Chapter 2 Prudence, Lists & Unrequited Infatuation （of a possum）
PRUDENCE, LISTS it paid to remember it, and it certainly paid to preserve it.
She was a merchant, and she was savvy enough not to look the gift horse in the mouth.
If people wanted to buy literature on the history of the town or about its founder, they were more than welcome.
A Crowhart had resided in the Crow’s Nest since its founding. At least, that’s what Pru’s books said. And now there was one more. But who was counting? Certainly not Pru.
Next to her, the fuzzy creature occupying a pillow in the sunlight snorted theatrically.
“Patience Petunia Fowler, if you have something to say about this, I suggest you do so to my face.”
Dismissing entirely the stern tone of voice or her full government name, the critter, also known as Patches the Possum, grumbled before turning away from Pru and back to gazing longingly out the window.
And that was another thing.
Patches, who had no need for obfuscation or hiding of her scrutiny of the building next door—not that Pru needed any, absolutely not—was ensorcelled.
Patches was bewitched. Patches was a total goner.
All because Rhiannon Crowhart was accompanied almost everywhere by a black cat whose size really brought the animal closer to a small panther than a regular house feline.
The sleek menace followed its mistress with the same level of grace.
If not for Rhiannon’s striking red hair, they could be family, both possessing those haunting green eyes and the deadly presence of a predator on the prowl.
Patches snorted again, this time with something akin to ridicule, and Pru shook her head. Yeah, even her possum was laughing at her train of thought.
Haunting? Darn it, she had never exchanged a word with the woman. Pru felt awkward and silly.
Oh, but the dreams… The ones where you whisper promises as if she’s yours to call for in the night—
Pru gritted her teeth and valiantly attempted to bring herself back to reality. A diversion was in order.
As if to answer her request, the universe provided.
Though when Victoria Crowhart-Moreau shook out the morning dampness from her long, braided gray hair and settled on the little stool next to the cash register counter, Pru considered the distinct possibility that the universe had a rather perverse sense of humor.
“I am here to gossip and spy, Prudence Ophelia. And for coffee, of course.”
Pru could tell the latter was an afterthought. Not an excuse exactly—the woman in front of her needed no excuses and made no apologies for herself. Ever.
At an indecipherable age—anywhere between sixty and eighty—Victoria was anything but apologetic. In fact, she was a renowned mischief-maker and trouble-rouser on the island.
Tall, slender to the point of brittle, though deceptively so, excessively profane, and completely irreverent, Victoria Crowhart-Moreau was pure unadulterated fun, and that made her a particular favorite of Pru’s.
“Now, silly goose, how about that brew and what about your new neighbor?”