Page 15 of Checking Mr. Wrong
“Who decreed that there is something so menacing ‘afoot’ here that you need an emergency town meeting?” I ask while also attempting to not choke on my laughter. This is what it’s like to grow up the daughter of Mary-Ellen McCluskey. Maple Falls’ resident busybody with a heart of gold. Has time for every meeting, every cause, and everyone. Well,almosteveryone.
“Oh, stop it. It’s for a good cause. I’ve got it on good authority that Maple Falls is under attack.”
“Attack?” Now she’s done it. I knew it would happen. She’s gone off the deep end. “This has to be made up.”
“No, it is not. Apparently, and according to my source, there’s a man named Alexander MacDonald who’s sent a lawyerhere. He’s trying to say that parts of Maple Falls are technically his, that he’s the heir and wants his land back,” she says matter-of-factly, as if I should know exactly what she’s talking about.
“Can you give me some more context?” I all but plead. “It sounds like you’re pitching me the synopsis for a soap opera.”
She rolls her eyes. Petulant parent. “Years ago, before either one of us was ever here, the MacDonald family owned the majority of the land around Maple Falls. When the last of the known MacDonalds, a man named Victor, passed away, no one stepped forward to claim his property. The town tried for years to find a living relative, but nothing. Since no one claimed it, the property was given to the town.”
“So, are you saying an heir has come forward after all this time?”
“Honestly, Mabel, I wish you were listening to me,” she manages under her breath. We’ve stopped in front of Shirley May’s Diner, our lunch date for the day. Probably not the smartest move on my part, but they have smoothies and milkshakes, which were both approved by my dentist.
“I was, and am, listening,” I say, holding the door open with an exaggerated flourish, waving my arm like I’m a maître d’ at some high-end restaurant.
“Well,” she huffs as she flounces past me, her heels clicking against the floor with dramatic precision, “if this so-called heir can prove he’s related to Victor and is supposed to be the rightful owner of the land, then a lot of Maple Falls will legally be his to do with as he pleases.”
“Oh, great,” I deadpan, closing the door behind us. “Because what this town really needs is another power struggle over land rights. That always goes well.”
She spins on her heel to face me, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t be flippant, Mabel. This is serious. Do you know what could happen if he decides to sell it to developers?”
“Yes, Mom,” I reply, crossing my arms. “It’ll be the end of Maple Falls as we know it. The quaint bakery will turn into achain coffee shop, the diner will start serving kale smoothies, and the Fall Festival will be replaced by, what? A Pumpkin Spice Latte Festival?”
“That’s not funny.”
“Neither is the idea of someone trying to overthrow Maple Falls like it’s some medieval realm,” I quip, crossing my arms and looking around the diner for a table. My kingdom for a chair.
Her lips press into a tight line as she steps closer, pointing a finger at me like she’s about to deliver one of her infamous you-know-I’m-right lectures. “You’re being impossible.”
“And you’re being over-the-top,” I counter, shrugging.
“I want you to take this seriously, Mabel.” Her glare sharpens as she looks around. “I’m regretting I even told you. Just do me a favor, and keep this quiet and between us for now, since the meeting’s tonight.”
My mother and I have a way of bickering that would make a therapist cringe—or drive them straight to their own therapist after one session with us. I’ve often thought over the years it might be our love language, but even my old friend Neesha thinks it’s odd how my mother can show one face to Maple Falls while reserving another one only for me.
I go back to scanning the room as she talks to me. She’s moved on, chatting away about her plans for Maple Fest and an Ice Breakers-themed brunch she wants to host, when my gaze lands on someone I am not at all prepared to deal with, at least not right now.
Asher sits at a corner booth, with someone I guess is a fellow hockey player, judging by his size, hunched over what looks like the world’s most serious plate of pancakes. The expression on Asher’s face is like he’s trying to solve complex mathematical equations with syrup patterns. He’s wearing a baseball cap pulled low, probably thinking it makes him invisible in a town where everyone knows everyone’s breakfast order by heart.
Our eyes meet across the diner for exactly 2.3 seconds—longenough for my stomach to do something that feels suspiciously like figure skating—and instead of looking away like a normal person trying to lie low, his whole face lights up with this ridiculously genuine smile. Like spotting me in a crowded diner just made his entire morning. Real subtle, hotshot.
Mom’s still talking, prattling on about coordinating with the mayor’s office and needing my help with decorations—but her words are starting to fade into the background. Asher looks up again, catching me mid-stare. This time, he doesn’t look away immediately, and I don’t either. Instead, I feel the corners of my traitorous mouth tug upward, unbidden and entirely against my better judgment.
Great, now I’m staring back at him like some kind of diner stalker with a suspiciously enthusiastic grin. Fast as I can, I clamp down on it with such force my jaw practically clicks, replacing it with what I hope is a neutral expression.
“Mabel?” Mom’s voice cuts through my mental spiral. “Are you even listening to me?”
“Yes,” I lie, still peripherally aware of the hockey player who’s now paying way too much attention to his coffee cup. “Ice Breakers brunch. Very...brunchy.”
Mom follows my line of sight, and I watch her entire demeanor shift from frustrated mother to practically vibrating with small-town excitement. “Oh my goodness, is that?—”
Before I can groan or stick out my foot to trip her as she takes off, Mom is in Mary-Ellen mode and headed straight for their table. Honestly, she’s such a stalker but I love her.
“Well, hello, Carson,” Mom says. She turns to me knowingly. “We met at the farmers’ market, what, last week?”
“Yes, ma’am. You’re the reason I’m here today. You told me about Shirley May’s pancakes, so I’m here to have some.” He looks at me and holds out his hand. “Hi, I’m Carson.”
