Midnight Valentine

3

Her kind green eyes turn sad. “Known him since he was a boy. Hell, everybody in this town knows him. He’s lived here all his life. Captain of the football team in high school, prom king, engaged to the prettiest girl in town. Everyone loved him. There was even talk of him running for office, he was so popular in these parts. Then the accident happened, and he’s never been the same since.”

A cold veil of dread settles over me at the mention of the word “accident.” I have to moisten my lips because my mouth has gone dry.

The waitress waves a hand in front of her face, as if to dispel a cloud of bad energy. “Sorry, Cal’s always telling me not to gossip. Let me get that pie for you.” She comes back with it shortly and refills my coffee. “You here on vacation?”

“Nope. I’m moving in.”

“Really? That’s exciting! We don’t get many permanent transplants. Most everyone in Seaside this time of year is a tourist. Where you from?”

“Phoenix.”

She looks impressed. “Oh, big city. I could never live in a city as big as that.” She notices the wedding band on my finger and brightens. “You’re here with your husband?”

That word doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. I’ve grown callouses over all kinds of words, like husband, marriage, kids. Love.

“My husband passed away several years ago.”

The waitress puts her hand over her heart. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry to hear that.”

I can tell she really is. A lot of people say the words from a reflex to be polite but don’t mean them, but this friendly waitress isn’t one of those people. “Thank you.”

“So do you have family nearby? Portland, maybe?”

“Nope.”

“Work, then?”

She’s wondering why I decided to move here, Smallsville, USA. The answer isn’t one of those things I’ve grown a callous over, so I go with a half-truth, delivered with a cheery smile.

“In a way, I suppose, though I don’t have a job waiting for me. It’s more like I’m going to make one.” When she knits her brows in confusion, I add, “I bought the Buttercup Inn.”

She lets out an excited whoop that has everyone’s heads turning. Over her shoulder, she hollers toward the kitchen, “Cal! This nice little girl bought the Buttercup!”

Thirty-two is hardly a girl, and I’ve never been little, in stature or personality, but she’s turning back to me, beaming, and who am I to rain on her parade with these pesky details?

“Well, that’s fantastic news, honey! I had no idea it sold! That place has been on the market, what, eight years now?”

“Ten, according to the real estate agent.”

“Suzie Martin,” the waitress says, nodding. “Excuse me, Suzanne.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s hard to call someone you knew when she was peeing her pants in kindergarten by her proper name. She’d skin me if she found out.”

When she gives me a pointed look, I make a zipper motion over my mouth. “My lips are sealed.”

“I’m Jean, by the way. Jean McCorkle. Welcome to Seaside.” She sticks out her hand.

“Megan Dunn.” We shake, and it feels as if something’s been decided.

Then Jean’s freckled face creases with a wry smile. “I hate to be a downer, honey, but I hope you have deep pockets and a background in construction. The Buttercup’s a bit of a mess.”

“Mess” is an understatement. It needs a new roof, new plumbing, new windows, mold remediation, landscaping, plaster patching, painting, new floors, and electrical work. So basically everything. It’s a Victorian, built in the late 1900s, full of character and quirks, zoned as a bed-and-breakfast and operated as one until there was a kitchen fire. The prior owner didn’t have enough money to fix it, so he put it on the market instead. There it sat, moldering in the sea air, for a decade.

“Yeah, it needs a lot of work, but I’m looking forward to the project. Suzanne gave me the name of the best contractor in the area. I’m going to give him a call tomorrow, as soon as I can survey the place and get a feel for what I should prioritize. Hopefully, he has the time to come out soon and give me an estimate. I’m anxious to get started on the work.”

Jean blinks. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll have the time. Though I’m not sure you’ll want him to.”

“What do you mean?”

The rumble of an engine and a loud backfire make me glance over my shoulder. At the curb across the street, out in the rainy night, Moody Raincoat Guy sits on a chopper, revving it aggressively like he’s waiting for a starting flag to drop. He tears off with a roar, the tires spitting water, the hood of his raincoat flipped back onto his shoulders from the force of the wind.

Jean says, “I mean you already met the best contractor in the area, honey, and by the sound of things, you didn’t like him.”

When I send her a quizzical look, she gestures with her chin toward the windows and the sound of a roaring engine, fading into the distance until it’s swallowed by the drum of the rain.

My heart sinks. “He’s the contractor?”

She lifts a shoulder, apologetic. “There’s other guys who will come up from Portland, but they’re a lot more expensive, and honestly, the work isn’t near what Theo can do. I admit he’s off-putting, but if you can get past the not talking, he’s really the best.”

Thought it’s impolite to make faces, my face regularly bucks protocol and contorts to some interesting shapes, as it does now.