Chapter 7
Rebecca pinched her cell phone between her ear and shoulder as she wiped dust off the diner counter with a cloth.
“Yes, hi—this is Rebecca calling from McIntosh’s Table. I’m wondering if you still do—”
A pause, then a click.
She sighed. A pot of coffee burbled weakly on the warmer, the smell of it faintly burnt after an hour.
She looked down at the Yellow Pages she’d found under the counter, edges curled, cover sticky with sugar, mottled by age.
Lenore had written notes in the margins, in her neat script—“good pie cherries,” “cash only,” “no-show last June.” Rebecca was using it because when she had googled “contractor in Bramley Hollow,” Cort Adams’s name and company had been the only result.
She flipped another page and circled “Henderson they would serve not just as decorations but as places to sit, or for children to perch.
It was the same every year, and Rebecca had never missed one before—except last year.
She turned toward the crosswalk just as she saw it: a gray pickup truck with a red logo, Adams Contracting, bright as a beacon.
She had been poised for this moment, but it still hit her like a gale, spun her around until she was facing back toward the square.
The gazebo, the garlands, the pumpkins and hay bales, the trees with their patchwork fall colors, now blurred as she tried to regain her composure.
Behind her, she heard the truck pass and allowed herself to turn slightly, just in time to catch him in profile.
He had one hand casually draped on the steering wheel.
The honeyed sunlight glinted in his sandy-blond hair.
In seconds, his truck had turned onto Spyre Street and was gone.
Rebecca wanted to drop down onto a nearby bench and wait for her heart to stop racing but at the same time had the urge to turn around and walk back to the diner, forget about her errands, and just hide.
But, no. That wasn’t her anymore. She wasn’t going to let Cort Adams get to her like this.
She had known she couldn’t avoid him all month in a small town like this—and now she had gotten the first sighting out of the way.
She kept walking, and as she did, she felt her nerves calm. Was that relief flowing through her body? As though knowing exactly where Cort Adams was in the world was a comfort, not a heartache.
Stepping into Jonagold General Store was like walking into a preserved memory: floors that creaked in all the familiar places, the musty scent of dry goods, the tang of lemon oil, the brass bell singing its same old tune.
She made her way through the aisles, picking up the items she needed.
The basil-scented cleaner that had been Lenore’s favorite.
A scrub brush for the kitchen sink. Paper towels.
Garbage bags, light bulbs, batteries, weather stripping.
At the cash register, Mr. Jonagold, his hair now white but his red bow tie as jaunty as ever, grinned when he saw her, his blue eyes dancing. “Fixing up the old place, are you?” he asked.
“Doing what I can for now,” she said, setting items on the counter. “Then I’ll have to hire someone.”
She wished she hadn’t mentioned this as soon as he said, “Cort Adams does fine work. He’s done a lot for us here at the store. Allowed us to renovate while keeping the charm of the place. Craftsmanship and care run in that boy’s veins.”
“I’m not hiring him,” she said evenly.
A small frown. “Cort’s not available?”
“I found someone else. It’s all sorted.” A lie as crisp as an orchard-fresh apple, and she pushed away the guilt and kept her voice casual as she asked, “How are those grandkids of yours, Mr. Jonagold?” Thankfully, this prompted a quick change of subject and some proud showing off of the photographs he kept tucked behind the cash register.
Next, she pushed the cart down the road to Ida’s Market.
Fresh bread perfumed the entry, and she recognized the same sourdough used at the diner for years, for the apple butter grilled cheese.
There was also the brioche that had been used for the chicken cutlet with apple compote.
The focaccia for the muffuletta. Rebecca stood at the bread display, lost in memory, deeply missing the dishes that had flavored her childhood, before choosing a sturdy multigrain.
She then walked through the store, picking up cheese, eggs, a Cluckingham’s Farm roaster, vegetables.
Coffee, tea, milk, a pint of local honey.
At the register, the young cashier looked familiar. “Lily, is it?” Rebecca asked. “You used to work weekends at the diner, when you were in high school.”
The young woman smiled and nodded. “I loved McIntosh’s Table,” Lily said, scanning Rebecca’s grocery items. “I’m an English major now—online with Athabasca. Your grannie talked me into it.”
“That’s wonderful,” Rebecca said, meaning it. “I teach literature at U of T. Come by the diner for coffee and tell me about your classes. I’d love to hear all about it.”
Lily smiled and said she would. Then she paused. “Wait—I just have to ask you this. Do you think you’ll reopen the place? Is that why you’re back?” Her voice was hopeful.
Rebecca swallowed over a sudden lump in her throat.
The question surprised her—but what surprised her most was how hard it was to say what she had to.
“No, I’m fixing it up to sell.” She knew this was the right answer.
She was only here in Bramley Hollow for the month, to sort out the issues that had arisen with the building, deal with Crispin’s threats, get the place listed, then go back to her life in Toronto.
She could deal with selling it when she was back there.
She wasn’t here for long. But why did telling herself that cause such an ache?
“Either way, it’s nice to see lights on again,” Lily said. “I’ll definitely stop by and see you sometime.”
Outside, the autumn air cooled Rebecca’s cheeks as she walked back the way she had come, stopping at the community notice board outside the post office.
