"No need to be rude, Mr. Kerouac," Cliff admonished. "These are your new friends."
The animal replicated the sound a third time, only louder.
I jumped back instinctively while Oliver shifted behind me like I would protect him.
“Holy petting zoo, it’s an alpaca,” Oliver said, putting his hands on my waist.
“A llama,” Cliff corrected. “You can tell the difference by their ears. Llamas have banana-shaped ears. They’re also bigger than alpacas. This guy is three hundred pounds.”
“And his name is Jack Kerouac?” I asked, curious, even as I was trying not to panic as the llama came up to the fencing and nudged Cliff like he wanted to be petted. “What is he doing here?”
Cliff grinned and scuffed the mop of wooly fur on the top of the animal's head. "Indeed. This is Mr. Jack Kerouac. Only the finest llama in all of Friendship Harbor. Well, to be fair, he's the only llama in Friendship Harbor. Still, he’s one handsome fellow. He was your grandmother's pride and joy and Sunny’s constant companion.” Cliff rubbed the llama’s head and gave me a look. “Llamas are social creatures. You’d better make nice with him. He’s been lonely since Sunny passed and before that he lost Janis Joplin, so he’s had a rough go.”
Out of nothing more than instinct and rote obedience, I reached out and ran my hand over the llama’s head. He was surprisingly soft. “I take it Janis was another llama?”
“You are correct. If I were you, I’d think about getting another pal for this guy. They’re less likely to spit at you if they have a buddy.”
Wait a minute. “I can’t keep this llama! I don’t know anything about taking care of it. Him. Jack. Kerouac.”
“Sunny would roll over in her grave if you got rid of this guy.” Cliff eyed me like I was a horrible human being. “Hay’s here in the shed. Use the internet for the rest. That’s what all you millennials do anyway. Can’t seem to think without the internet telling you how to.”
I didn’t even have time to resent that because I was busy trying to imagine my life with a llama. I’d never had so much as a dog. My mother thought pets were dirty and needy. She hated going to friends’ houses where her clothes would accumulate pet fur and dogs and cats might jump up on her. She forever lamented the insanity of taking living creatures into your home. I liked animals, unlike her. I’d longed for a dog or a cat or even a fish as a kid but the answer had always been no. As an adult, auditioning constantly and living in a tiny apartment, I had resisted the urge to indulge myself and get a pet.
One of my first thoughts in making this move to Maine was maybe I could dip my toe in pet ownership and get a cat.
Never, in a million years, would I have expected my first pet to be a llama. My brain was bouncing all over the place. “Did you say spitting?”
Two
Now, there was no doubt Sunny LaFleur was hitting the wacky tobaccy. A llama? My grandmother left me a llama? That might spit at me?
Said llama stuck out the tip of his tongue again as if to say he was no more impressed with me than I was with him.
Cliff flipped the latch on the stall door.
“You aren’t letting him out, are you?” Oliver said, his eyes huge.
Ha! Not as amused now, are you, my friend? Of course, I knew my eyes were bugging out of my head too. I’d never been so much as within ten feet of a horse.
“Of course I’m letting him out. Big guy needs his exercise.”
Jack made another of his hums, although this one was higher, more like a little purr of anticipation, and when the gate opened, he almost seemed to prance out as if to say, "that's right, uh-huh, I'm free."
I stepped back a little, still nervous of an animal this large, but he didn't show any interest in me. Instead, he trotted directly toward Oliver.
"What is he doing?" my friend called out, stumbling backwards away from the approaching wooly, white giant.
"Don’t be scared. He's just curious. He generally likes new people."
"Generally?" Oliver squeaked.
The llama stopped inches from my friend and craned his neck to sniff Oliver's hair.
Cliff laughed and approached the nosy llama and terrified Oliver, who'd gone totally still.
"Here, give him this." The older man dug into his pants pocket and pulled out a peppermint, the soft kind that I normally only saw around Christmastime.
He popped the red and white sweet out of its wrapper and held it out to Oliver. "These are his favorite."
The llama's ears perked up, and he made a snuffling noise.
