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I smile, trying to hide the melancholy. I won’t be calling him. “Thanks, Matt Hertzsprung.” I lean in quickly to kiss his cheek, his stubble rubbing against my lips in a way that sends a spike of fire through me. I pull back, fling the door open, and make my escape before my heart convinces me to stay.
Chapter Eleven
MATT
A thick layer of yellow-green pine pollen covers the purple wisteria blossoms, giving them an almost neon glow. It happens every May—a sure sign that summer is starting. The temperatures rise dramatically during the day, but because we’re in the mountains, we still get close to freezing at night. Then the trees let go with a glorious—and annoying—cloud of dust.
The Memorial Day ceremony at the Stadtplatz ended right on time, with the flag being hoisted to full staff at noon. Volunteers from the Rotheberg Veterans of Foreign Wars post flip burgers and brats on the grill. I bring my plate—loaded with an empty bun and a massive spoonful of potato salad—to the bratwurst line. With a conspiratorial grin, Rachel clicks her tongs, then gives me the crispiest sausage. “I saved the burnt one for you.”
“Perfect. The char gives it better flavor.”
“Sure. If your taste buds are defective.” She rolls her eyes, then makes a shooing motion. “Don’t hold up the line, Hertzsprung.”
With a smirk, I move out of the way before old George Braun steps on my heels again. Today he’s wearing worn corduroy slacks and an ancient button-down shirt that used to be white. It’s a delightful change from his two default modes: pretzel costume or nude. “Naked George” is legendary in Rotheberg.
I set my plate on an empty table, then detour by the coolers and grab a soda. The Goatherd has a bar doing brisk business across the square, but I’m not in a drinking mood. Plus, the soda is free, thanks to the VFW. I’ve got two more years of college to pay for.
“Is this seat taken?” Stella MacMillan arrives with her two boys in tow. When I shake my head, she turns to the kids. “Eat your lunch, then you can go play.” The kids drop onto the benches at the far end of the table and dig into their burgers.
“Where’s Mick?” I ask.
“Beer.” Stella jerks her head toward the bar. Mick’s red hair makes him easy to pick out among the customers milling in front of the Goatherd’s stand. She picks up her brat. “It’s been a day already. Did you know we have a cemetery on our property?” Displaying an excellent sense of dramatic timing, she takes a huge bite.
“What?”
Stella holds up a finger as she chews, making me wait for the payoff. She finally swallows, then grabs a plastic stein from her husband as he arrives at the table. She takes a quick swig. “You heard me. A cemetery.”
“In Munich Meadows?” Mick and Stella have a home in a neighborhood about two miles south of town. Although they’re well outside the city limits, the homeowners’ association requires the houses to adhere to the alpine theme—as evidenced by the name. “That area was developed a decade ago. How was it not discovered when they did the excavation?”
Mick sits next to his wife, his face completely blank, except for a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He nods hello and digs into his burger, as if to say, “Don’t ask me, I’m just here for the food.”
Stella sends a dark glance down the table at her kids. “Oh, it’s a new cemetery.” She takes another slurp of her beer. You can’t rush Stella when she’s telling a story.
I try anyway. “New? Did they get a permit from the county? Wasn’t there a public comment period?”
Mick chokes on something and grabs for his beer. He avoids eye contact, focusing on his meal with laser intensity.
Stella shoots a glare at him that looks suspiciously like the one she threw at the kids. She points. “His children started a roadkill cemetery.”
Mick snorts a little.
I stare at Stella. When I realize my mouth is hanging open, I snap it shut. “What is a roadkill cemetery? Is this a southern thing?”
Stella slams her bratwurst onto her plate, her eyes blazing at me. “Do not pin the blame for this on me. There is nothing remotely southern about a roadkill cemetery!”
Mick is rocking in his seat, choking down his laughter, but failing to keep his amusement contained. Stella rounds on him, pointing her finger again. Her drawl gets thicker when she’s agitated. “Do not start again, Michael MacMillan!” She throws up her hands and swings around to me. “He has been laughing about this all morning! His children have been riding their bikes around town, picking up roadkill, and bringing it back to bury in our yard! They made headstones! HEADSTONES!”
Mick spews beer over his meal, and I’m grateful he didn’t sit across from me. He howls with laughter. Tears roll down his cheeks. Everyone in the Stadtplatz turns to look while Stella glares at her spouse.
I try to keep a straight face. “How civic minded of them,” I finally mutter.
Stella cracks a smile at that, and a giggle sneaks out. “Don’t try to make me laugh, Matt Hertzsprung. This is serious business.”
Mick pulls his phone out and swipes. “Look at this one!” He hands me the device. The picture shows a chunk of pine tree—probably liberated from the family firewood stack. Someone has burned in a date and the words “Squirly McSquirilton. You were a cheeky guy.”
“That’s some quality woodburning.” I raise my brows at the boys giggling at the end of the table. “I hope you wore safety gear.” The kids nod solemnly.
“Don’t encourage them!” Stella reaches across the table and slaps my arm. Hard.
