Chapter 2
Los Angeles and Harlot’s Bay might as well have existed on different planets.
In Molly’s haze of exhaustion after a red-eye flight from LAX to BWI, a long line at the car rental kiosk, and two hours of
driving, what surrounded her seemed like a hallucination.
Green. Green everywhere. Green grass in front yards. Green stretches of woods whipping by her rental car on both sides as
she drove along the wide two-lane road leading into town. Green-stemmed black-eyed Susans planted in Strumpet Square, the
center of downtown Harlot’s Bay.
And what made all that green possible? Water. A breathtaking abundance of water in the air—wow, she’d forgotten about the
humidity—and all around, none of it turquoise or crashing onto rocks and sand. The brown river water reflected the blue of
the sunny sky, and it lapped at the shore in gentle ripples or flowed in a quiet rush toward the Chesapeake Bay.
Those ripples sparkled on the horizon as she turned into the small gravel lot beside the Battleaxe B&B, where she’d be staying
the next few days. However long it took to pay her respects and attend Karl’s . . .
She bit her lip, braking a little too hard once she’d pulled into a free spot.
However long it took to attend Karl’s funeral.
Checking in early and dropping off her bag for safekeeping until her room was ready took five minutes, max. When Molly stepped back outside into the blinding sunshine and near-choking humidity, her cell’s display indicated that it wasn’t even ten in the morning yet.
There was no point putting it off, was there? She should go to Grounds and Grains, and if it was open despite Karl’s absence,
ask someone for specifics about whatever arrangements had been made. Her overtired brain had even retained a vague memory
of the bakery’s location just off Strumpet Square, so she had no excuse for waiting. Other than her unwillingness to confirm
the reality of a loss she felt much more keenly than she should.
She took the walk at a leisurely pace, comparing what she saw to her memories. Most buildings in the center of town dated
back at least a century, so the basic layout looked pretty much the same as she recalled from two decades ago. That said,
she spotted new-to-her window boxes in full bloom, fresh coats of paint on shutters and signs, and different businesses than
she remembered.
Somehow, Harlot’s Bay had managed to keep most national chains out of town. In their absence, locally owned restaurants and
stores had proliferated in the last two decades. There was a fussy-but-pretty tearoom. An old-school diner with red vinyl
booths. A peacock-hued Indian restaurant advertising its extensive lunch buffet across the street from a dark-wooded Swiss
place only open for dinner. Lawyers’ and doctors’ and dentists’ offices. An architecture firm. A yarn store. A gallery displaying
the work of regional artists and craftspeople.
Ladywright College, Historic Harlot’s Bay, and nearby military bases must be bringing visitors, residents, and tax dollars into the town. There was no other way a community of this size could support so many specialized businesses, almost all of them successful-looking.
Her steps slowed and slowed again as she drew closer to her destination, but the downtown area was only so large. The deep
green sign for Grounds and Grains loomed just ahead, with its unfussy illustrations of a plump baguette and a steaming coffee
mug painted a muted gold.
Molly gave herself a minute or two to study the place.
Behind the spotless glass windows, people stood waiting in front of a long counter and chose items from treat-packed display
shelves. They sat around several small café tables and across from one another in the bakery’s three booths. They doctored
their coffees with cream and sugar at a side table and deposited their trash in a discreet receptable.
She didn’t see a memorial, a sign informing customers about Karl’s loss, or even a perfunctory black ribbon anywhere. His
shop’s running seemed remarkably unaffected by his death. Which was both impressive—he must have managed his business incredibly
well if it could keep functioning this smoothly without him—and unbearably sad. No matter how crotchety he might have remained
as he neared middle age, no matter whether an assistant baker could take over for him with ease, shouldn’t he be mourned?
Shouldn’t his absence—his murder—at least be acknowledged by the business he’d spent his entire adult life serving?
Tragedy upon tragedy. Her throat ached with the tears she wouldn’t let herself shed.
Sucking in a deep, hitching breath, she swung open the heavy entry door. A cowbell attached to the push bar inside jangled
loudly, its sound incongruously cheerful.
Two clerks stood behind the counter, clad in white aprons. A Latina with golden skin and a ponytail, her hair dyed a deep blue-green at the ends, and a younger Asian guy with a messy man bun. They were each helping someone at the moment, but she’d be next in line.
Lifting her feet to walk toward them felt like dragging lead weights.
As she neared the counter, the heavenly smell of the shop almost dizzied her. The place was a pastry lover’s fever dream,
its glass-front display cases crowded with buns and Danishes and doughnuts and scones, most of them glistening with various
glazes and drizzles. The door behind the clerks and to the left was cracked open an inch or two, and the roar of a powerful
engine—a mixer?—drifted into the public area, competing with the soft jazz playing over the bakery’s speakers.
Should she go ahead and ask the question without preamble? Or would it be more polite to order something first? Her stomach
churned with nausea, and she wasn’t the slightest bit hungry, but . . .
“May I help you?” The ponytailed woman—Bez, according to her name tag—sounded patient but a tad concerned, as if she’d already
asked that question more than once.
