by Sofie Ryan
He rubbed his hands together and blew on them. “Tell Jess I should have a couple of boxes for her at the end of the week.”
I nodded. “I will. I should be back in about an hour.”
I walked across the parking lot, happy to see several cars parked there. January was a slow month for pretty much every business in North Harbor, but it hadn’t been as quiet as I had expected. Maybe that was because we were a resale shop. Our prices weren’t cheap, but they were reasonable and on most things I was willing to dicker.
I’d backed my SUV into the last space at the end of the small parking lot—which was even smaller at the moment, thanks to the mountains of snow that flanked it on two sides—so only a little snow had drifted onto the front window. As soon as the engine was running, I turned on the heater and got back out to brush the snow off my windshield. When I’d bought the used SUV in the fall, Liam had tried to convince me to choose a vehicle with seat warmers. I was starting to think I should have listened to him.
I had no trouble finding a place to park when I got downtown. North Harbor sits on the midcoast of Maine. “Where the hills touch the sea” was the way it’d been described for the past two-hundred-plus years. The town stretched from the Swift Hills in the north to the Atlantic Ocean in the south. It was settled in the late 1760s by Alexander Swift, and it was full of beautiful, historic buildings and quirky little businesses. Not to mention some award-winning restaurants. The town’s year-round population was about thirteen thousand people, but that number more than tripled in the summer with summer residents and tourists.
North Harbor was very different in the middle of winter than it was in the summer and fall. I wouldn’t have been able to park just a couple of doors down from McNamara’s in August, and there would have been more than three tables occupied inside the small sandwich shop. Jess was at a table to the left of the main counter. Her hands were wrapped around a heavy mug of what I guessed was hot chocolate, and she was deep in conversation with Glenn McNamara.
Jess had grown up in North Harbor, but we really hadn’t been friends as kids, probably because I was a summer kid and she was a townie. We’d gotten close in college, when I’d put an ad on the music-department bulletin board at the University of Maine, looking for a roommate. Jess had been the only person to call because, it turned out, she’d taken the ad down about five minutes after I’d put it up.
Jess had been studying art history and I’d been doing a business degree and taking every music course I could manage to fit into my schedule, but we’d become fast friends. It was impossible not to like her. She had an offbeat sense of humor and a quirky sense of style.
Glenn caught sight of me first. “Hey, Sarah,” he said. “Has it gotten any warmer?” He was tall with broad shoulders and still wore his blond hair in the brush cut he’d had as a college football player.
I shook my head as I pulled off my gloves and hat. “No,” I said. “According to Rose, it’s cold enough to freeze the brass off a bald monkey.”
Glenn laughed.
Rose Jackson wasn’t just one of my grandmother’s closest friends, she also worked part-time for me at the shop, along with another of Gram’s friends, Charlotte Elliot. Rose had been a teacher and Charlotte a school principal. I’d known them my whole life, so working with them meant I got mothered and gently—or sometimes not so gently—instructed on what I should do a lot of the time.
I loved them and I knew they loved me and only wanted me to be happy. We just didn’t always agree on what that was.
I pulled my hands through my dark hair. I kept it in long layers to my shoulders. Without the layers it would have stood up all over my head in the dry air when I pulled off my hat.
“At least we dodged that storm that came down from the Great Lakes,” Glenn said with a shrug of his shoulders.
Jess and I nodded in agreement. My grandmother, who had grown up in North Harbor, said that there were only three topics of conversation in town during the winter: the blizzard that had missed us, the blizzard that was headed our way, and the blizzard that we were standing in the middle of. She was more or less right.
“What can I get you?” Glenn asked as I took off my jacket and hung it on the back of my chair. The little shop smelled like fresh bread and cinnamon.
I glanced at Jess.
“I already ordered,” she said.
“I’ll have a bowl of whatever the soup of the day is and a cheese roll, please,” I said.
He nodded. “Coffee, tea or hot chocolate?”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jess swipe a dab of whipped cream from the edge of her dark blue mug and lick it off her finger.
“Hot chocolate, please,” I said. “But no whipped cream.”
“I’ll take hers,” Jess immediately said, holding up her mug.
Glenn smiled. “It’ll be just a couple of minutes.”
I sat down opposite Jess, loosening the scarf at my neck. “So how was your morning?” I asked.
She took a long drink from her hot chocolate before she answered. She was wearing a deep-blue V-neck sweater over a lighter blue T-shirt, and her long brown hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. She was my height—about five six—and her eyes were blue where mine were brown. Jess had the kind of figure that people described as curvy, where I was usually described as looking athletic.
“Busy,” she said. “I have twenty-five choir robes to alter, plus three bridesmaids’ dresses and a cape to finish before Valentine’s Day.” She held up a hand. “And I’m not complaining. I’m not usually this busy this time of year.”
