The Cider Shop Rules

by Julie Anne Lindsey

I dragged an eyeshadow brush loaded with nude shimmer shadow across my closed lids, then swept midnight-black mascara through my lashes while Dot yanked tops from my closet.

  She held blouses and sweaters against my back while I traced my lips with petal-pink liner and painted them in with clear gloss. I only bought makeup in shades that matched my skin, occasionally with a little shimmer, and none of it made a huge difference in my appearance, but I liked the effect. The products added a pleasant polish to my look, and I stood a little taller when I took the time to apply them.

  “This,” Dot said, holding a fitted cream-colored blouse up for inspection. “Leave your top two buttons open to show off the lacy camisole neckline and wear your thin gold chain with the golden apple charm.”

  I stared at the pristine blouse. “I’m going to get spaghetti sauce all over that.”

  She unbuttoned it and fanned it out like a bullfighter’s cape. “Come on.”

  I threaded my arms into the snug sleeves, pre-rolled and buttoned at the elbows. “I don’t know,” I said, tucking the camisole into my skirt, then buttoning and tucking the blouse in with it. “What if I look like a school marm or a librarian?”

  “Not with your figure and those girls,” she said, nodding at my bosom. “Now, belt.” Dot held a skinny black belt between her fingertips.

  I looked down at my covered cleavage and admired the effect of the lace camisole. Dot was good. “A sexy librarian, then.”

  “Absolutely,” Dot agreed. “I’ll curl your hair.”

  I slid the belt through the skirt’s narrow loops, then returned to my seat at the vanity.

  Dot reached around me, dangling my delicate chain above my chest. She fastened the clasp at the back of my neck, and I adjusted the tiny golden apple against my collarbone. She was right. The combination of structured pieces looked elegant and understated. I liked it, and the makeup gave me confidence.

  “Now for the finishing touches.” Dot lifted the curling iron and wrapped a long strand of loose hair around it. “I like this look on you. It’s very Jane Austen.” She released the curled strand, and it fell warmly against my neck. Then, she moved on to the next. Piece by piece, she made each carefully selected bit of hair seem as if it had simply fallen loose. As if all my hair was made of perfect barrel curls, and I’d chosen to tie it up instead of show it off.

  Dot stepped back to admire her work. “I’d say you look beautiful, but when don’t you? At the moment, however, I’m willing to say you’re glowing.”

  “It’s the shimmer eyeshadow,” I told her, standing to eliminate any wrinkles from my outfit. “I have the perfect shoes. New chunky-heeled pumps I can wear without falling down or twisting an ankle in, I think.” I headed for the closet, kneading my shaky hands. “I ordered them online.”

  The ringing doorbell froze us in our places.

  “I’ll get that,” Dot said. “You put on your safety heels.”

  I collected my new shoes from the closet while she headed for my door.

  “Come in,” Dot cooed. “It’s so nice to see you again. You look great. How was dress rehearsal?”

  “Back at ya,” Blake’s voice returned. “Dress rehearsal was really weird.” He chuckled. “I’m glad to fill in for a friend, but I don’t get the desire to re-create wars and other deadly events.”

  “Agreed,” she said congenially. “Winnie’s just grabbing her shoes. She won’t be long. Can I get you a glass of water or cider while you wait?”

  “I’m good,” Blake said.

  I wobbled slowly toward the living room on my stiff and unforgiving shoes, unsure how to announce my presence.

  “How’s the goose?” Blake asked. “Still recovering from that run-in with a car?”

  “He’s going to be okay,” she said a little sadly as I crept forward.

  The pair came into view in my kitchen, smiling at one another. Dot was clearly thrilled he’d remembered her poor goose.

  “Doc saved his life, but his wing won’t be the same. He’s grounded for life now and in need of a refuge. Luckily, I’ve arranged a temporary caretaker to protect him from predators and harsh weather.”

  Blake’s expression went flat, and his face turned suddenly in my direction, as if he’d somehow sensed I was there.

  I raised a hand hip-high and blushed. Caught listening in. “Hi.”

  He whistled long and slow. “Dang.”

  Dot smiled brightly behind him. “That’s what I said.”

