feud with Harry over who is responsible for mowing the grass between their properties is probably back on.The moment he gives in, I have a suspicion that the mug will magically reappear.
Lily Jane comes in asking for her usual vanilla-chai latte and a blueberry scone.Mrs.Paulson slips into line behind her with her best friend Winnie in tow.They’ll drink green tea and stare at the barnacles until the men leave.
Man, I love this place.
The drinks, the noise, the people.The way something as simple as a cup of coffee can bring everyone together.
“Sorry I’m late,” Willow says as she breezes in, her neon-pink sunglasses pushed back on her head like a headband, keeping her bright blue hair off her face.Old Tom eases out of his seat to help her with the box she’s carrying.She’s probably ten times stronger than he is, but she lets him take it with a soft smile and a quiet, “Thanks, Tom.Can you set it by the treasure chest?”
He shuffles over there while she tosses her keys under the counter.
She’s not technically late because she’s not technically an employee.One does not tell Willow when to arrive; she comes and goes based on whims and vibes—a fact that would frustrate the crap out of Mr.Punctuality.
Irritation stirs in my chest when I think about my neighbor and his boatload of audacity.
Telling me how a boss should behave.
I’m a wonderful boss.My employees are happy, and this place is almost always in the black, even when the tourists aren’t in town.So take that.
From the box, Willow drags out a hammer and some tack nails.Looks like she created some new paintings to brighten up our walls: a watercolor sunset and one of a grumpy-looking crab that kinda reminds me of my neighbor.
Maybe I should buy it for him.
If he hadn’t been so rude, I would.
The last one is a picture of a sandcastle made with actual sand.The kids are going to love it.
One time, Willow brought in a self-portrait that, although stunning, I had to ask her to keep at home.I’m all for art, but the fact that it was a nude painting didn’t suit our family-friendly atmosphere.Although I will say, we did have a big uptick in male customers for the hour or so before I saw it.
“Love the new artwork, Wills.”
“Thank you.I’ve been feeling inspired lately.”She lines up the hammer and whacks a tack nail into the wall.
This is a good thing because tourists love her paintings, snapping them up nearly the moment they land on the wall.With the season still a few weeks away, we might get to enjoy these ones for a bit.
Although, from the way Mark is eyeing up that sunset over his sturgeon mug, I could be wrong.
The door swings open on its cheerful chime and in walks my darling mother.“Hey there, sweet pea.”Her thick Georgia accent drips like molasses.She doesn’t always lean into it, but when she’s out and about, she is the most perfect peach there ever was.
My smile slips, but only a little.Thankfully, no one seems to notice.“Hey, Mom.”
