by Cat Johnson
“All of us? At the same time?” That sounded like a recipe for chaos.
I knew our employees worshipped Josh like he was some sort of guru.
They’d follow my partner’s suggestions to the letter. This one would be no exception.
I envisioned lines at the bathrooms as long as those at the theater during intermission. The break room would be packed. There’d be traffic jams in the hallway. There’d be a backup at the elevator. The stairs, if people chose to take them, would look like a fire drill.
Worse, there’d be nobody at their desks to field any emergencies that might pop up.
Josh’s idea to save my health was starting to give me heart palpitations.
“How about you stagger the alerts, maybe by department, so the whole corporation’s not wandering around at the same time?” I suggested.
Eyes narrowed in thought as he considered my idea, he finally nodded. “Yeah. Good idea. I’ll have IT set up the reminders right now.”
“Great.” I tried to keep the sarcasm to a minimum, not that he’d heard me. Josh was already out and gone.
I considered sitting back down since he wasn’t there to supervise my walkabout but since my concentration was good and broken, I figured I might as well do as he wished.
It was as good a time as any to take a quick look at my inbox.
Yes, I know. I know. Quick looks into the inbox are rarely quick and this time was no exception.
I deleted some spam that had snuck through my filter. I filed the receipt for the auto-renewal for my Netflix account in an inbox folder marked Receipts, and then, sitting there beneath a reminder that my credit card payment was due in ten days, was that email from my cousin.
Or my supposed cousin. I wasn’t quite ready to buy into this whole DNA proof of lost relatives stuff yet.
I’d taken the trip to Mudville to get Josh off my back, not because I was desperately searching for my roots.
Good thing too since I’d never quite made it to the town line thanks to Teddygate.
That genius moniker was what the press had dubbed the new scandal. Unavoidable I guess since the man had been rocking a white lace teddy in one of the leaked photos.
I’d never be able to sponge the vision of his gray chest-hair poking through the lace that was burned into my brain. Never in a million years.
But creatively named lingerie scandal aside, I still had an email to deal with. Whether this woman was really my cousin or not, I felt like I needed to at least reply and acknowledge I’d received her email . . . three days ago.
That could be accomplished easily enough during my pointless stroll through the office. I hit the screen to open a reply email, then tapped to dictate my text.
In this age of multi-tasking, no one would even look twice at me. When I wasn’t holding a conversation on my cell while walking down the hall, I was dictating something. We all did it. Even my Zen master partner Josh.
“Dear—” I paused and glanced down at the email address to confirm her name since I didn’t trust my memory. “Amanda. Thank you for your email of last week.”
I paused, both in my dictating and my walking, at a loss for what else to say.
Drawing in a breath I decided to wing it. I could go back in and edit the email before I sent it if necessary.
“It was nice to hear from you about your family and their hometown. In spite of being a New Yorker, I must admit I’d never heard of Mudville before your mention.”
Again, I was out of words. Sighing, I scrolled down from my reply to reread her original email, hoping for some kernel of a topic to put in this reply so I’d feel good about wrapping it up, my obligation fulfilled.
The email was long, to put it mildly, so I skimmed it, looking for tidbits.
The beautiful Victorian-era home, built in 1855, where my great grandfather Frank Van de Berg was born and raised with his sister and his brother, still stands along the banks of the Mudville River. My father inherited the house in 2000. He sold it to a lovely older man. We’ve just found out it is currently on the market again and my family has great hope it will be purchased by someone who will honor and preserve its historical beauty.
I stopped at that paragraph, intrigued. I was a bit of a geek when it came to history, and historical architecture in particular. Suddenly I needed to see this house.
Before I knew it, I was striding back to my office and queueing up a real estate site. There were a surprising number of houses for sale in Mudville, but only one built in 1855 and located along the river.
I zoomed in on the cupola on the roof and blew out a breath of admiration. The house was an architectural gem.
Glancing at the listing details I let out an involuntary laugh at the asking price. I wouldn’t be able to even park my car in Manhattan for a year for that amount.
Wondering if that was indicative of the property values in that area, or if the house had issues that made it so cheap, I started to click around the nearby properties on the market.
There were a lot of houses for sale. Too many.
Sometimes neighborhoods turned over. It was a natural evolution as the population aged and died off.
But what struck me more than the residential real estate available, was the number of commercial properties for sale right on Main Street.
I glanced at the listing for a building with retail space on the ground floor and potential for apartments above, but my attention was pulled away by another property listed in the sidebar.
A literal shiny object yanked me away from the brick building and I clicked to expand the picture. What greeted me was a starburst pattern that decorated the bright aluminum-sides of an iconic nineteen-fifties diner.
The colored letters on the large white sign mounted on a pole outside read MUDVILLE DINER. An old truck was parked in front and I felt as if I’d been transported back to another time.
A few more clicks proved the inside was as authentic as the outside. The vintage charm intact even after three quarters of a century.
I looked at the price and felt my eyes pop wide.
That had to be just for the business. Not for the building.
