Page 30 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
Their shoes crunched on the gravel as they hiked down the road toward the bar. No sidewalks were available, just the gravel on the edge of the asphalt highway.
“Soooo...” Holt dragged the word out long enough for Shea to have an idea of where he was going. “I didn’t know you were married.”
“We’re ... separated.” Shea wasn’t sure if that was the actual truth. If someone were to ask Pete, he’d probably have no clue that she was considering this trip a separation. A test.
“Ah.” Holt nodded. “Marriage is tough.”
“You’ve been married, right?” Shea cast him a sideways glance as the Dipstick Saloon came closer into view.
“Briefly. My high-school sweetheart and I got married, which is kinda what you do in a small town, eh?” They both laughed. “She left about a year later. The call of the city. I was too small-town for her by then. We were shortsighted teenagers, I guess.”
Shea didn’t elaborate about why she agreed with him, but her “Mm-hmm!” came out far more emphatic than she’d intended.
That was the thing that sucked about being in her mid-thirties. She was already well on the way to the midpoint of her life and yet her twenties were still visible in the rearview mirror, which meant she saw the foolhardiness of her younger self and yet—Shea stole a glance at Holt beside her—she still had enough impulsive youthfulness in her to want to be foolhardy all over again.
“Here we are.” Holt opened the door of the Dipstick Saloon for Shea, and she entered, immediately taking in the Upper Peninsula vibe of taxidermy, neon beer signs and mirrors, the smells of grease and cigarette smoke, a pool table, and a few pictures on the walls of the Porcupine Mountains.
Even though it was late morning, Holt shimmied onto a stoolat the bar and gave the silver-haired woman behind it a grin that deepened his dimples.
“Holt boy, you son of a gun. Since when do you pop into the Dipstick for lunch?”
“Never. It’s always for supper. But today is different.” Holt slapped the bar in jest. “So serve me up a cheeseburger.”
“You serious?” Penny raised her brows, the crow’s feet beside her eyes deepening.
“Never more serious. What do you want, Shea? It’s on me.”
Shea approached and slipped onto a stool next to Holt. It was a bit early for lunch, she thought, but then—why not? “A cheeseburger is fine.”
“No, no. Get her a pastie. She needs to try one.” Holt negated Shea’s order with both authority and a sense of humor.
Penny turned green eyes in Shea’s direction. “You’ve never had a pastie, hon?”
“I don’t even know what that is.” Although Shea had to admit she’d heard of it since Wisconsin bordered the U.P.
“An Upper Peninsula delight, brought here by the Cornish miners, these handheld beef pies are perfection. With some rutabagas and potatoes chopped up in them? Mm-mmm!” Penny’s description had made Shea’s mouth water, until she heard the wordrutabaga, which lent to some trepidation at the spicier root.
“But.” Holt leveled a stern look on Shea. “Do you dip it in gravy or ketchup?”
“Ummm.” Shea had no idea how to answer.
Penny burst out laughing and waved Holt away. “Don’t mind him, hon. That’s an age-old debate you’ll never give the right answer to.” Then she disappeared back into the kitchen.
Holt twisted on his seat. “Penny has been running the Dipstick since I was in my teens.”
“She seems like a nice person,” Shea said.
“She is. A local, and a good one to ask questions of.”
And that was what Shea intended to do.
When Penny returned to the bar, she wiped the counter with a damp rag, then tossed it into a bucket of soapy water on the floor behind her. “Okay, what are you having to drink?”
“Coke,” Shea answered.
“One Coke.” Penny turned to Holt. “And you?”
“Spotted Heifer.”
