Page 5 of Sweet and Salty
Whenever Ma would take me out—just me, not me and my brothers and sister—she would get one of those for me. And now I want that again. It will take the acid from my thoughts, I’m sure of it.
And I know just where to go to find it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jesse
I slumpagainst the counter in front of the ancient POS machine. Piece of Shit indeed. One would think that at a hardware store, they could afford to fix or upgrade the damn thing.
I took the job here, not out of any desire for society, but because the goddamned cabin keeps breaking, eating through my monthly stipend like termites on hardwood. Which is not something I had to think about prior to moving here to St. Olaf. Palmetto bugs? Yes. Hurricanes that send cars into swimming pools? Absolutely.
If there were any other way to fix up the cabin so it doesn’t completely disintegrate against the rain and wayward weather of Wisconsin spring, I would take it. The only benefit of being up here in Door County is the solitude.
But beyond the necessity of additional income, the cabin breaking–and not knowing the name of my mysterious landlord to ask for repairs–has also stretched my limited DIY knowledge. I might have grown up on a farm, but Grandma preferred for meto study instead of getting into some of the more back-breaking day labor jobs around the farm. After all, that’s how my dad had gotten into trouble in the first place. Well, second place.
The digital clock on the wall ticks forward at an interminably slow rate. I can’t remember a day of such insidious boredom. Back in the Before Times…
It’s better not to think about it. That’s what Harbor and all the people at Witness Protection orientation said. Dive in to a new life.
More like freeze into a proverbial statue.
In many ways, I’d prefer statue to working retail. It’s nearly three in the afternoon, and the last customer left four hours ago. There are only so many times I can rearrange the bottles of lighter fluid in aisle four.
I pick up the paperback I’d found in the employees’ area. Moe, the owner of the hardware store, likes cookbooks for the most part. They’re strewn all around his office and packed into little shelves under the counter. After wandering the shelves memorizing where everything went, I stacked the cookbooks in alphabetical order sheerly for the sake of not dying of boredom. There, underneath the heft of Julia Child and Ina Garten, I found this paperback.Legendborn. I have no idea what it’s about, but so far it’s pretty unputdownable.
Just as I open the book to the third chapter, the bell over the front door tinkles. Moe told me to greet everyone as they arrive, but as much as I respect him and the pity he takes on my lack of home repair skills, there’s fuck-all chance I’m going to do that.
“Moe!” a soft alto voice calls from the front. “How’s the hip?”
“I’m not Moe,” I grumble, keeping my attention on the book.
“Moe?” The voice gets closer, but I don’t look up. Everyone here seems to know where everything is already, so they don’t need my assistance. The bitter part of me wants to stock everything on a new shelf out of spite. Sneakers squeak againstthe linoleum I’d mopped earlier out of pure ennui. “You’re not Moe.”
“Not late—” The words stall somewhere around my vocal cords. Sure, I’ve been devoid of human contact for the past two months, by my own choice. But the majority of residents I’ve seen here so far in St. Olaf range from Carhartt-clad burly mountain men to equally brusque and capable women.
This woman? Her dark brown hair is held back from her face by a pink and lavender tie-dyed bandana and her leggings are dusted with what looks like either flour or plaster. She’s curvy, gorgeously pear-shaped with wide hips that are the perfect size for my hands and a soft, full stomach hidden under a light lavender-colored sweater made of some sort of material that reminds me of rabbit fur. And that face? She’s the kind of pretty that forces a man to confront truths.
Like that he—or I, rather—am not supposed to form any close attachments.
Her cherry-red lips pull into a frown. “I was hoping to see Moe.”
I stand up a little straighter, setting my book on the counter. “I can help you.”
She tilts her head to the side, which only serves to draw the collar of her sweater across her shoulder, exposing a swath of lightly freckled skin. How old is she? Mid-thirties? It doesn’t matter. She’s too young for me. “I don’t even know who you are. How do I not know you?”
“I’m new in town.”
“Duh.” She rolls her dark green eyes. If she wore glasses and removed them slowly, keeping that gaze on me? It would be the hands-down sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“I know everyone in town, probably in this county. I’ve lived here my whole life. But if I haven’t seen you, that means you haven’t been anywhere.” She holds up her hand and counts onher fingers. “You didn’t attend the hot ham and rolls on Sunday. No you at Saturday night polka. Definite no-show at the May Day Flower Parade. I would have noticed you. Are you married? Kids? If you had kids, you would have been at the flower parade.Everyonewas there, and we had to keep the teens from cutting in front of the littles at the bumper cars. I haven’t seen you at my bakery. Wait.” Having apparently run out of fingers to count my antisocial wrongdoings, she crosses her arms over her chest. In that whirlwind of thought, the only thing that sticks in my brain is that she must have a bakery and she would have noticed me. That soars through my body in a way that’s definitely not good for me. “Have you been getting your coffee at Sugar Kisses? You have, haven’t you?”
What the hell is Sugar Kisses? It’s such a bizarre accusation. “No. I make my coffee at home like a normal person.”
“What normal person makes their coffee at home?”
She seems so genuinely confused, I can’t help but laugh. “Most people, I expect.”
“Hmm.” She rests her elbows on the other side of the counter. “Where do you live?”