Scrolling to the description I read, and no, it was for the building and the surrounding acre of land, which included a parking lot in addition to the on-street parking.
I blew out a breath and sat back in my chair. The last thing in the world I needed or wanted was a vintage diner in upstate New York.
Right?
Leaning back toward the monitor, I inspected the photos and description again, looking for something to make this crazy deal unappealing.
When I found none, I decided the photos must be old. The place could be falling apart by now.
It wouldn’t be the first time I’d checked out a listing based on photos only to find a wreck when I arrived. It had happened when I’d been looking for my current apartment.
Time was ticking by. I had work to do and yet I found myself scrolling to the real estate agent’s phone number and reaching for my phone. It wouldn’t hurt just to call. See what the real deal was.
It wasn’t like I was going to really buy it or anything. That would be crazy.
SIX
Bethany
“Any update on the diner?” I asked Harper as I handed her a cup of coffee across my display counter.
The news it had been sold had hit Mudville like a hailstorm. Unfortunately, actual facts were scarce.
“Nope. And Stone is going nuts. Mmm, that looks good. Can I get one of those?” Harper asked, pointing toward my red velvet whoopie pies.
“Sure.” I reached inside with the tongs to grab one for her. “I can’t believe the Mudville rumor mill hasn’t unearthed any more deets yet.”
It had been a full twenty-four hours since Boone had busted into the Morgan farm market and announced to us all there that, after years of being vacant, some rich city guy had finally bought the diner.
“I know. Right?” Harper agreed, taking the napkin and treat I
passed to her. “Mary Brimley is falling down on the job.”
I laughed. “She’s going to lose her title as chief gossip.”
“Speaking of Mudville’s old ladies, have you had a chance to read Rose’s letters yet?” Harper asked, leaning on the bakery counter and looking expectantly at me as she licked some cream off her thumb.
“No. Not yet. I’m sorry. I’ve been busy trying to come up with some new desserts. They asked me for something new for the Mother’s Day brunch at the Otesaga. Do you want me to give the letters to you?”
“Nope. Don’t tempt me.” Harper held up one hand. “I’m behind on a deadline for my next book and I can’t afford any distractions. Especially not from Rose. I have personal experience with how all-consuming that woman can be, even twenty years after her death.”
Our friend Red snorted out a laugh as she came out of the bathroom and tossed the paper towel she’d been drying her hands on in the trash behind my counter. “I’m sure Rose would be very proud of that fact.”
“True.” Harper nodded. “I can only hope people remember my name twenty years after I’m dead.”
Red shook her head. “I just can’t believe how this all happened. First, Rose’s lifelong journals end up in Agnes’s attic for Harper to find. Then Bart finds her love letters in the attic of her old house and gives them to Bethany. It’s like Rose is trying to tell us something from the grave.”
“That we all spend too much time in attics?” Harper joked.
It was pretty amazing, I had to admit. That a foster care runaway squatting in the attic of a vacant house had discovered the hundred-year-old love letters of the same woman who had kept journals full of secrets on everyone in Mudville, and that both of those things had found their way to our little group, was mind boggling.
Bart had given me the letters as a gift—a thank you for the cookies I give him after school each day—almost a week ago and I had yet to seriously delve into reading them.
Even with the guilt I felt at not having done my duty regarding the letters, I was happy my two friends had settled on this new topic of conversation.
It was better than the alternative—them talking about their boyfriends.
Or worse, the resurfacing of the subject of where I’d been that night almost a month ago when they’d been texting me and I hadn’t answered because I’d left my cell in the car that night of my date.
I’d had to do some fancy talking to explain my absence and not reveal the whole Brandon thing.
I just couldn’t do it. Couldn’t bring myself to tell them what had happened. So I didn’t. I hadn’t talked about that night at the Otesaga with Red or Harper and I’d managed to even avoid Laurel by dropping off the Easter Brunch cookie order at the crack of dawn when I knew she wouldn’t be there.
In fact, I tried not to let myself even think about it or him, but that part was proving impossible.
At least Cinderella’s Prince Charming came knocking the next day with her shoe. Mine, did not.
Not the day after. Not the week after.
Of course, I shouldn’t want to see him. Not if he really was a dirty rotten cheater. But some part of me wanted him to be a good guy. To come find me and explain that it was all a misunderstanding. That Mina was his sister or something and he hadn’t been cheating with me that night.
But he hadn’t called or come by, which told me a lot.
Now, this morning, I’d turned the page on the local school calendar hanging on the wall in my little office in back. That just reinforced one thing in my mind. A new month had begun while I’d waited around for him to call or text or visit. I was a fool.
I would never see him again. Not hide nor hair of Brandon—Gah! I didn’t even know his last name.
That fact hit me hard.
I suppose that should have been a big old red blinking warning light. An indicator we weren’t all that close and I shouldn’t have been kissing him in the first place. My bad.
Or no. His bad for inviting me to dinner. And to his suite. That bastard. Perfect, gorgeous, funny, sexy, cheating no good bastard.