She scanned it hopefully for available contractors and finally found a battered-looking card in the bottom corner that read “Eli Walsh, Genral Contrator.” The professor in her cringed at the unfortunate typos.
Rebecca remembered Eli from high school as a guy who once made a pair of nunchucks out of broom handles in shop class and spent the afternoon whacking lockers with them—until he eventually hit himself in the head and was sent home with a concussion.
Not exactly the image of a reliable tradesman.
But, she reminded herself, people changed.
She slid the card into her pocket, telling herself that having a last resort was better than having nothing.
And just as she was about to walk away, she spotted another small piece of paper, among the town event announcements, for Kwan Home Repairs.
Back at the diner, she put away her groceries, then reached for her phone again. Kwan Home Repairs answered on the eighth ring.
“Hello? Mr. Kwan speaking.”
“Hi, this is Rebecca McIntosh—at the diner?”
“Rebecca?” His voice warmed. “I used to run the pharmacy. Your grandmother was a kind lady—always sent me home with extra pie when she knew my grandkids were coming to visit.”
“She was kind,” Rebecca said with a smile. “And very generous. So, I saw your flyer at the post office, and I was wondering if you might be able to help me out with some small renovations I need to do here.”
“Oh, no. I only do very small jobs. Medicine cabinets, towel bars. My wife put the flyer there. She likes me busy. Out of the house, now that I’ve retired.” He chuckled. “If it’s a bigger job you want, call Cort Adams.”
She sighed. “Cort isn’t available.”
“He will be soon. Finishing the Hartwell place on Spyre in a day or two—I was just chatting with him this morning while out for my walk, so I know that. Reliable young man. You should definitely call him.”
“Okay, I’ll check in with him,” Rebecca said hurriedly. “Thank you, Mr. Kwan.”
But instead, she picked up Eli Walsh’s card and dialed.
It rang forever. She was about to hang up when there was a clatter, then a voice: “Talk to me!” Only, an alarmingly loud whirring sound made it impossible to speak and be certain he could hear her.
Finally, the noise stopped. “Sorry, I’m on a jobsite. Very active situation.”
Rebecca explained who she was.
“Yeah, sure, I remember you, Reb.” No one had ever called her that. “I can always take a new job. What are we talking?”
“Leaky roof in one spot, I think. Some floor issues, windows are—”
“Windows, yeah. Big fan of those. Do you want under-cabinet LED lighting?”
“Um…no. Can you come by and see the place?”
“I’m technically between vehicles. My truck is in the shop due to something that is not my fault, but I can still roll up, sure. I’ll check with Todd.” Rebecca had no idea who Todd was. “Do you have one of my coupons for a free estimate?”
She closed her eyes. “I just assumed the estimate would be free.”
“I guess I can make an exception,” he said, sounding like he was doing her a big favor. “I’ll come by today. See you soonish, Reb.”
—
Two hours later—so, not even close to soonish—a purple pickup with bright-pink underglow lighting slid into the lot, Luke Combs lamenting the absence of love in Oklahoma loudly through the open windows.
Eli strode into the diner and dropped his tool kit on the ground so hard a floorboard popped up like it was a piece of toast. It was fine, Rebecca told herself. Everything needed to be fixed up, anyway.
They did a circuit of the diner, Rebecca pointing out the issues she had noticed.
Then she watched in horror as Eli hopped up onto the corner table in his boots, tapped at the plaster with the end of a hammer.
Soon he was showered in chalky grit. He hopped down, and for one suspended second, all was quiet—but then the entire panel he had been poking at crashed onto the table.
“Let’s add ‘hole in ceiling’ to the list,” he said with a shrug.
Rebecca said nothing. Her eye twitched.
Next Eli dragged a stool toward the front counter.
“We should probably check above here, too,” he said.
“High traffic area.” But when he stepped up onto the stool, the seat sheared off.
He caught the counter at the last second instead of slamming to the ground.
“I hope you have building insurance,” he said.
“I probably don’t,” Rebecca replied through gritted teeth. “And don’t you…have a stepladder, Eli?”
He ignored her, took a running start, hopped onto the counter, and shattered the coffee carafe that had been sitting there.
Rebecca gasped at the glittering shards, then went to find a broom and a dustpan, surprised at the tears that had sprung to her eyes.
It was just a carafe, she told herself—but it had been a relic from the diner, an item she could picture in Lenore’s hand as she refilled a patron’s cup or asked Rebecca if she needed a warm-up as she studied.
In an instant, it was gone. All of this will be gone soon, she reminded herself as she swept broken glass in silence while Eli did nothing to help.
Finally, she stopped sweeping and looked up at him.
“Do you think you could come back tomorrow?” she said. I’m not ready, she didn’t add.
“Sure. I’ll come back tomorrow. Bright and early,” he said. “Around noon. I’ll bring my sledgehammer,” he added, as her heart sank. When he was gone, she turned and stared at the wrecked floorboards, the gaping hole in the ceiling, the pale drift of plaster dust everywhere.
The bell over the door jingled behind her.
“What did you forget—” Rebecca began as she turned. But it wasn’t Eli.
It was Cort Adams.