"Just place it in the flat of your palm and hold it out for him. He doesn't bite. Generally."
"I'm not really feeling this generally thing," Oliver said, but he took the candy and did as Cliff instructed.
Jack slurped it up, his lips and jaw moving side to side as he happily savored the treat.
I moved close. Jack really was pretty cute, I had to admit. Carefully, I pet his side. His ears twitched, but he didn't move away from my touch. I took that as a good sign.
Oliver grinned too, until Jack snorted, spraying a fine mist of llama snot into his face. I choked, trying to contain my laughter. Oliver shot me an annoyed glance, then wiped his face with his arm.
"Now, that he does do on occasion," Cliff said, not hiding his amusement either.
"Thanks for the heads-up," Oliver said, wryly, but then to my surprise stroked the animal nose. Jack hummed again, and I already recognized that particular noise was one of contentment. Jack nudged Oliver's hand, searching for more treats, then shifted to sniff Cliff's pocket.
"Sorry, big guy, no more candies today."
Jack snorted again, this time without snot, as if he fully understood what Cliff had said, and wasn't pleased. He sniffed Oliver one last time, then ambled out to the fenced paddock and started nibbling on a patch of dandelions.
Okay, I could see why my grandmother loved this guy. I was already falling hard for Mr. Kerouac.
"We can let Jack graze for a while, I’ll get you your keys and a list of phone numbers and such that you might need," Cliff said as he headed to the gate, we'd come in.
I was locking the gate behind us, when Oliver nudged me.
"I have to get a picture of this. There is no way our friends in L.A. are going to believe you inherited a freaking llama." He already had his phone out. He snapped a picture of Jack chomping away on grass, but as soon as his camera clicked, Jack looked toward us as if he knew exactly what we were doing. To my utter shock, the animal lopped toward us.
"No way," Oliver said, "he is coming over for a selfie."
I was pretty sure it was a coincidence, but it did look that way. Jack stopped at the fence, blinking his thickly lashed, brown eyes.
Oliver turned his back to the llama and held up the phone. "Get in here."
Jack rumbled.
"No spitting," I warned the waiting llama.
He lowered his lashes as if insulted by my warning. I stroked his nose, already worried about hurting the animal's feelings.
I turned and leaned in a little so I could see myself on the screen of Oliver's cell. Jack appeared in the background directly between us, again, just like he knew exactly what he was doing.
"Go Jack," Oliver said. Clearly impressed he snapped a shot. Then another. He scanned the final product. "I tell you what, that llama's got some mad selfie skills."
"I'm sure he's better than I am," I said. I was the worst at taking selfies. My expressions always looked slightly maniacal.
Oliver studied the photos a little longer, then nodded. "He really is."
I swatted his arm playfully, then pretended to storm away after Cliff. He waited in the flower garden, but I saw he was no longer alone. He chatted with a man who appeared to be around my age. But it wasn't really his age that made an impact. It was the fact that this guy was gorgeous. Like "actor, model, possibly Greek god rolled into one" gorgeous.
"Holy Mary Mother of God, who is that?" Oliver murmured from beside me. I shook my he
ad, still staring.
Seriously, this guy was the best-looking man I'd ever seen. And I was from L.A., for Pete's sake. The land of beautiful people vying for entertainment careers and investing heavily in gym memberships and healthy eating. I hesitated, a rush of nervous butterflies in my stomach, keeping my feet immobile. This was ridiculous. Sure, he was gorgeous. But gorgeous guys were a dime a dozen in Hollywood.
Play it cool, I was an actress after all—well. I’d been an actress before people with zero vision had canceled my show.
"Look who I found," Cliff called to me, forcing me to pull my act together and make my feet move. "Sophie, this is your pub manager, Dean Jordan. Dean, this is Sophie, Sunny's granddaughter."
Holy crap, this was Dean Jordan? I had imagined the pub manager to be a guy in his mid-forties with a beer gut and a dirty bar apron. Not the centerfold for a Calvin Klein ad. Okay, okay, he wasn't standing there in his underwear, but it wasn't hard to imagine. His black T-shirt and faded jeans did very little to disguise his broad shoulders, narrow hips, and abundance of lean muscles.
