Page 24 of The Fix-Up

Hewas Peter Stone, former mayor of Two Harts, former jackass boyfriend to Mae, and Two Harts’ newest real estate “developer,” the same one who’d apparently contacted Ollie’s estate attorney about buying the property.

“I got it.” Iris sauntered over to the door. She made a big deal of checking the imaginary watch on her wrist.

Peter thumped the glass door with all the impatience of a three-year-old. “Open up, already.”

Iris cupped an ear. “I’m sorry. Did you say something? You know we open at seven on Saturdays and it’s six fifty-eight.”

“Come on, I’m in a hurry.”

“Ellie,” she said, “do you think we could open a couple minutes early?”

I tapped a finger on my chin, playing along. I had to take joy where I could find it, ya know? “No, I don’t think so. How would that be fair to the other customers?”

“That’s what I thought.” She shook her head, her expression both sad and gleeful all at once. “So sorry. You’ll have to wait.”

Peter banged against the door once more before turning around and pacing the sidewalk. Two minutes later, he thumped again on the door and pressed his phone against the window. “Seven o’clock on the dot.”

“Oh, look, he can tell time,” Iris said. “Before we know it, he’ll be able to add and subtract. Our little boy is growing up.”

The look Peter gave her could have set her on fire. If eyes could do that. Which seemed like a waste of a superpower if you asked me. What if you accidentally set someone on fire when you sneezed, or something?

The snick of the door lock turning was followed by Peter’s voice directed toward Iris. “You are ridiculous.”

Iris arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” he said, adjusting his shirt. “You and your sister, both ridiculous.”

An achingly sweet smile spread across her face. With the blonde hair and blue eyes, Iris looked like the girl next door. All apple-cheeked and sturdy, tall frame. Like she would gladly bake you a pie right after she milked the family cow. “Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee, orange juice? Something easy to spit in?”

“You wouldn’t.”

She twirled around and strolled toward the counter. “Sure.”

“Iris, there is no spitting in anyone’s coffee,” I said without any heat.

“Even if they have stupid soul patches?”

“Not even if the devil walked in and asked for a frittata and a cup of tea.” With a quick pat to Iris’s arm, I marched over to the front window and flipped the CLOSED sign to OPEN. “Very bad for business.”

“You never let me have any fun.” Pouting, Iris traipsed into the kitchen and asked Jorge loudly, “If I found a roach, wouldyou be able to hide it in someone’s order? Asking for a friend, of course.”

I bit back a laugh. “So, Pete, what can I get for you this early on a Saturday?”

He hated being called Pete. I knew that; he knew that I knew that. Still, he flashed his best “trust me” smile. “Just here to say hello and get me one of those amazing blueberry muffins.”

Yeah, sure. “Let me get that for you then.”

With a smile, I placed a blueberry muffin in a to-go bag and handed it over to Peter. He paid and leaned across the counter. “Heard you came into a little bit of property. Twenty acres of prime Two Harts real estate, to be exact. Have you thought about what your plans are?”

“I am not interested in selling.”

“Don’t be hasty. Think about it.” He snapped his fingers. “I heard Ollie has a grandson.”

“Yes,” I said warily.

“And that he also inherited Ollie’s property.”

“And?”

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