Page 7 of Spindrift

Thehardware store in town boasted a slim selection of paint chips. Emilia eyed thepalette, wondering if she should venture farther inland in search of a largerchain home improvement store. The thought exhausted her.

Maybeit’s good to have fewer options.She selected a handful of white, cream, and ivory chips and tried to visualizethem on the rough pine walls. Should she leave the walls and just paint thetrim? And what about the ceiling?No. Light walls. She’d play withleaving a few exposed beams, but the house needed a face-lift, and she couldn’tbear to think about her father sitting alone in the dark, smoking his pipe anddrinking until his heart gave out.Fresh paint, fresh start.

“Needany help?”

Thestore clerk looked to be about sixteen. Hardly old enough to be an expert inanything, despite the Ask Me pin above his nametag.

“Fiberglassrepair?” she said.

“Aislesix,” replied Ask Me Doug. He led the way, his work shirt rumpled and his hairthat peculiar brand of disarray known only to teenage boys. “Boat?”

“Yes.Just a skiff.”

“Everrepaired one before?”

“Ihelped my dad once.”

“It’ssuper easy.” He grinned, apparently enthusiastic about the subject, as helaunched into an explanation about the proper curing conditions for fiberglassthat made her eyes glaze. Emilia amended her earlier assessment. Perhaps Dougwasan expert in repairing leaky rowboats.

“Thanks,”she said when he finished.

“Noproblem. There’s lots of YouTube videos if you need more help.”

Shewoulddefinitelyneed more help.

Ladenwith paint chips and a fiberglass kit, she left the store and stepped into thespring sunshine. Nell waited in the car with her long neck stretched out thewindow, tracking the progress of a squirrel in a neighboring tree.

“Ohno you don’t.” Nell had two gears: potato and full speed. Emilia would nevercatch her if she took off after the fluffy-tailed creature. She grabbed herdog’s leash forcefully as she dumped her supplies in the trunk. Nell gazedafter the squirrel with longing, but did not attempt to give chase.

Theidea of going home made her teeth ache with claustrophobia. To postpone it, shetook Nell for a walk to see how much of the town had changed since she’d lastbeen here.

Theharbor town was small and slightly run-down in a quaint, coastal way thatpleased the eye and attracted tourists in the summer months. Flower boxesoffset fading paint and missing shingles, and the few boutiques open forbusiness this early in the season carried the usual tourist fare. Emilia passedseveral seaside restaurants, the main wharf, a small lobster dock, and thetown’s only hotel, which was little more than a large bed and breakfast.

Thesmell of freshly brewed coffee caught her attention, and she saw a small shopshe didn’t remember from her youth: Storm’s-a-Brewin’ Coffeehouse and Brewery.

Anothermicrobrewery.Just what the world needs,she thought, but the Pets Welcomesign took the edge off her cynicism. Keeping Nell in heel, she pushed throughthe glass door and into the warmth of the coffee shop.

“Goodmorning,” said a short woman with thick black curls, bright red lipstick, and aninfectious smile from behind the counter.

Emiliablinked at her, then looked around. A wooden bar wrapped around one corner ofthe café, and a chalkboard advertised local beers on tap while another boastedvarious gourmet coffee beans. Exposed brick walls complemented the potted succulentsand air plants that hung from the beams. She didn’t need to look to know thatthe case of artisanal products by the checkout was outside her budget. Tablesoccupied the floor space, although most of them were empty, and a small raisedplatform suggested the shop held live performances. The effect was too hip forSeal Cove, but the coffee smelled delicious.

“Goodmorning,” she said. “Just a cup of your dark roast.”

“Forhere or to go?”

Emiliaconsidered her options. She could kill some time and think about painting, orshe could get to work on the boat or the house. “For here.”

“Andfor your pup? Puppaccino?”

I’ma vet, so no,shealmost said, her mind filled with images of obese dogs downing whipped cream.She settled for a “no thank you.”

“Dogbiscuit?” The woman’s smile spread faster than the parvovirus in a puppy mill.Emilia felt her lips twitch in response.

“Sure.What do you say, Nell?”

Thegreyhound sat and swiveled her ears forward, her impossibly long snout waitingexpectantly for praise.

“Well,aren’t you a perfect angel,” said the barista. Her nametag identified her as Stormy.Great, she thought darkly, recalling the name of the café.I justlove puns.

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