AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I should probably pay attention to that—but I choose not to right now.
“Do you want a latte or. . .?” My voice trails off like it’s decided to no longer participate in the conversation.
“Just black,” he says. There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes, and I want to stare into them long enough to discern what it is.
Thankfully, I pull it together long enough to muster a “Got it.” I move over to the carafe, pour him a cup and set it down in front of him. “Anything else? I have fresh scones. Oh, and there are also some lemon blueberry muffins. And I always have cookies.”
He sits for a slight moment. “Surprise me.”
I take out an oatmeal butterscotch cookie, put it on a plate, and set it down in front of him, and as I do, I notice the Coffin Dodgers.
Four men, all friends, well into their seventies.
Ernie, Marco, John, and Mr. Ridgemont.
They named their posse themselves, not me. It was a whole thing. They felt like they needed a name for their group, and we all pitched in. I offered “The Merryatrics,” which I thought was clever, but it got outvoted.
The Coffin Dodgers are as faithful to my shop as the geyser in Yellowstone, but their patronage comes at a price. All four of these men are here to A. hide from their wives, and B. tell me everything I’m doing wrong in my life and in my business.
In a very curmudgeonly, yet sweet and well-meaning way.
“I hope that’s on the house!” Ernie says.
“After what this man did, you should let him have all the free coffee! For life!” John points at me.
“Good to see you cleaned up your act, Mr. Larrabee. We were worried about you for a long time.” That’s Mr. Ridgemont, our former high school principal.
Owen and I had very different relationships with him. He wrote me a glowing college recommendation letter. I’m pretty sure the only things he ever wrote for Owen were detention slips.
Mr. Ridgemont’s first name is Barry, which is apparently how you address people when you grow up, but I’ll never call him that no matter how many times I serve him coffee.
Then, there’s Marco, who takes one look at Owen and grunts.
Marco was the owner of the hardware store until he sold it two years ago in favor of retirement, which doesn’t suit him at all. He’s the definition of stir crazy, and now without his business to focus on, he focuses on everyone else’s business.
And as it would happen, the hardware store he owned was the same one Owen and his friends vandalized during their senior year of high school.
They were never arrested or charged, but everyone in town knew—or assumed—it was them. And when that spray paint magically disappeared three days later, I knew why.
Owen squirms a little at their attention. He’s not used to being praised by these men.
I get the feeling he’s not used to being praised by anybody.
“I read that article,” Ernie says. “Didn’t they interview either of you? If I was running that newspaper, I wouldn’t have printed any of it without a quote from both parties involved, and I—”
John cups his hands around his mouth and half-shouts, “You’re not running the paper anymore, Ernie.”
Ernie waves him off with an “Ahh, can it. Just because I’m not put out to pasture like the rest of you.”
The other three men respond with a chorus of “Moo” and then clapping on shoulders and laughing.
I glance at Owen, who hasn’t touched his cookie.
Don’t they know I can’t pretend not to admire him when they’re all crowding around like this?
“Are you giving this man free coffee or what?” John is now eyeing me like I’ve done something wrong.
“I’ll be paying for this,” Owen interrupts.
