Chapter 10 #2
His boots hadn’t fully dried yet, so he was sock-footed as he went, idly straightening the little half-empty plastic bins and placing tubes of glue back in a cardboard box, lined up like soldiers. Leaving in his wake an air of orderliness the room seemed to want.
All the while he hummed under his breath, keeping it low—or so he thought, until the door to Morgan’s office opened with a snap.
“What are you doing in here?” Morgan’s frown was firmly in place, his hair standing up as though he’d run his fingers through it. His dark blue robe swirled around him. His blue eyes were hard. “And why aren’t you wearing your boots?”
Nimble couldn’t figure out which was the worse offense in Morgan’s mind: messing about or doing it without proper footwear. Either was kind of funny in a way, a strong, handsome man like Morgan fussing like a librarian whose hallowed silence Nimble had disrupted.
Morgan’s eyes narrowed, glimmering, and Nimble realized that Morgan might think Nimble was laughing at him.
“I left ’em upstairs,” Nimble said. “Am I making a racket?”
“No,” Morgan said flatly, as if he were already tired of discussing it. “I kept hearing sounds, however. What are you doing in here?”
“Nothing,” Nimble assured him with all his good nature. “Just poking around. There’s hardly anything on the shelves, so it’s no wonder you don’t have any customers.”
“There are no customers because we’re experiencing a blizzard.
There are no customers because my aunt died.
And besides, I was going to sell off the place as soon as I got here.
But after the funeral—” Morgan sighed and ran his hand through his hair, looking tired.
“I was informed on good authority by Mabel and Gus and the three geezers, as well as my aunt’s lawyer, that—”
Morgan paused to wince, as if the idea of having to listen to local folks tell him what was what—Nimble bit down hard on another surge of amusement—was more than he could bear.
“That selling the place wasn’t a good idea, because not only would no one be interested in buying until spring, but also it’s a local cornerstone. So I’m stuck here in this miserable town, and the reason I didn’t restock the shelves was because—”
He paused again and tried to glare at Nimble once more.
“I got busy with the funeral and all the paperwork. I honestly thought I could sell up right away and just hand over the keys and all the problems, like restocking and sweeping. Not to mention the old geezers, with their endless demands for coffee and donuts, none of which they seem willing to pay for.”
“Endless coffee?” Nimble asked, perking up. “Donuts? I love donuts. And coffee, especially the endless kind.”
“There was a sort of coffee station over here.” Morgan’s tone was as grumpy as could be, in spite of the fact that he was moving pretty easily across the flat surface of the store, his cane allowing him to walk at a brisk pace to the far corner of the room, where Nimble had not yet been.
There was a bench seat against the wall and another beneath the window, with an old card table shoved between them as if the last occupants had left the area in haste.
Two spindle-backed chairs were on the other side of the table, tucked in close as if someone had decided they weren’t allowed to take up much room.
Next to one of the bench seats was a small, flat-topped buffet cabinet that looked old, with grime draping the scrollwork and drawer pulls as if it had been in use a good long while.
On top of the buffet were a coffee maker, a tray with containers of sugar and tubs of cream, wooden stirrers, and white china mugs all in a row, along with a flat paper box that had once contained donuts.
Nimble knew what it had held because there was a pink outline of a donut on the lid. Donut King, it read. The box was empty, and everything was covered in dust.
“Evidently they come and they sit and expect to be served.” Morgan spat out the last word with such ferocity that Nimble half feared for those old guys’ safety, but luckily, they were hunkered down for the storm in their own houses.
“My Aunt Oralee evidently enabled them in their freeloading. The lawyer tells me she enjoyed their company.”
“That coffee maker looks old,” Nimble said, eyeing the glass carafe that was dark with layers of old coffee.
“She ordered a new one.” Morgan pointed at the buffet. “It’s under there.”
“Why haven’t you put it out?” Nimble asked before he could stop himself. “This one looks like it makes coffee that tastes like tar.”
“I’m sure it does, but there’s no way I’m setting up the new one,” Morgan said. “It’d only encourage them.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Nimble asked. “It’d be nice for you to have company.”
“I don’t want company.” Morgan made a slicing motion with his hand. “The last thing I want is company.”
“I’m company,” Nimble pointed out.
“That’s different.” Morgan shifted his weight on his cane as if exhausted with Nimble, the storm, and everything else in his world.
“I’m giving you shelter because it’s the decent thing to do.
Once the storm is over, you’ll be gone.” He paused, scrubbed his jaw, and sighed.
“I’m sorry. None of this is your fault. I’m just overwhelmed, is all. ”
“No worries.”
The apology was nice, but the rant that preceded it clarified what Morgan wanted: to be alone.
To have Nimble gone. Which meant that Nimble could not let himself get used to the hot showers, good coffee, and shelter that kept the weather out.
Sure, the single-paned windows—and there were a lot of them—let in some of the cold, but it was a damn sight better than what Nimble was used to.
Well, until the storm subsided, Nimble had a roof over his head and food to eat. For that kindness he would be the best company Morgan’d ever had. And once the weather cleared, he’d make his way to the coast. That would be the sensible thing to do.