Page 14 of Dead Men Tell No Shells

Tammy glanced over her shoulder. “You did scowl at the coffee maker this morning when I stopped by and happened to mention he’d be helping with the festival security again today.”

“That coffee maker has given me plenty of reasons to scowl.”

“It’s a perfectly good coffee maker,” she said.

“It makes a terrible noise.”

“That’s because you never clean the filter properly,” Ricky said.

I looked at him. “You don’t even own a coffee maker.”

“I know what a bad one sounds like. And I don’t own one because I’m saving up for my dream machine. Until then, I’ll get my coffee elsewhere.”

Tammy laughed, and the conversation moved on long enough for us to get the vegetables ready. I carried a bowl to the stove, stirred the pot Tammy had going, and checked the potatoes. Ricky set the table, though he put the forks on the wrong side of the plates and then insisted that it was a creative choice.

We had a system, and it worked.

And that was the problem with Josiah’s return. I had spent the intervening years building a life that worked without him. I had my writing, my house, my friends, and the routines that made Hartwell Cove feel like home. I’d learned to stop expecting the phone to ring with his name on the screen. I’d stopped wondering whether he’d come back, apologize, and sweep me off my feet after a really good grovel. Eventually, I’d stopped letting myself wonder about him at all.

Then he’d decided to run for sheriff here, and no matter what, I couldn’t seem to avoid seeing or hearing about it. And then he’d walked into Dixie’s, and one look had made a liar out of me. I was not over him. Some part of me had still been waiting, and it had crawled out of the box I’d locked it in, busting itself right out. Not that I intended to let anyone find that out, least of all him. Well, unless he really did do a lot of groveling and sweeping me off my feet. Maybe.

I scraped the last of the chopped carrots into the pot a little harder than necessary.

Tammy noticed. She always noticed. “Max, honey, why don’t you get the glasses from the cabinet?”

I did as I was told. She didn’t ask what I was thinking, and I was grateful. Tammy had a way of offering an escape without making you feel as though she’d caught you needing one.

By the time everything was ready, the kitchen smelled of roasted meat, herbs, and vegetables. We carried the dishes to the dining room and settled around Tammy’s table, where Ricky immediately began praising the meal before he’d even taken a bite.

“I’d like to point out that I contributed,” he announced.

“You chopped vegetables,” Tammy said.

“Essential vegetables.”

“You also set the table.”

“Beautifully.”

“You put the forks on the wrong side.”

“Artistically.”

I shook my head and passed him the serving dish. “Eat your dinner, Ricky.”

“See? This is how my genius is treated.”

“Your genius can have another potato if it behaves.”

He helped himself to two.

We ate at a leisurely pace, talking about the festival and the people we’d seen over the weekend. The harbor had been busy since Friday, and the final day was drawing a steady crowd. By evening, the bandstand would be packed with people ready for the last live music and dancing before the festival closed for another year.

Tammy was planning to head down after we finished cleaning up. Ricky intended to make the most of the final evening, particularly if he could persuade me to buy him something from one of the food stands. I was planning to go, too. I wanted to hear the music and spend time with my friends, and I wasn’t going to let one inconvenient sheriff drive me away from a town festival I’d attended most of my life.

That didn’t mean I was eager to run into him.

“So,” Ricky said, putting down his fork, “do you think Josiah will be at the bandstand tonight?”