Her Maine Squeeze (When in Maine)
Chapter One
The morning air is cool on my skin, and I wrap my scarf more tightly around my neck to combat the chill. A breeze rustles the dry autumn leaves of a nearby pin oak, sending a shower of fiery orange leaves fluttering to the ground around me. Jack-o’-lanterns line the sidewalks, life-size skeletons sit on front porches, and fake cobwebs are strewn across storefronts. Mainers don’t skimp on Halloween decorations. We’re the home of Stephen King, after all. We have a reputation to protect.
I glance to my right to look at the bay, but it’s obscured by a thick layer of fog that gives the town its name. The fog will dissipate by mid-morning, but for now, it lends an air of mystery to a town that is anything but mysterious. Fog Harbor is as comfortable and familiar as a cozy sweater. Nothing much ever changes—and I like it that way.
In fact, the only notable change in the past thirty years was my twin brother moving back to town after retiring from the NHL and quickly falling in love with his old school nemesis. Even I didn’t see that coming, despite knowing Luke my whole life, and Charley for nearly as long. Again, my eyes drift to the bay. When the sun burns off the fog, the towering black-and-white striped lighthouse on the other side of the harbor will be visible in the distance. Luke’s lighthouse. I sigh contentedly. It’s nice having my brother back in town, and I couldn’t be happier that he’s happy and settled and planning a wedding.
Even if I am just the tiniest bit jealous.
I try to push the thought aside, thinking instead of the wedding favors I’ll be making for them today. I need to fill fifty adorable little mason jars with my gourmet bread and butter pickle chips. Luke prefers my dill-habanero pickles, but I convinced him that it’d be better to go with a “safe” option for wedding favors. And my bread and butter pickles are a crowd pleaser. They’re my bestsellers at the laundromat.
One of these days, I really need to name my business. Luke and I inherited a laundromat when our grandfather, the previous owner, passed away the summer between high school and college. Luke had a full scholarship to play hockey at the University of Maine with plans to go pro as soon as possible, but I was just planning to enroll in a few classes at the local community college. So, I decided to run the business myself. When I enrolled in classes, I chose ones that focused on business and accounting.
Within a few years, I started selling pre-made sandwiches and snack foods to my customers. And a couple of years after that, I expanded the building to open a sandwich shop in the front. Then I began experimenting with things to elevate the sandwiches. First, I experimented with condiments. Then it occurred to me that the thing that elevates a good sandwich to a great sandwich isn’t the sauce… it’s the pickles. And so, my pickle obsession began.
The sandwich shop is only open for lunch six days a week. I don’t advertise, and the building still just has a nondescript sign that says “Laundromat. 24 hours. Self-service.” Only the locals know the sandwich shop exists. But business is booming—in large part due to my homemade gourmet pickles, which I also sell by the jar. So, I should give this side of the business a name. It deserves a name. But I know if I do that, word will get out to the tourists, and things will get out of hand quickly. It’s a one-woman operation right now, and there’s only so many hours in a day.
I should talk to Luke about it. He’s been focused on his relationship with Charley, renovations to the lighthouse, and caring for his elderly three-legged dog, Beauty, since his retirement from the NHL. But now that the lighthouse renovations are nearly finished, he’ll have more time on his hands. Maybe he’ll have some thoughts on the future of the laundromat.
When I reach the building, I enter through the laundromat side, which is open around the clock. While some of the machines are still coin operated for the old-timers who like change even less than I do, the rest have been modernized with card readers. Besides some light cleaning, this part of my business pretty much runs itself. I grab a trashcan and walk through the rows of dryers, cleaning out the lint traps. Most are clean already. Fog Harbor’s citizens are conscientious and courteous.
Plus, they know they’re being recorded. The camera is really just there for safety purposes, but customers who know they’re being recorded tend to behave better. So, it’s a win-win.
As I work through my morning chores, my thoughts drift back to Luke and Charley’s wedding. I am a little jealous that Luke and Charley have found love and I haven’t. But the weird feeling in my chest has more to do with the date of their wedding than the wedding itself. It’s happening on mine and Luke’s birthday.
More specifically, mine and Luke’s thirtieth birthday.
Luke and Charley couldn’t have known the significance of that when they selected it for the wedding. And to their credit, they did ask for my permission before sending the invitations. I said what any dutiful and loving sister would say: “That’s wonderful! I couldn’t ask for a better birthday present than to see the two of you get married.”
What surprises me is that neither of them saw through me. I guess they’re too in love to see anything but each other right now. So, they missed the panic in my voice. And they didn’t notice that I was fiddling with a lock of my long auburn hair, tying it into knots as I always do when I’m nervous.
And when they turned the conversation to the topic of groomsmen, neither of them saw my face flush scarlet at the mention of Oz Green’s name.
Oz Green . Even just thinking his name now, with only rows of washers and dryers as my witnesses, my face burns with embarrassment.
Unfortunately, burning face or not, I’ll have no choice but to face him again soon. On my birthday, no less.
My thirtieth birthday.
The thought makes me want to crawl into a dryer and die.