And now I needed to stop thinking about him.
My plan to do that was starting to present itself.
I looked down at the stack of old love letters under the counter. I had to wonder if the universe had given them to me to keep me occupied so I would stop thinking about him. I also had to wonder if the universe knew what the hell it was doing.
I’d only read one of the letters so far. My excuse to Harper about being busy had been mostly bull. I’d tried reading one last night and had bawled my eyes out afterward. So much so I was afraid to open anymore.
But I’d been given custodianship of what amounted to a time capsule. History in my hands. The story of life in Mudville and one young woman’s heart and heartache.
Luckily, there were other things afoot in Mudville to keep me occupied as I procrastinated reading the rest of the letters.
The universe had thrown me another curve ball—the diner selling.
“Has Cash heard anything more about the diner?” I asked Red. I brought up the subject again since Red had missed my discussion with Harper about it earlier.
I wasn’t just making conversation. I was honestly concerned. With the diner being closed for years I had the benefit of being the only game in town for good coffee and fresh desserts. But now that it looked like the diner could be reopening that was all about to change.
“Nope.” Red shook her head.
“I know Stone is hoping to find out more at the meeting tonight,” Harper said.
I nodded. “That reminds me I want to go to that.” I glanced at Red. “You going?”
Red shot me a look of horror. “No.”
I shook my head, laughing at her avoidance of all things official in this town.
“I’ll get the highlights after from Cash,” she continued.
As small business owners, at least one of the Morgans—Stone, Cash, Boone or their dad—attended every zoning board or planning board meeting, in addition to the chamber of commerce and rotary meetings.
I tried to hit at least the important ones, those where building codes or changes in town ordinances were being discussed. But Red, in spite of owning a business of her own, never attended even one.
It was her little act of rebellion against some of the locals who were very vocal and less than welcoming when she opened her resale shop in an old Victorian house on Main Street.
It seemed the smaller the town, the bigger the opinions—at least in Mudville that’s the way it was.
I guess I didn’t suffer the same flack since once upon a time there’d already been a coffee shop in the commercial storefront I chose to rent.
Harper drew in a breath. “I hope somebody knows something more so Stone can stop obsessing. He’s worried the new owner is going to demolish the building.”
“Can’t blame him for worrying,” Red said. “It’s historical. There aren’t that many old-timey diners around anymore.”
“The diner isn’t on tonight’s official agenda for the meeting,” I told them. I’d asked the mayor when he came in for coffee this morning.
“I have no doubt there’ll be some mention of the new owner, even if it isn’t on the official agenda.” Red snorted.
“Agreed.” Harper nodded. “No way the gossips will let a meeting go by without some discussion of the biggest news in town. If Mary Brimley comes up empty, then Alice Mudd must know something about this supposedly rich mystery stranger who swooped in and bought the place.”
Now that I was in a historical kind of mindset, thanks to Rose’s letters, I had a thought. “I wonder if any of the old biddies have a spy past we aren’t aware of. Can’t you totally envision them sneaking around, gathering and delivering secret messages during World War II?"
"Or cozying up to enemy generals at some bar abroad in an attempt to gain sensitive knowledge? Like Bogie and Bacall in Casablanca?” Red chuckled. “Now you sound like Harper, spinning
tales.”
Harper twisted to glare at Red, her brown ponytail swinging as she did. “And that’s a bad thing?”
Red cocked up one strawberry blonde brow. “You know what I mean. We’d only be so lucky if the old ladies had a past as interesting as all that.”
“It would make a good story though.” Harper got a faraway look in her eyes as she tapped one forefinger to her lips.
I laughed. “Uh oh. There she goes, plotting her next book.”
“She has to finish this current one first. All I hear about is how far behind she is.” Red sent Harper a pointed look.
I cringed. “Yeah. I know. My bad. Sorry. I’ll keep my spy fantasies to myself.”
“Yes. Please.” Harper sighed. “At least until I’m done with the first draft of this book. Then lay all your theories on me. I’m excited about the idea.”
I was excited too.
It had been a good five minutes, maybe more, since I’d thought about my colossal screw-up with Brandon. I might have had to immerse myself in small town politics and Rose’s wartime love letters to do it, but there might be hope for me to forget about that night yet.
SEVEN
Brandon
I’d always rented the places in which I lived.
It just seemed more sensible.
Right out of college I’d shared an apartment the size of a closet with Josh. Then the money started to come in and we got our own places.
After the company started to really take off, much more money came in and I upgraded to where I live now.
The point was, having never done it, I didn’t realize how easy it was to buy a property. Especially when paying cash. Thirty days after signing the contract I was the owner of a diner.
As it turns out you can close on a building without actually being at the real estate closing. And, I learned, you can also buy a building without ever setting foot inside it.
Crazy, right?
I’m not a complete lunatic. I hired the best home inspector I could find and had him go through.
He’d said I could walk in tomorrow, fire up the grill and start cooking burgers if I wanted to. And that was the crazy part. I didn’t want to. I had no plans to move to Mudville and run a diner.
