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“Franklin, I’d like you to meet Gloria. She’ll be taking care of you from now on.”
I needed a distraction from the noise in my head, and since this seat didn’t offer a view of the lake, that left me with only one other option. “What’s your name?” I asked. The old man and I were the only ones there, so even though my gaze hadn’t moved from my coffee, he knew I had to be talking to him.
“Joe,” he said. “Same as it was when I introduced myself to you on your first day here. Same as it says on my name tag. If the one syllable is too hard for you to retain, you can always look up at the name on the sign outside. Or the logo on the mugs and napkins.” It was obvious he found me amusing, and through my grouchiness I found it in me to be slightly embarrassed.
“I thought Joe stood for coffee,” I said.
“Are you being funny?” Joe leaned into the counter. “I can’t tell past the frown you’re wearing.”
“If I buy you a car, will you leave me alone?” I asked.
“Hey, you’re the one who asked for my name.”
I grinned tiredly. “That I did.”
“Your place is the one tucked between the cluster of red maples.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Is there anything you don’t know?”
“Someone as good looking as you showing up in a small town draws attention. But small town or not, I suspect the only place you can truly hide that face of yours is on the moon. At least that’s what Lexie says.” He vibrated with laughter, rocking and holding his stomach as if his intestines would fall out otherwise.
I rolled my eyes, then stared down at the tea he traveled back to my table with. It was too light to be my usual order.
“It’s my specialty. Just made it up on the fly, actually, but don’t ask me to tell you what’s in it.” He mimed zipping his lips shut. I took a sip and couldn’t resist the full body shudder from absolute delight if I wanted to. “I said don’t ask,” he warned, pointing a scolding finger at me. It was missing its tip.
“Old war wound,” he said after catching me staring at the partially amputated digit. “That and the bad hip—and don’t you dare apologize for it.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” I said. “Yes, it’s my place.” Other than the coffee shop being so close, the home was secluded, which I preferred. Neighbors tended to want to talk.
“Right on the lake,” Joe said. “Much better view of it than what you get from that seat over there,” he said, motioning toward the back. “Yourfavoriteseat. Have you done any fishing yet?”
“No.”
He hummed thoughtfully. “Smallmouth bass are my favorite. Absolutely scrumptious. But they’re shy. Takes time and patience to catch ’em, but you’d be surprised at how much quality thinking you can get done while you wait, and you look like a man who could use some high-quality thinking.”
A middle-aged woman shouldered through the door, arms overflowing with files, her glasses askew. She grumbled a hello before falling into a booth closest to the door.
“Who’s that?” I asked, since Joe seemed to know everything.
“That’s Beatrice, the town shrink. Be right with you, B!” he said before getting back to me. “Uh, what was I saying?”
“High-quality thinking,” I prompted. “I didn’t realize there was low-quality thinking.”
“Oh yes,” he assured me. “There’s low-quality, bad-quality, and good-quality too. You won’t find what you came here for if you don’t get some good-quality thinking in. Maybe high-quality talking too,” he said, dipping his head toward Beatrice pointedly before ambling off to take her order.
I stayed at the coffee shop longer than I normally did, ordering another round of Joe’s specialty. An hour later I had a paper bag filled with Joe’s homemade crumb cake, driving directions to Henry’s Sporting Goods store, and strict instructions on which fishing instruments to buy.
“Guess I’ll put anything I catch on ice and bring it to you,” I said.
“Nah, you enjoy it. The wife has me on a strict diet of fruits and vegetables for the foreseeable future.”
“I don’t eat fish,” I admitted. Something else that reminded me of Leland. Something else we had in common.
“Well, then, that means keeping the fish won’t serve you,” Joe said, patting me on the shoulder. “Catch and release. And maybe the fish won’t be the only thing you let go of, because holding on to things that don’t serve you is just bad for the soul.”
***
By day five I’d concluded that Joe was a quack who knew nothing about fishing or thinking. I hadn’t caught anything, and the only thoughts that ran through my mind involved flying back to Seattle and chaining Leland up in my wine cellar to stop him from leaving.
