Page 20 of Don't Clause a Scene
At the masculine, posh English-accented voice of my GPS, I parked in front of a full-grown Red Maple in the front yard of the house on my right. “This place is cute.”
Mickey’s house wasn’t what I’d expected. I’d pictured him in a nondescript one-bedroom apartment similar to Sage’s, not a two-story house with a darling porch and white lap siding.
The place was modest and well-kept among similar homes on the quiet residential street. His was on the end at a curve in the road and faced away from the others, which gave it nice privacy. The porch was perfect for enjoying a beer on a warm summer evening and patriotic bunting for Independence Day. Or even better, Pride bunting in June.
A light next to the door illuminated the house number, which I double-checked before getting out of my car. The brisk November air was a stark contrast to the face-melting heat blowing from my car’s vents on the ride over. I tightened my grip on the neck of the wine bottle as I walked up the driveway to the right of the house and past Mickey’s Subaru. Of course he was a Subaru guy.
I didn’t know anything about Mickey’s financial situation, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to being surprised he could afford a house like this on a diner salary. Even if he ran the business and Red’s was raking in the dough, housing prices were ridiculous these days. Maybe Mickey had a naughty side hustle. I would throw my wallet at him if he had videos stripping out of his flannel and jeans. Nngh.
The porch steps creaked, and as I reached the front door, I hesitated. Meeting at a neutral location like Special Blend was one thing, but Mickey’s place was hardly neutral. What if I saw something that made me like him more? Like a cat? Or one of those floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with a ladder? Not to mention the proximity to a bed. Sweet temptation.
I inhaled a fortifying breath and raised my fist to knock. Before it made contact, the door swung open to reveal Mickey in worn jeans that hugged his thighs and a flannel, this time in shades of blue.
“Were you watching for me?”
Mickey’s eyes widened. “What? No. The light is motion-activated.”
“Likely story.” I grinned and handed him the wine.
“Just wanted to make sure you didn’t see the tripwire.” Mickey grinned, then glanced at the label. “Cabernet Sauvignon is my favorite. Thanks. Come in.” He stepped back and gestured for me to enter.
“To be honest, I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between that and a red blend, but the person working at the store said it was a local favorite.” I noticed the small rug next to the door with an orderly row of shoes. Following suit, I kicked mine off. “The general store has changed so much since we were kids. It’s got quite the selection of local booze.”
“Not a wine guy, huh?”
“I like it—red more than white—but I haven’t had the chance to learn the nuances.”
“We should add wine to the Christmas Eve dinner. Then we can use it as an excuse to go wine tasting.” Mickey’s eyes widened as soon as the words left his mouth.
“Great idea.” I smiled, and, okay, maybe it was alittleflirty. I couldn’t help it! Mickey was adorable, and I was stuck with mere human willpower.
Before I had a chance to take in the space, I noticed the pleasant scent of fir trees. It wasn’t the cloying chemical smell found in a lot of candles but something more natural, like walking through a forest while hunting for the perfect Christmas tree.
“It smells great in here,” I said as I followed Mickey deeper into his home. It had an eclectic mix of quilts and furniture, similar to what my grandparents had before they moved to Florida, with landscape photos and art pieces on the walls that brought a more modern touch.
“Thanks. I get candles from the Honey Spot. They’re made of beeswax, and I melt them under a candle lamp. It seems safer than lighting them. Nervous about housefires.”
My shoulders tensed while following Mickey into the kitchen. I barely noticed the rooster plates above the cabinets as my memories took me back over twenty years to the grease fire in the Sparky’s kitchen while Mom taught Sage and me how to make french fries. We’d been lucky that Mom had been able to douse it before it’d done too much damage. Whether it’d been my brain or reality, I’d smelled burned things for months.
After swallowing a couple of times, I found my voice. “Me too. Ever since the kitchen fire at Sparky’s, I’ve developed a pretty big fear of them. I never leave the house without double-checking that the stove is off, even if I haven’t used it.”
Mickey paused next to a snack board on the kitchen island and turned to face me, staring deep into my eyes. He closed the distance and squeezed my arm, then let his fingertips fall away. “Shit, I forgot that happened. I’m so sorry. That had to be terrifying. The diner is like a second home. It would be traumatizing to see all that damage.”
The earnestness in his voice made my stomach flip-flop. Other than Sage, Mickey was the only other person I knew who understood what it was like growing up in a restaurant. How, some days, it was the last place you wanted to be, and others, you didn’t want to be anywhere else.
He held my stare, and I suspected his mind had traveled a similar path. Instead of avoiding Mickey all those years, I probably should’ve befriended him. Not that our families or the community would’ve supported it.It’s not too late now.
No one needed to know if Mickey and I became buddies. We could text sometimes when I returned to Boston. I suspected he was planning to take over Red’s like Sage was Sparky’s, and I could be a sounding board or support occasionally. The more the idea formed, the more I liked it. I didn’t want to leave Mickey behind when I left Maplewood. We could have a good friendship, and I always liked having more friends.
I was overwhelmed by an urge to pepper him with questions about his perspective on the diner feud, his take on our school years, and the juicy gossip he knew I’d never heard. Instead, I turned my attention to the snack board he’d assembled.
“May I?” I reached toward the food he’d set out.
One side of Mickey’s mouth pulled back in a small smile. “No, I thought I’d eat it in front of you.”
“I wouldn’t blame you. You’re feeding the enemy.” I winked and spread the herb-covered soft cheese onto a cracker. I’d always been a dairy slut. Even during the dark period when I’d suspected I was lactose intolerant, I kept eating cheese.
The creamy texture was elevated by an unexpected hint of lemon. “Oh damn, that’s delicious. Is that local too?”
