Chapter 1
New Neighbors
This story is set before Dude Magnet.
It started off as a whim. I spotted the pamphlet (Hastings Rock Tourist Guide) on a rack near the door when I was leaving the Keel Haul, loaded down with groceries.
Okay, with snacks.
I grabbed a copy because I thought, hey, why not? I was planning on staying here—at least for a while—and maybe I’d learn something interesting.
And then, the next day, an idea came to me.
And it seemed silly. I laughed it off. I went back to work on the next draft of my latest story (“A Scandal in the Pines”—but I hated that title, so I’d probably change it).
And then, about five minutes later, because it was extremely important, I stopped writing and started cleaning the window tracks.
All the window tracks. In the whole house.
It wasn’t OCD, in case you’re wondering.
It was just a massive case of procrastination.
But that night, as I was trying to find Murphy Brown on one of those illegal streaming sites (don’t tell Deputy Bobby), the idea came to me again. And this time, I thought, why not?
So, the next morning, I dug around in my dresser until I found something suitably appropriate.
I found a Hawaiian shirt. I found plaid shorts.
I said a silent prayer for the Dash of Days Gone By who had, for whatever reason, decided to buy and keep these clothes.
I even found a pair of Birkenstocks. It was a sunny day in late June, the sky like a flash in a mirror, and I figured the odds were good that, in my shorts and Hawaiian shirt, I’d probably be perfectly comfortable for about fifteen minutes until the weather changed and I was freezing again.
But who cared? For today—one day only—I was a tourist in Hastings Rock.
Instead of taking my bike, I drove into town.
Main Street had already slowed to a crawl, even though it was still early (ten in the morning is early for some people), and the parking lots were crammed with out-of-towners.
I faced off with a family from Idaho in their Chevy Tahoe, and I won—I got the last spot in the public lot closest to the beach.
After all that excitement, I checked myself in the mirror and said, “I need a vacation from my vacation.”
I spent some time wandering Main Street.
If you’ve never been to Hastings Rock, it definitely meets the criteria for picturesque: the downtown is a charming potpourri of coastal cottages and beach bungalows and modern houses with lots of glass and concrete.
There were stately old Victorians looking down their noses at all of us.
And everywhere, everything was geared toward tourists.
An artisanal cheese shop. A store with only local wines.
A glassblowing studio that offered free tours.
Although parts of Main Street featured timber-clad shopping centers, many of the stores were located in repurposed homes.
A Cape Cod with shake siding appeared to sell nothing but wind chimes.
I stopped at the first store I came to and went in.
It was the usual stuff—T-shirts that said Hastings Rock – A Whale of a Town and Hastings Rock is for Lovers (which seemed like a trademark violation) and just plain old Hastings Rock.
I found a hat that said DAD VIBES and bought it.
In the next little shop, I found a pair of gas station sunglasses and added those to the outfit.
All I needed was black socks to wear with my Birks, and I’d be set.
Every store had something slightly different to offer.
Sure, you had a lot of repeats (Hastings Rock – A Whale of a Town must have really caught the public imagination at some point).
There were the same gaudy earrings, the same cheap bracelets, the same wooden trinkets.
But in one shop, you might find a Hastings Rock-branded water bottle.
And in another, you might find Hastings Rock-exclusive underwear.
I found one pair that featured a, uh, prominent Sasquatch, and I got so flustered I walked into a dressing room by accident.
I bought a T-shirt for my dad that said, My parents went to Hastings Rock, and all they got me was this lousy T-shirt.
He could cut it up, I figured. He always needed rags to clean his guns.
For my mom, I found a sea-glass necklace.
I made a mental bet with myself about how many books she’d write before someone was murdered with a sea-glass necklace.
And then I discovered (remembered?) the real beauty of being a tourist.
Treats.
There was a place that sold crepes.
There was a place that sold ice cream.
There was a place that sold ice cream inside of crepes.
There was cotton candy, and something called sea foam (weirdly delicious), and a place that had a Hastings Rock-themed cinnamon roll, I kid you not, the size of my head.
And everywhere—everywhere—salt-water taffy.
Enough salt-water taffy to choke a whale, which isn’t a saying, but it is now that I came up with it.
I was attacking a peanut-butter-and-Nutella crepe in one hand (from a place called Crepe You Very Much) and, in the other, a double-scoop waffle cone of chocolate peanut butter cup (from a place called Two Girls and a Scoop) when I almost crashed into Deputy Bobby.
He and his boyfriend, West, stepped out of a boutique at the exact moment I was trying to fit one of the scoops—yes, the entire scoop—inside my mouth.
Partly because it was melting too fast. And partly to see if I could.
“Dash?” West said.
“Hi,” I said around a mouthful of chocolate peanut butter cup.
Deputy Bobby grinned. It was only there for an instant, and then it was gone. West seemed to be processing my outfit, and the expression on his face started at horror and then shifted to amusement. “Oh my God, that’s hilarious.”
“Um, thanks.” (Mouth still full of ice cream, by the way.)
“And the ice cream cone, oh my God.”
I finally managed to swallow the ice cream. Instant brain freeze. “It’s chocolate,” I said, for lack of anything better. Because my brain was frozen. “With peanut butter cup.”
“You’re hilarious,” West said. “I’m so glad you moved here.”
Deputy Bobby looked like he was trying not to laugh.
“Oh my God,” West said, “we’re so late. But, Dash, we have to get together soon. Bye!”
I wiped some chocolate from my chin and mumbled, “Bye.”
As Deputy Bobby passed me, he tugged on the bill of my cap and mouthed, “Dad vibes.”