Page 62 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

Aspen laid a hand on the mayor’s arm to keep him from interrupting. The sooner she responded, the sooner they’d be finished here. “My father wasn’t in hiding. He never changed his name.” Though, to be fair, they’d always had unlisted phone numbers. Now she knew why. “We moved to Hawaii when I was a little girl. He was a business owner and an upstanding member of the community.”

“Give me his number, then. I wanna have a chat with him.”

“Unfortunately, he passed away a year ago.” Considering all she’d learned and dealt with that day, Aspen was proud of herself for not shedding tears with the words. “He always said he believed my mother was dead, and there was no indication in his will or any of his papers that he knew where she was. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

“You can help. Get out of this town.”

“That’s enough.” The pretty barista had come around the counter. She held out a cup of coffee. “Mocha cappuccino, just like you like it. It’s on the house today.”

Rhonda’s gaze flicked around the room. She accepted the offering.

“I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow,” the barista said, an implicit suggestion that she’d seen enough of her today.

After one final glare sent Aspen’s way, Rhonda spun and left.

The rest of the customers averted their glances, but Aspen knew what they were thinking. The same thing she was—that she never should have come to Coventry.

This coffee shophad once been a home, and the owner clearly hadn’t done much remodeling aside from adding the counter and glass case filled with pastries. The room where Aspen waited had a small fire flickering in a fireplace. Brent led her past a couple of empty café tables to an upholstered chair near the hearth. Only when she felt the heat did she realize how cold she was.

While he ordered, Aspen took a few deep breaths, trying to come to terms with everything she’d learned and heard that day. The fact that people actually suspected her father of having hidden her mother for all those years…

If only that were the case. Surely Aspen would have learned the truth at his death. If her mother were in a mental institution somewhere, somebody would have had to be responsible for her.

No, Dad wouldn’t have done that. He wouldn’t have protected her from facing the charges. He’d have trusted the justice system.

“Here we go.” Brent set two steaming mugs on the small table between the chairs and walked away again.

She lifted hers and sipped, then relaxed into the well-worn fabric. She’d asked for a caramel macchiato, and this one was good. With the coffee and the flickering fire, despite everything, she started to feel like herself again.

Brent returned with two plates, which he set on the table between them before taking the adjacent seat. “You looked a little green. I thought food might help.”

She would have refused if he’d asked, but as the scent of the warm cinnamon roll and—was that a blueberry muffin?—reached her, she realized she was hungry. “Which one’s mine?”

“Whichever you want.”

Too difficult to choose. She cut each in half, shifted them so each plate had a portion, and lifted one of the plates for herself. She cut off a bite of the cinnamon roll and ate it.

It was delicious.

Brent hadn’t taken his pastries or sipped his coffee. Instead, he watched her, a small smile on his face.

“Thank you,” she said. “You know that woman?”

“She hates me, too, if that helps. Apparently, the traffic is my fault. And also, she’s against taxes of all kinds. I’m not sure how she thinks wider roads can be built without tax money.”

“I guess you deal with that kind of thing all the time.”

“Not exactlythatkindof thing, no. Nobody’s ever demanded I leave town, though I wouldn’t put it past some people if they thought I’d do it. But yeah, I’m used to some people not liking me.”

“I can handle being disliked, but having the whole town hate me?—”

“Not the whole town,” he said. “People who hold grudges tend to do so loudly.” He sipped from his mug. “Josie’s good at coffee.”

“The barista?” At his nod, Aspen said, “It is good. Maybe not as good as Kona coffee?—”

“Ah. You’re one of those.” His eyes twinkled. “A coffee snob.”

She let out a short laugh. “Probably. But this really is good.” She sipped again to prove her point.

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