Page 20 of Sweet and Salty

“No one says ‘hunk’ anymore, Opal.” Maddy adds three brown sugar cubes from the little silver dish on the table to her latte. “I think it’s thirst trap. He’s a silver fox.”

“He isn’t nearly old enough to be a silver fox,” Opal retorts. “We’re not that much older than him.”

Maddy takes my wrist. “The post-menopausal life is not for either of us. He can’t be that old.”

Opal and Maddy grew up in St. Olaf together. Neither have ever married, both love reading the smuttiest of smut, and it suits them. Neither appears to have aged in the last twenty years. I asked my mom about it once, as she babysat Opal’s cousin Steven several times, and she told me “love takes a lot of forms.” Opal and Maddy had forged a long-term, platonic relationship that has lasted longer than a lot of marriages in this town.

“He looks like he needs a good, buttery pastry,” Maddy says.

“I don’t have time to bring pastry to grumps who don’t want to come to my bakery.” Which stings. Why hasn’t he come in yet? “Are you ladies ready to order? Or should I come back? I still have lunch to serve, a wedding cake to make, and then my life to get back on track.”

“Jesse Vanek.” Completely ignoring my request, Maddy leans around me and speaks in a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s mysterious too. No one quite knows where he came from, but he sounds Southern, doesn’t he? Shirley Mott thought Florida, but I didn’t think they have those accents.”

How did she learn his last name before I did? It’s not like I have proprietary rights to it, but still. Has he been sharing his pig catching hands all over town? “I think so.”

Oops. I shouldn’t have said anything. Both Opal and Maddy fix me with curious gazes. Under one arched eyebrow, Opal’s hazel eyes gleam. “He’s your neighbor, isn’t he? I can’t believe he rents that old hovel. Can’t you let him stay with you, Laura, until the Drydens fix up his shack?”

Still holding the jug of iced tea and somehow miraculously not spilling it everywhere, I put one hand on my hips. “When has a Dryden ever fixed anything? And why me? You have quite a nice guest cottage, Ms. Olmstead, that I’ve seen you advertise on VRBO before.”

Maddy turns a shade of pink delicately described as flamingo. “That’s for tourists, hon. You understand.”

“He’s just as good as a tourist.” I straighten my back, ignoring the indignant twinge in my muscle from chasing down Edward this morning. “St. Olaf is not for someone like him. He’ll never winter here. The first big ice storm, that man is hell and gone.” The words taste like bitter absinthe on my tongue. “Now what can I get you ladies for lunch?”

Opal hmphs while Maddy tsks. “I’ll have the usual. Veggie wrap, hold the tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers. Add turkey and bacon and on sourdough, please and thank you.”

I make a show of writing it down, since the last time I didn’t, I endured a half-an-hour-long lecture on the decline of western civilization. “And for you, Opal?”

“I don’t know.” Opal sets down the menu card and picks up her iced tea. She has on black nail polish with hot pink tips. Where does she find the time for a manicure amid butting into everyone else’s business? “Today I think I’ll try the grilled cheese and a cup of your delicious tomato soup.”

“Coming right up.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jesse

This ishands-down the busiest day yet at the hardware store. Several orders– that Moe must have placed before he vanished into the wilderness somewhere– arrive and need to be unpacked, and there is a steady stream of customers. Oddly, most of them are of the female persuasion and ranging in ages from eighty-five to a baby no more than four months old.

It doesn’t take long to realize that the desire for my presence far exceeds their need for wrenches or bolts or, in one particular instance, a mega-sized box of D batteries for Lorraine Gutschall’s “special friend.”

Never needed that image in my brain, but hey, it’s all basically plumbing at the end of the day.

Besides the frequent side-eye I’m receiving, Laura Marshall also seems a hot topic of conversation.

“Chris dumped her, dontcha know. It’s just terrible. She’s such a lovely person, and none of these moon pies stick around.”I pretend not to notice a pointed gaze in my direction at that remark.

“I’ll bet it’s the pigs. No one ever said you caught a man with a rescue pig farm. Who knew those mini pigs are all a myth?”

“Isn’t that the truth? Couldn’t she have had a nice dairy like everyone else? All men love a good dairy. She could have even gone rogue and gotten goats. I love a good goat cheese.”

“Oh, hon, I’ve got the best recipe for a casserole with goat cheese and potatoes. I’ll text it to you.”

And so on. I get the goat cheese and potato recipe too, though I doubt the primitive oven in my little cabin can manage the weight of a casserole dish. I’ve only finally managed to fix the leaking shower.

From my unabashed eavesdropping—it’s a little bit my right, since they’ve come to gawk at me, the wayward southerner—I learn many interesting things about Laura. She is a serial monogamist and all the animals on her farm are rescues. She has a food blog—which I may or may not have immediately bookmarked—called Frosting Monkey, with a drool-worthy gallery. She’s well-liked among the townspeople, who all are on her side in some Dryden-related issue. Or it may be a dryer-related issue. I’m not too sure as the phone rings at that moment, announcing a delivery of two-by-fours.

Essentially, no matter how hard I try, I can’t escape Laura Marshall. At least tomorrow is Sunday, when the hardware store will be closed. I can only tell from the sign I found buried under a stack ofFood and Winemagazines last week after I’d already opened on Sunday, since Moe hadn’t exactly described my hours. Hopefully he is as diligent at automatic payroll as he is about auto-orders to restock his shop, since my bank account is looking more meager than a threadbare, neglected mule.

And a man has to eat.

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