“Sorry,” Molly said, just as the clamor from the back ceased. Oh, crap, she hadn’t even looked at the menu yet. “Um . . .
I’d like one of the lemon-glazed blueberry cake doughnuts, please. And . . . uh . . . a butterscotch latte with whipped cream?”
Sugar and caffeine. The breakfast of champions, assuming the sport in question was competitive feelings-consumption.
Bez grabbed a sheet of waxed paper. “For here or to go?”
“Here.” Because how could she claim she’d paid her respects if she breezed in and out of Karl’s workplace for the past two decades in less than five minutes?
“Sure.” Bez relayed the coffee order to Mr. Man Bun. Using a sheet of waxed paper, she transferred the doughnut onto a small
white plate and set it on the counter. “Anything else?”
A quick glance behind her confirmed that no one else was waiting to be served. “Yeah. I . . . I just wanted to say . . .”
Molly’s inhalation shook, but she forced herself to keep speaking. “I’m so sorry to hear the news. About, uh . . . Karl. Do—do
you have any idea when the funeral might be?”
There. She’d made his loss real by speaking it aloud.
Even rapid blinking was no longer doing the job. Shit.
To her shock, the tired-looking clerk with the man bun started laughing. Bez smacked him on the arm, but he was still grinning
as he began working on the latte.
The door to the back room opened wider then, but Molly barely noticed through her haze of fury. She no longer had to fight
tears. Instead, she had to fight the urge to vault over the countertop separating her from that bunned bastard and beat him
bloody with a mug.
“I can’t believe you’re laughing.” Shaking with rage, she narrowed her eyes at the asshole and marched toward his station. Leaning over the countertop and
jabbing her finger an inch from his chest, she hissed, “How dare you?”
The clerk—Johnathan, his name tag informed her—raised his hands, palms out. “Sorry. Sorry, ma’am. I just—we’ve been hearing
the same thing all morning, and it’s all so ridiculous.”
Ridiculous? A good man’s murder was ridiculous?
At first, Molly couldn’t hear Bez through the blood pounding in her ears.
“—not dead,” the other clerk was saying emphatically, waving an arm to draw Molly’s attention away from her coworker. “Karl’s not dead. I promise. It was a misunderstanding. The reporter, Sylvia, didn’t realize we were joking, and . . . yeah. Things got weird.
But he’s in the back right now, working on our daily sandwich specials. Please don’t. . . . I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
Molly’s knees had gone floppy, and she slapped her hands onto the cool marble countertop to brace herself. “He’s not . . .
he’s alive?”
“Yes. Very alive. He had the flu, but now he’s simply”—Bez raised her voice significantly—“a cranky grouch unwilling to come
out front and deal with someone mourning him, even though he’s perfectly fine. Instead, he’s leaving it to his clerks, who
aren’t paid nearly enough to serve as grief counselors.”
There was no response from the back, although the light pouring through the cracked door leading to the work area seemed to
darken.
Was that—
“I don’t recognize you.” Bez’s ponytail swayed as she tipped her head to the side. “Are you local? How do you know Karl?”
Still woozy with relief, Molly scrubbed her hands over her face and bought herself a moment to recover. Braced herself against
the possibility of seeing her former friend for the first time in two decades, blessedly alive and awkwardly right here.
If she’d known that was even a faint, miraculous possibility, she’d probably have combed her hair before coming to the bakery.
“I don’t live in Harlot’s Bay now, but I did. Back in high school.” When she finally lowered her hands and answered Bez, Molly’s
voice sounded calm, and she was freaking proud of that. “Karl and I used to be—”
“Friends,” said a rough, familiar voice, and the door to the back room opened entirely, revealing .
. . Karl. Broad and big-bellied. Not especially tall, but still a towering presence.
Wearing a tee, jeans, and a flour-flecked apron, his brown eyes devouring her from beneath the brim of his baseball cap.
“Good friends. Till I fucked it all up.”
She wanted to weep at the sight of him, hale and whole. She wanted to laugh, since he was wearing some sort of stretchy white
net over his thick, coppery beard, and it was kind of hilarious looking. She wanted to scream, because all that sorrow and
regret had been for nothing, and what kind of jerk would let her think he was dead for an entire day if he wasn’t, even if they weren’t in touch anymore and hadn’t been for two decades?
She also wanted to sit the hell down, because these last twenty-four hours had been a lot.
“You screwed things up with someone you care about?” Bez shook her head, her brow scrunched in feigned disbelief. “Wow. That
seems so unlike you.”
Johnathan snorted.
Karl ignored his employees and everyone else watching the tableau in rapt silence.
“Dearborn.” He crooked a finger. “Get over here.”
“I don’t take orders from you, Dean,” she reminded him. “Never have. Never will.”
But when Johnathan flipped up a hinged section of the countertop for her, she squeezed through the narrow gap. She edged around
a rolling cart full of cooling bread on silver trays.
And when Karl opened his arms, she walked straight into them.