Jess was a seamstress. She could and did do everything from hemming a pair of jeans to designing and sewing some spectacular gowns. What she enjoyed most was reworking vintage clothing from the fifties through the seventies. She had a funky, off-beat style and was a whiz with a sewing machine and a pair of scissors. Just about everything she restyled ended up in a little used- and vintage-clothing shop down on the waterfront that she shared space in with a couple of other women. And she made one-of-a-kind quilts from recycled fabric that we sold for her on consignment in the store. The three-quarter-length cocoa-brown hooded coat tossed over the empty chair to her left had originally been a full-length wrap coat with shoulder pads so wide it could have been worn by a linebacker for the Patriots. Jess had reworked it into something that would have been at home on the pages of a fashion magazine.
“That reminds me,” I said, turning in my chair to stuff my gloves into my jacket pocket. “Mac asked me to tell you he should have a couple of boxes for you by the end of the week.”
Mac and I were always looking for new items to sell in the shop. Families overwhelmed by clearing out their parents’ homes had led to some great finds for us, including the claw-foot bathtub that Mac and I had made over into a chair that I hadn’t been able to bring myself to sell when it was done. Occasionally we took on clearing out an entire house—something we’d just finished doing for the five children of Janet Bennett.
Since we didn’t sell clothing at Second Chance, Jess often bought items she felt she could rework or turn into quilts. She’d been making her own clothes since she was teenager. She liked to say that she’d been an environmentalist before it was cool. Mac pretty much knew her likes and dislikes. Families and seniors themselves tended to just throw up their hands over closets stuffed full of old clothing, and “Just make it go away” was something we’d heard more than once.
“That’ll work,” Jess said. “Thanks. Do you know what he has?”
“I think there are a couple of fake-fur vests, and I know I saw some jeans.”
Her eyes lit up, and I knew she was already dreaming up ideas for everything.
Glenn came back with our lunch then: chili and a couple of sesame breadsticks for Jess, vegetable noodle soup and a roll crusted with golden cheddar for me.
“Thanks,” I said as he set a ta
ll, steaming mug of cocoa in front of me. A small bowl of whipped cream and a spoon were still on the tray he was holding. He put a dollop in Jess’s cup, said, “Enjoy,” and left.
“Why don’t you just order a cup of whipped cream next time?” I said.
“Do you think I could do that?” Jess asked as she pulled apart one of the breadsticks. “Maybe with lots of chocolate shavings and just a couple of inches of hot chocolate in the bottom.”
I made a face and shook my head at her.
She grinned back at me across the table. “So how was your morning?” She pointed at me with half a breadstick before taking a big bite off the end of it.
“Good,” I said. “I sanded a dresser and then I worked on the website.” We were running a small online store through the Second Chance website. I was constantly surprised by the things collectors were willing to buy and pay the shipping for.
I remembered something I’d wanted to ask Jess. “Did those two vanloads of skiers stop in at the store yesterday afternoon?” I asked. “Avery gave them directions.”
Avery was the granddaughter of Liz French, another of my grandmother’s closest cohorts. She was living with Liz after some problems at home and going to a progressive high school that only had morning classes, so she worked most afternoons for me. Avery had an eclectic sense of style and a smart mouth, and being around her grandmother Liz and Liz’s friends seemed to be good for her. It had always been good for me.
Jess nodded and wiped a bit of chili from her chin with her napkin. “They did. I sold three sweaters and two pairs of jeans.” She smiled. “I love Canadians.”
This winter, due to some weird configuration of the jet stream, Maine had a lot more snow than the Canadian Maritime provinces. We’d had a steady stream of skiers since the first week of December. They were responsible for more than half of my business in the last two months, and I was hoping the weather would work in our favor through February.
“Did you go running last night?” Jess asked, a contrived look of innocent inquiry on her face.
I reached for my cheese roll. “Yes, I did,” I said. “Would you like to hear how many laps I did around the track, or would you rather just ask me what you really want to know, which is did I see Nick Elliot?”
She shrugged. “Okay. Did you?”
Like Jess, Nick Elliot had grown up in North Harbor. Charlotte was his mother. They were a lot alike—sensible, reliable, practical. Unlike Jess, Nick and I had been friends as kids. I’d had a massive crush on him at one time. He’d worked as a paramedic for years, but now he was an investigator for the state medical examiner’s office. He was still built like a big teddy bear—assuming teddy bears were tall, with broad shoulders. He had sandy hair, warm brown eyes and a ready smile. He wasn’t quite the shaggy-haired wannabe musician he’d been when we were teenagers, but as Gram would say, he cleaned up well.
I dunked a hunk of bread in my soup and ate it before I answered. “No, I didn’t. Nick feels pretty much the same about running as you do.”
She smirked at me across the table. “You mean he only runs if someone is giving away free cookies? Go Nick.” She did a fist pump in the air.
“If you think Nick is such a catch, why don’t you go out with him?” I asked.
She wrinkled her nose at me. “Not my type. Anyway, whenever you’re around, he doesn’t notice any other women. We could be at the pub and I could get up and dance on one of the tables in a thong while Sam and the guys did “Satisfaction,” and Nick still wouldn’t notice me. I think you should at least have a little fling with him.”
