Page 11 of The Treasure House

“Oh my God. Is Mr. Abernathy inside?” I headed for the open door. I didn’t want to talk to this pain in the ass anymore, no matter how hot he was.

“No,” he exhaled irritably. “I mean, no, I’m here.”

Now it was my turn to stop dead.

Wait. What. This guy was the gentlemanly fisherman from the phone?

“You?” I couldn’t keep the disbelief from my voice.

“Yeah.” He was scowling like the villain in a bad film. “Ah hell, come in and we’ll sort this out.”

“What’s to sort out?” I said, confused. “I’m here to pick up the key and take a look at the house, like we agreed on the phone.”

He ignored me and jerked his head at the car. “Does your kid want to come in and have a soda while we talk? It’s hot out here.” The red basket towers were wobbling in his hands. He readjusted his weight to steady them, and I could see the muscles of his stomach flex.

“Flo, come on,” I called back to the car. “It looks like we might be longer than I thought.”

The interior of Oxeye Hardware (and Lobster Shack) reminded me of an old-fashioned general store in a black-and-white movie. It smelled of linseed oil mixed with old woodsmoke. It had sash windows overlooking the porch, where the picnic tables had a prime view of the bay. Today, the windows were thrown open and the breeze caused the knickknacks that hung from the ceiling to jingle. There were framed photos of a golden retriever on every wall and a dog bed in the corner by the potbellied stove, but no sign of the dog.

Jake Abernathy looked like the very last kind of guy to be running a place like this. And now that I’d met him, he was definitely not the golden retriever type. His personality seemed more suited to a pit bull or rottweiler.

“Do you get your muscles from working, or from the gym?” Flo asked him casually, as we followed him to the rear of the store. She was completely unperturbed by his rottweiler vibe.

Jake missed a step and looked down at himself. “What…?”

“You don’t have to answer that,” I said hurriedly. “Flo, don’t be rude.”

“Why not? He seems pretty rude. Besides, is it rude to ask about muscles?” Flo cocked her head. “He doesn’t have a shirt on, so he must want people to look at his muscles.”

I felt myself turning red because I did keep looking at his muscles. “Sorry,” I grudgingly apologized to Jake, who was also turning red. “Flo, it’s rude to comment on other people’s bodies,” I told her, secretly pleased that she’d unsettled him.

“Oh.” She took that in. “Sorry I commented on your body,” she told Jake, who had ducked through to a narrow kitchen and dumped his armful of red plastic baskets. We followed him as he hastily snatched a faded T-shirt from a hook and yanked it on. The T-shirt had a cartoon lobster on the front.

There was a huge pot on the stove and the smell of cooked lobster and sharp green scallions was heavy in the air. Breadcrumbs littered the stainless-steel counter, and a bag of long white bread rolls sat half empty.

“That’s okay,” Jake told Flo, clearing his throat awkwardly. He crossed his arms and tried to rearrange his expression. He seemed chagrined… What should have been a straightforward interaction—him giving me a key—had somehow turned into something really unwelcoming and weird. And I’d been expecting to meet such a nice man.

“You weren’t what I was expecting,” Jake admitted as he straightened his lobster shirt, echoing my thoughts.

“What were you expecting?” Flo demanded. She lit up, clearly hoping for an interesting response.

“Ah…” Jake was nonplussed.

“It’s fine,” said Flo encouragingly. “She won’t be offended. Mom says it’s in her constitution to take insults in her stride after working in a call center.”

“Flo,” I warned.

My mouthy kid rolled her eyes and leaned in to confide in Jake. “She also has this thing about private conversations versus public conversations. But you can tell me if you thought we were criminals on the run or something.”

“You want a soda?” Jake asked, looking slightly panicked. He didn’t seem to know what else to say.

“Depends. What have you got?” Flo asked, following him to the refrigerator.

“Moxie, mostly.” He opened the door and the light illuminated the bright orange cans. Flo shot him a dubious look.

“It’s the official state drink of Maine,” he told her, pulling a can from the fridge. “You’ll probably hate it, it tastes like medicine.” He handed it to her and glanced at me. “You want one?” He looked at me like I might bite. What on earth was it about me that he didn’t like? He’d known me for all of two minutes.

I shook my head. “No, thank you. I’d just like the key.”