Chapter 6
Betsy had their booth ready before Meghan walked through the door.
It wasn’t their booth in any official sense.
No plaque, no reserved sign. But it was the one in the back corner by the window, where the vinyl on the left side had a hairline crack Betsy had patched with electrical tape years ago.
It was where Meghan and Elissa had been sitting every time they’d met at the diner since they were old enough to order for themselves.
Elissa was already there, mug in front of her, her hair still damp at the ends from a morning shower.
She looked settled. More settled than the last time Meghan had seen her, which had been at the outdoor market two weeks ago, when Elissa had still been carrying the slightly dazed expression of a woman who’d upended her life to stay in a town she’d spent years avoiding.
Meghan slid into the other side of the booth. Betsy appeared before she’d set her bag down.
“Coffee?”
“Please.”
Betsy poured without asking how Meghan took it. Thirty-two years behind this counter meant she knew. She topped off Elissa’s mug, set the pot on the table between them like she always did, and walked away.
“You look good,” Meghan said.
“I slept nine hours last night.” Elissa said it like a confession. “I don’t think I’ve slept nine hours since college.”
“The mountain air.”
“Or the unemployment.” Elissa smiled. “Turns out not waking up to a hundred unread emails does wonders.”
Meghan grabbed the mug and let the warmth settle into her fingers.
The diner smelled the way it always smelled—coffee, bacon grease, and whatever pie Betsy had cooling in the back.
Through the window, Main Street was quiet except for a truck pulling a boat trailer and two women from the garden club having a conversation that involved a lot of pointing.
“How’s the salon?” Elissa asked.
There it was. The question that meant more than the words. Elissa wasn’t asking about revenue or bookings. She was asking about Brynn.
“Fine,” Meghan said. “Busy. Summer’s always good. Everybody wants to look decent before vacation.”
“That’s great.”
Elissa picked up her mug and took a sip.
She didn’t push. She never pushed, not on this.
Somewhere in the years of watching Meghan and Brynn circle each other, Elissa had learned that pressing only made Meghan pull back harder.
So she sipped her coffee and waited, and the silence between them stayed comfortable in the way that only came from twenty years of friendship.
Meghan could feel the next question forming. She headed it off.
“I’m on the parade committee.”
Elissa’s eyebrows lifted. “Voluntarily?”
“Richard volunteered me. He told the room I’d generously offered. My name was on the printed agenda before he’d even asked.”
“That’s very Richard.”
“I’m coordinating hair and styling for everyone in the parade. Riders, float people, the grand marshal—whoever that turns out to be.”
“He still hasn’t announced it?” Elissa leaned back. “Sadie said Colin heard it might be Cal.”
“Cal Maddox would rather eat glass than ride in a carriage down Main Street.”
“That’s what Colin said. He said Cal told Richard he’d sooner move to Florida.”
Meghan almost laughed. Cal had been anchored to the same stool at the bait shop counter for as long as she could remember. The idea of him waving from a horse-drawn carriage in a sash was genuinely absurd.
She took a sip of coffee and set the mug down. “The farrier’s involved too,” she said. “Wyatt Haynes. Hal’s grandson.”
“I know the name. I don’t think I’ve met him.”
“He came into the salon last week. After hours. Half his hair was missing.”
Elissa set her mug down. “What?”
“He was shoeing a horse. A young one. She caught a mouthful of his hair and yanked a chunk out.” Meghan drew a line above her own ear. “Right above his left ear. He looked like he’d lost a fight with a weed eater. And he had Richard’s meeting in two hours.”
“He came to you?”
“Brynn was already gone. I was sweeping up. He knocked on the door, and when I looked through the glass, this man was standing on the sidewalk with his hand over the side of his head like he was trying to hold it together.”
Elissa was grinning now. “What did you do?”
“I let him in. What else was I going to do? He looked like he’d been attacked.” Meghan picked up her coffee, then put it back down. “The whole left side was just—gone. Ragged. Like the horse had grabbed a handful and pulled. I had to take three inches off the rest just to blend it.”