“Well, I don’t,” I said dryly, “and thank you for putting that picture of you dancing at the pub in my head for the rest of the day.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows at me before she bent her head over her chili again.
Jess kept insisting that Nick had had a thing for me since we were teenagers, and certainly Charlotte and some of Gram’s other friends hadn’t been subtle in their matchmaking efforts, but Nick hadn’t made a move, which I couldn’t fault him for because neither had I.
“Nick and I are just friends,” I said for what felt like the twentieth time. “Between the shop and working on the last apartment at the house, I don’t have time to have a relationship or a fling or anything with Nick—or anyone else.”
Jess grunted around a mouthful of beans and tomato sauce. She swallowed and gestured at me with her spoon. “You make time to eat. You make time to run, for heaven’s sake. You can make time for a little tongue wrestling with Nick.”
“That’s disgusting,” I said. “I’m changing the subject. No more talking about Nick Elliot’s tongue.” I could see Jess was about to say something. I shot her a stern look. “Or any other part of him,” I warned. “Tell me about the meeting yesterday with the North Landing people.”
Her expression turned serious. “Lily still won’t even talk about selling the bakery, and there doesn’t seem to be any legal way the town council can expropriate the land. And there doesn’t seem to be any way to rework the plan around her either.”
“Was she even at the meeting?” I asked.
Jess shook her head. “No, and it’s a good thing she wasn’t. Time is getting short and people’s tempers are even shorter.” She played absently with the end of a breadstick. “You know how tense things have been around town for the last couple of weeks. It was even worse last night. Jon West isn’t going to wait much longer. If he can’t build here, he’s going to take the project somewhere else. He wants North Landing to be his showpiece, a way to entice other towns and cities to build similar projects, but he isn’t going to wait forever. Some people are pushing for the council to go to court and find a way to force Lily to sell under eminent domain.”
Jon West owned North by West, the development company floating the harbor-front project. I had a vintage light fixture at the shop that he’d expressed an interest in having us refurbish for the hotel that was planned as part of the development.
“I don’t see how that would work,” I said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“Me neither,” Jess said. “And even if it did. It would be so ugly.” She dipped the end of her breadstick in her soup and took a bite. “The weird thing is there was a proposal for the waterfront almost five years ago, right after Lily opened, and she didn’t have a problem with that.”
“People change,” I said. “She’s being hassled at the bakery, you know.”
“How do you know?” Jess asked.
“I stopped for coffee this morning. Someone had egged the big front window.”
Jess just shook her head.
“I wish there were some way to change Lily’s mind.” I pushed my empty bowl away. I couldn’t read the expression in Jess’s eyes—frustration, maybe, mixed with a little sadness.
“It’s not going to happen,” she said flatly. “As far as Lily is concerned, the development will destroy the charm of the waterfront. I think she’s wrong, but . . .” She shrugged. “On the one hand, I kind of admire her for sticking to her principles. On the other hand, I think the development would be good for business, and it’s not like I have a money tree in my backyard.”
I reached for my cup. “Vince said pretty much the same thing to me yesterday.” Vince Kennedy played in The Hairy Bananas with Sam Newman, who owned The Black Bear pub and who had been a second father to me since my own dad died when I was five.
Jess ate the last spoonful of her chili and nodded. “Lily holding out is a lot worse for him. He’d be able to unload that old building his father still owns. He’d be free of the taxes, and I’m guessing with his father in that nursing home, they could use the money.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I think the development offer on that old warehouse is pretty much the only offer Vince has had in the last four years.”
“I have a feeling this is
just going to get uglier than it already is,” Jess said. “I wish Lily could see what holding out is doing to the town. People are desperate to make North Landing happen.” Her mouth twisted to one side. “And when people get desperate, they do stupid things.”
Chapter 2
I checked my watch. I needed to get back to the shop. I got Mac’s soup and sandwich, plus a cinnamon-cranberry muffin for myself. Jess wrapped herself in her chocolate truffle coat and wrapped me in a hug.
“We’re still on for Thursday-night jam?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” I said.
“If you get a better offer and you need to bow out, that’s okay,” she said as she pulled out of the hug, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.
I put a hand on one hip and gave her a wide-eyed look of mock surprise. “What could be better than spending the evening with you?”
She laughed and shook her head. “You’re such a suck-up,” she said. “I’ll see you Thursday night.”
Thursday-night jam was a musical jam session Sam hosted every Thursday night in the off-season at The Black Bear. You could count on Sam and the guys from The Hairy Bananas being there, and from time to time other people would show up with a guitar or bass and sit in for a few songs.
Mac was in the main workroom/storage area when I got back to Second Chance.
“You’ll probably need to warm up that soup in the microwave,” I said, handing him the brown paper takeout bag.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” he said, setting down the screwdriver he’d been holding.
I could hear voices, agitated voices, coming from the store.
“Do I want to know what’s going on in there?”
“I’ve been asking myself that same question,” Mac said with a smile. “So far the answer is no.” He hooked a nearby wooden stool that I’d just primed the day before and sat down, lifting the container of soup from the bag and pulling off the lid.