  Blake moved in my direction, then kissed my cheek in greeting. “You look amazing.”

  “Thanks.” I tried to look more confident than I felt as I grabbed my handbag and stuffed my phone inside. “So do you.” Blake had chosen simple tan khakis and a royal-blue V-neck sweater with a white T-shirt beneath. He’d have looked like a yuppie if it wasn’t for his growing beard.

  I hugged Dot, then gripped her shoulders in a quick you-are-my-hero-for-coming-here-tonight squeeze. “I’ll call you,” I said.

  She smiled, clearly hearing the unspoken and tell you everything. “I’ll walk you out. I want to check on Granny and Kenny Rogers.”

  Blake snorted. He lifted his eyes to mine, as one orange cat sniffed his shoes. “Is this guy Kenny Rogers or the other one?” He crouched to scratch Kenny behind his ears.

  “That’s Kenny,” I said.

  Dolly was curled on the back of my couch, oblivious to my raging anxiety and our guests.

  Curiosity turned my gaze on Dot, who was already opening my front door. “You weren’t talking about my cat,” I said.

  “Correct,” she said.

  Honk! a goose called from somewhere outside my door.

  She smiled.

  “Dot,” I said. “What did you do?”

  Blake strode through the door after her. “Was that the goose?”

  I locked up behind us and followed my friends down the porch steps toward Granny’s house. “Dot?”

  Honk! Honk!

  Blake lengthened his strides as we crossed the field. “No way!” he called.

  Dot beamed at Granny, who was pouring a bucket of water into an inflatable kiddie pool. A goose wiggled his backside in the rising tide.

  I balked. Granny was the one Dot said she’d found to keep the goose for now?

  That goose was never going anywhere again, and we all knew it.

  “Waddles,” Granny cooed. “Here comes your guardian angel, Miss Dorothy Summers, with your new sister, Winona Mae Montgomery, and a very handsome stranger.”

  Blake shook Granny’s hand and made a proper introduction while I processed the fact that yet another animal was living on our orchard. That made four new animal adoptions in a year. If Dot and Granny kept this up, we’d have to rename Smythe Orchard as Old MacDonald’s farm.

  My phone dinged, and I stopped short of greeting Granny to check the messages.

  Colton had sent a text. I opened it, eager to see what had happened. It’d been hours since I’d told him about the alleged specter sightings near my home, which were probably nothing, and the man at the cider shop, which I hoped was nothing.

  Did he look like this? Colton asked.

  He attached a grainy surveillance photo to the message. I squinted at the screen as a follow-up text arrived.

  This is the FBI’s most recent photo of Samuel Keller.

  I looked again, straining my eyes against the low-quality photo, but it didn’t work. The man on the screen could’ve been Bigfoot or Granny for all I could tell. I took a steadying breath and responded.

  Not sure. Photo unclear. Leaving soon. We’ll talk at dinner.

  Boo’s familiar bleat caught my ear a moment later, and I lowered my phone to watch the goat approach. “You little stinker,” I said. “You escaped again.”

  He tottered forward with a happy gait and made it into my reach before my phone beeped again.

  Another text from Colton. The simple response sent my heart into panicked sprint.

  What dinner?

  I raised horrified eyes t
o Blake, who’d squatted before the kiddie pool, cheerfully splashing his fingers in the water.

  “Does Colton know I’m coming to dinner?” I asked.

  His steady blue eyes flashed up to meet mine.

  “Did you tell him?”

  Blake shook his head once, and my stomach knotted. “No,” he said.

  The goose honked.

  Boo fell over.

  I knew exactly how he felt.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dante’s was the nicest restaurant in Blossom Valley, and the go-to destination for small-scale celebrations. Since there was always something to celebrate, the place was usually packed for dinner and later for drinks and desserts. I’d been there many times, and I’d never been disappointed. It was a light and airy venue with high beadboard ceilings and weathered reclaimed barnwood on the walls. Faux candles flickered on tabletops beside potted succulent plants and the music was always classical.