“Did he explain how a horse got close enough to grab his hair?”
“He was crouched down, working on a hoof. The mare swung her head and caught him.” Meghan paused. “He said he usually watches his head.”
Elissa laughed. A genuine one, her head tipped back, her hands pressed to her chest. The sound carried through the diner. Betsy looked over from the counter. Cal, two booths away, didn’t move.
Meghan was smiling. She felt it happen—the corners of her mouth pulling up, her face softening into something she hadn’t planned.
She was telling this story and enjoying the telling.
Not just the facts of it, but the way the facts landed.
The way Elissa’s face shifted from curiosity to delight.
The way the whole thing stacked into something warm and ridiculous and worth repeating.
She stopped. Not abruptly. Not in a way anyone else would have caught. But Elissa wasn’t anyone else. The smile flattened, just slightly, and Meghan reached for her coffee and took a sip she didn’t need.
She hadn’t expected to care how the story landed.
She’d mentioned Wyatt because the parade committee was news and the haircut was funny and it filled the space that would have otherwise been filled with questions about Brynn.
But somewhere between the weed eater line and the man standing on the sidewalk with one hand on his head, the story had stopped being filler.
It had become something she wanted to tell well.
That was different. She didn’t know what to do with different.
Elissa watched her with the quiet, steady attention of a woman who’d been reading Meghan’s face since middle school. Then she picked up the coffeepot Betsy had left on the table and refilled both their mugs. Slowly. Like the task required her full concentration.
“So what’s he like?” Elissa asked.
Casual, light. The tone of someone asking about the weather.
“Quiet,” Meghan said. “He doesn’t talk much. But when he does, it’s?—”
She stopped herself again. Shook her head slightly.
“He’s fine. He’s a farrier. He shoes horses. Richard got him at the diner.”
“Richard gets everyone at the diner.”
“He does.”
Elissa’s mouth curved, but she didn’t push. She just sipped her coffee and looked out the window at Main Street, where a man was taping a festival poster to the lamppost outside the pharmacy. Meghan appreciated that. And hated, a little, that there was apparently something to avoid pushing.
“I’m glad you’re staying,” Meghan said. It came out quieter than she’d intended.
Elissa looked at her, and something in her expression softened. “Me too.”
They finished their coffee and talked about Sadie and Colin, about the marina, about whether Margie Whitaker’s bed-and-breakfast was fully booked for the holiday weekend. Easy things. Surface things. The kind of conversation two old friends could have without either one reaching too deep.
When they stood to leave, Meghan reached for the check. Elissa tried to grab it first.
“I’ve got it,” Meghan said.
“You got it last time.”
“Then you can get it the next two times.”
Elissa let go of the check. They walked to the counter, where Betsy took Meghan’s cash and waved off the change. Outside, the morning had warmed up. The sidewalk was bright. A kid on a bicycle rode past, and somewhere down the block, someone was testing a sound system that crackled and hummed.
“Saturday?” Elissa asked.
“Saturday.”
They parted on the sidewalk. Elissa turned left toward the bed-and-breakfast where she’d been renting a room. Meghan turned right toward the salon, where Brynn was covering the morning appointments alone.
She walked the three blocks without hurrying.
Past the pharmacy. Past the hardware store.
Past the lamppost with the fresh festival poster.
The town was doing what it did every summer—dressing itself up, hanging banners, making plans.
The same storefronts, the same sidewalks, the same mountains rising behind the rooftops at the end of the street.
She thought about the way she’d told the story. The horse. The hair. Wyatt standing on the sidewalk with his hand over the damage, trying to look like the kind of man who had not just been personally defeated by livestock.
Meghan slowed in front of The Cutting Room and looked at the glass door for one extra second before reaching for the handle. Inside, Brynn was working at her station. The cat was in the window, asleep in the sun like nothing in the world had ever been complicated.
Meghan pushed open the door and went back to work.