And his face. Perfection. A strong, chiseled jaw that was at odds with the full, sensual shape of his lips, a straight nose, and eyes the color of bourbon in front of a blazing fire. My admiring thoughts stopped as soon as I focused on those eyes. No, fire wasn't the right analogy. They were more like bourbon poured over ice. Hard and downright cold.
What had I done to warrant that cool reception?
He jutted his hand toward me.
"Nice to meet you," he said, his voice deep and smooth. I could easily have compared the timbre of his voice to bourbon too, but I was a little bummed by his curt greeting. He definitely was not the least bit pleased to meet me, which made no sense.
I refused to be intimidated by his less than friendly reception. This was one of those times when my plethora of casting call rejections came in handy.
I smiled widely, and my eyes met his, unflinching. "Nice to meet you too."
I accepted his hand, his long fingers encircling mine, his palms rough with calluses. Within nanoseconds, the touch was over, but my cheeks felt hot and I felt confused.
His gaze held mine for a few moments, then skipped past me to Oliver.
He nodded and offered his hand again. “Dean.”
Oliver shook his hand. “Oliver,” he replied, mimicking Dean’s disinterested tone.
Not that Dean seemed to notice. Instead, he turned his attention back to Cliff. "I hear you are about to become a snowbird on us."
He sounded perfectly congenial to the older man, which made it all the more clear there was something he did not like about us. Maybe it was an outsiders thing? We weren’t locals, so we were not worth his time?
I glanced at Oliver, curious about his first impression of my pub manager. Oliver returned my sidelong glance and rolled his eyes. Sadly, I had to agree.
"Yes, I'm heading to Florida in two days to settle on a condo in Ft. Lauderdale," Cliff said. "But I'll be back in a week, then leaving again mid-October. I've had enough of the cold and snow."
He gave me a rueful look. "I probably shouldn't lament the harsh, Maine winters, since you just got here from sunny California. I don't want to scare you away."
I heard Dean snort. "If cold and snow are enough to scare her away, then she probably shouldn't have come here in the first place."
"Oh, I'm not scared of the cold. Or snow. Or ice."
Dean looked thoroughly unimpressed with my declaration, and before I thought better of it, I added, "I happen to go to Lake Tahoe skiing every year, actually."
He cocked an eyebrow. "Well, you'll have to let me know how your first Maine winter holds up to a ski vacation."
Okay, my defensive comment did sound stupid. And decidedly L.A. of me. But I refused to be shaken by him. I continued to meet his frosty eyes, and even offered him a smile, until Cliff loudly cleared his throat, putting an end to the awkward exchange.
"Well, kids, I have a meeting I cannot miss today, so we should finish up with the house, and then, Dean, you can show them around the pub," he said, his gaze shifting between Dean and me. I'm sure he could tell that was probably going to be a less than welcoming tour.
"I have a few things I need to get done before I open the pub. Come after six," Dean said.
I honestly didn't want my relationship with my manager to start off totally contentious. I did need his help and so I was going to put in place my Sophie LaFleur Kill Him With Kindness Policy. It worked with even the crankiest of directors.
"That's perfect, I can’t wait!" I said and gave him a dazzling smile.
My gesture wasn't met with any improvement in his demeanor. Instead, he raised his eyebrows like he thought I was bonkers. He mumbled a farewell to Cliff and started down one of the garden paths. And straight into the other building that appeared to sit on my grandmother's property.
“I don’t know what that was all about,” Cliff said. “Dean is usually a little friendlier, especially with women.”
A little? He could be a lot friendlier and still be about as charming as the common cold.
"He lives next door?" I said, not pleased with the idea of gorgeous Mr. Grumpy being my neighbor. I was bound to see more than enough of him at the pub.
"Actually, he lives in your guesthouse," Cliff said and gave me a wicked smile.
"He lives in my guesthouse," I moaned as soon as Oliver and I were back in my grandmother's house, alone.
My house, I corrected.