  A hostess in a swanky black dress and heels led Blake and I through the crowded dining room. My toes screamed with the pinch of new shoes, and my nerves jangled with the anticipation of meeting Colton’s parents. The hostess stopped outside a roomy nook with bank seating on three sides and a broad rectangular table at its center. Leafy green herbs hung in glossy white containers from a wall painted black with chalkboard-paint. The names of the plants had been scripted in loopy white chalk letters and little arrows indicated which names went with which herbs.

  An older couple beamed and motioned to us from beneath the plants and whimsical fonts.

  “Welcome!” the man said from his place behind the table. “We’d get up but it took us a while to scoot all the way in here.” He patted the L shaped bench and laughed.

  The couple had apparently worked their way along the bench at either short end of the table then around to the back.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Blake said, sliding onto the seat. “We’ll come to you.” He scooted in the woman’s direction, then snaked a long arm out to clasp my wrist and pull me down with him. He kissed the woman’s cheek. “Mom, Dad, this is the lady I’ve been telling you about. Winona Mae Montgomery. She lives with her grandmother at Smythe Orchard, the family property where she grew up and now runs a cider shop.”

  “It’s lovely to meet you,” his mother said, reaching over Blake to squeeze my hand. “Your shop is in the big Mail Pouch barn, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, releasing her hand before mine started sweating.

  His dad saluted me from the other side of Blake’s mother. “Hello. It’s always nice to meet a friend of Blake’s and Colton’s.”

  I waved, then tucked my clammy hands under my thighs beneath the tablecloth.

  Blake smiled at me. “Winnie, these are my parents, Mary and David Wise.”

  “We’re so glad you came,” Mary said, leaning forward, sincerity dripping from her words. “It’s not often we get to talk to a woman our son is interested in romantically.” She whispered the final word while performing a stage wink.

  My cheeks heated, and I cast a sideways look at Blake, who’d stretched his arm across the seat behind me. “Um, I don’t know what to say to that,” I admitted.

  David lifted his wife’s hand in his and kissed her knuckles. “And she’s just as beautiful as he said.”

  Mary looked near tears of joy.

  “Told you,” Blake said.

  I imagined standing up calmly, then running out the front door. Maybe Dot had been right. Maybe I needed to confess to Blake that I already had a hopeless crush on someone else. I gave the door another wistful look, and Colton appeared, as if conjured by my desperate thoughts.

  He moved smoothly in our direction without stopping at the hostess stand, as if he’d somehow known exactly where we were seated. I gawked openly at his confident strides, crisp white dress shirt, black slacks, and tie. His eyes were impossibly more blue than I recalled, and his cheeks more cleanly shaven. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, pausing at our booth before looking me over slowly. He took a seat across from me at the long table, closer to his dad.

  “We didn’t mind waiting,” his mother assured. “We all know you’re busy, and it gave us a few moments to get to know Winnie. She’s lovely. We’re thrilled your brother had the good sense to invite her.”

  Colton’s eyes narrowed on Blake, then slid to meet mine. “Winnie,” he said gruffly, “you look beautiful.” His lids shut briefly. When he opened his eyes again, the blank cop face I hated was firmly in place. “Have you ordered?”

  Mary clucked her tongue. “There’s plenty of time to order. We want to hear about your day, and your life here, and about your relationship with Winnie. How did the two of you meet?”

  “He accused me of murder,” I said, nervous energy pooling, then leaping from my mouth. “Well, he accused me of conspiracy, maybe. It was my granny he accused, and me by default and proximity.”

  Colton rubbed his forehead while his parents frowned at him.

  Blake laughed. “I knew it was a good idea to bring you,” he said.

  A server appeared with a tray of glasses and filled them with ice water. “Are you ready to order?”

  Colton flicked his hand, and the waiter scurried away. I didn’t blame him. I looked at the door again, dreaming of pulling the fire alarm or pretending to get an emergency phone call that required me to abandon ship.

  Colton’s eyes locked on mine, and for a moment I was certain he could read my mind. “Winnie has an uncanny way of falling into my path,” he told his family, “specifically where local murders and crimes are concerned. I didn’t know that about her when we met, so I’d assumed she was part of the problem. Now I know she’s just a trouble magnet.”

  My jaw dropped. “Rude,” I said through clenched teeth. “I’m not a trouble magnet.”

  He raised his brows in challenge.

  I turned a syrup-sweet expression on his parents, hoping to make up for the terrible impression he’d just given them of me. “I was born and raised in Blossom Valley,” I said. “I love my community, and I get a little protective of it. It’s true that Colton and I cross paths quite often during his investigations, but that’s only because I’m not sure what else to do when he starts looking up the wrong trees for killers. It seems reasonable to me that I should step in and help. After all, this is my home. I know and understand the people here, as well as the area.”

  David nodded, smiling at Colton. “She’s plucky. I like her more every time she talks.”

  Mary leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder. “Me too.”

  “Me three,” Blake added.

  Colton’s frown deepened.

  I pressed my lips together. This was officially the weirdest date I’d ever been on, and I’d been on some doozies. Night fishing. Planting potatoes. A driver’s test.

  Blake removed his arm from behind my head and twisted in my direction. “Speaking of your investigations, what did you think of that guy in the cider shop today? He had really blond hair and wore a ball cap low on his forehead. He was there when I walked in but made himself scarce pretty quickly. Do you remember him?”

  “Yes.” I perked up. “You do too?”

  “Sure. He was . . . off somehow. I couldn’t put my finger on it. I tried to follow him after he walked out, but he’d vanished.”

  “You tried to follow him?” That was why Blake had left so quickly.

  He nodded. “Sure. It’s my job to identify weirdos.”

  I kept forgetting that Blake was more than he seemed. Not a happy-go-lucky co-ed meandering through life. He was a sheriff. A trained lawman, and the carefree façade was only that. A façade. “Whoever he was, he didn’t pay for his cider,” I tattled to Colton, “and before Blake showed up, he made a snide comment about small-town lawmen losing their edge.”

  Colton stilled. His frame tensed. “You’re positive he wasn’t the man from the photo?”

  “What photo?” Blake asked.

  I freed my phone from my purse and presented
the grainy surveillance picture to him.

  Blake rubbed the sandy scruff on his cheeks. “Maybe.”

  “What?” I turned sharply in my seat and accidentally knocked our knees together. “How can you say that? The image is so blurry. How can you be sure that’s not you or your dad or anyone else?”

  “Because this guy has his keys and phone in his left hand. His right hand is just hanging there. So, what does that tell me?” He hitched his brows and waited.

  “He’s left-handed,” I said.

  “Yeah. Probably,” Blake said. “And so was the man from the cider shop, which is why I said maybe. I saw that guy set down his last sample today, and I watched him pull a cigarette from the pack as he blew past us on his way out. He used his left hand both times. I know the picture isn’t me because Dad and I are right-handed,” he said with a wiggle of hand for emphasis. “Plus, this man’s shoulders are rolled forward. He’s hiding or has something to hide. Again, not us.”

  His dad nodded, despite the fact he couldn’t even see the image from where he sat.

  I recalled the man and the samples, replaying our brief exchanges in my mind. I concentrated on the hand he’d used to lift each glass. “He was left-handed,” I said.

  “Yep,” Blake agreed.

  I raised my gaze to Colton’s flat expression. “And Samuel Keller?” I asked.

  “Also left-handed,” Colton answered, looking guarded and edgy.

  My stomach pitted and rolled. “The man was tan and blond.”

  Blake shrugged. “Hair dye and sun or a spray tan.”

  I forced myself to breathe. I’d spoken to my stalker. He’d sat in my shop, drinking my cider and probably thinking about how stupid I was. “He had facial hair and wore a plaid flannel shirt with jeans. He fit in. I thought he was here with the reenactment crowd.”

  Colton’s jaw locked, and his gaze darkened.

  “Why don’t you have a bigger staff?” Blake asked. “The place has had steady traffic every time I’m there, but you’re alone or there’s just you and a little old lady behind the counter.”

  I tried and failed to formulate an answer. I couldn’t force my mind and tongue to work together. My spiraling thoughts were going full speed around the realization that the fugitive who’d stalked me from afar last summer had boldly sat at my counter today. An arm’s reach away. And he’d complained about the ineffectiveness of small-town lawmen. My lawman. I batted my eyes, trying harder to break the shock.