"He's a tool," Oliver said sympathetically as he collapsed onto my grandmother's blue, velvet sofa. "But at least, he's nice eye candy."
"I don't want eye candy. I want nice, friendly neighbors. I want a fun and happy working environment. I wanted to fit in and feel a part of the town." I paced the room, picking up a candle and sniffing it. Lemongrass. I set it down. “You know my vision board says ‘community’ this year. You know, with the picture of all the people in a circle holding hands with each other at a small-town festival. That’s what I want!”
"Well, he's just one person. You do have other neighbors around you. And presumably some of the other people working at the pub are friendly. He can't be the only employee."
"One person in a small town might as well be half the town. Everyone knows everyone. What if he convinces everyone to dislike me?"
He rolled his eyes. "Girl, what is this? High school. He's not going to do that. Besides, Sullen Stud Muffin was probably just having a bad day. Maybe his chainsaw is busted. Or he hit a moose, and his truck is all stove up.”
"Stove up?" I asked with a laugh. Then I added quickly, "I like that nickname, by the way."
Oliver nodded his thanks. "Yeah, stoved up. I saw it in a Stephen King movie so it has to be legit Maine lingo. It means badly damaged. I think."
"You watched a Stephen King movie?" My supernatural-phobic friend kept surprising me.
"I had to know what I might encounter here," he said quite practically.
Maybe I should have thought of that too. You never knew. Ghosts didn't seem out of the realm of possibility now. Things had been pretty unexpected so far. I cast a look around my grandmother's eclectic living room with its dark wood floors and jewel-colored furniture. I studied a sort of strange tapestry on the wall with scantily clad Renaissance people dancing in a circle in the woods. It wasn't exactly scary. Different maybe, but not creepy. At least in the daylight. Ask me again after the sun set.
"Or maybe he had a bad morning lobster fishing," Oliver suggested.
"You do realize you are grossly stereotyping Mainers, don't you?"
"You're right."
My stomach growled, and I wandered into the kitchen. I heard Oliver get up from the sofa and follow me.
"But to be fair, any of those things could have happened. Not just in Maine. Probably in New Hampshire too. Maybe Massachusetts."
I shook my head but couldn't hide my smile. I did love Oliver. I was glad he was there. I didn't think I could have faced the day alone. "Ar
e you hungry, you elitist city slicker, you?"
"I'm starving actually. Do you think your grandmother froze any of those brownies?" he said, heading directly to the freezer, while I checked out the cupboards. Cliff hadn't been exaggerating when he told us, upon departing, the house had been stocked with groceries as well as cleaned to get ready for my arrival. I wondered by who. I knew for sure it hadn’t been done by Dean Jordan. I chose a box of snack crackers. Easy seemed best right now.
"Any luck?" I asked as I opened the top and headed to one of the wooden stools at the counter.
"Just ice cream." His expectant expression faded.
I laughed. "Well, I like ice cream."
"That's because you are a goody-goody."
"I am not," I said as if it was the worst insult I'd ever gotten. Because Oliver was right. I could be a goody-goody. Although I preferred to think of it as sensible, with a hefty respect for rules.
At times I had the sneaking suspicion half the reason I’d never found stunning success as an actress was because I wasn’t willing to be shady. No couch castings, no partying with influencers, no casual cocaine habit. Obviously there were actors who did none of those things and had hit it big but generally speaking, it was not a world filled with straight arrows. I still liked to believe that hard work was rewarded and kindness was a gift everyone could afford.
I was a goody-goody straight arrow in an industry that didn’t give out lollipops for that.
So my sensible and optimistic self was now in Maine, and honestly, it didn’t feel wrong. Different. But not wrong.
Oliver sighed and took out the ice cream, looking like a kid who'd just opened his last Christmas present only to discover it was a pair of socks. As he searched the cupboards for a bowl, I turned on my grandmother’s TV to see what streaming services she had.
That would be none.
“Do you want to watch a movie on my tablet?” I asked. “I need some chill time before I have to deal with the pub manager.”
Murder Drama With Your Llama (Friendship Harbor Mysteries Book 1) Page 2
