Page 63 of Small Town Firsts
“Yeah.” I could hear the skepticism in his voice, but I gave him the details as I did with Ronan. “I think she’ll give us a leg up with bringing in people too.”
“Do people in this area know what a flair artist is?”
“You’d be surprised what people watch on the internet.”
“You got me there. Hayes is always nattering at me about something he saw on one of the social media apps. Annoying as hell. Who has time for that shit?”
Knowing Beckett’s version of downtime was a beer and his guitar, I didn’t argue.
“It’ll eat into my—our—budget, but she’s also got a following. If we market it right, we can get some of the younger people in the doors, even when we don’t have a concert.”
He was quiet. Long enough that I opened my mouth to back out of the idea. “It’s an angle I didn’t think of. Exactly why I put you in charge of this.”
Now I was the quiet one and my eyes stung again. “Dammit, don’t get me emotional.”
“For fuck’s sake, don’t do that.”
I laughed and it was only marginally close to a sob. “I appreciate you trusting me.”
“Beyond my family, there’s no one I trust more, Key.”
And because he was Beckett, that was how he hung up. I tossed the headphones into my bag. I practically sagged in my seat when I realized I was already in town. I needed some coffee and some thinking time, dammit. First, an overwhelming Viking and then Beckett.
Far too much for one morning.
I pulled into a Starbucks and decided if any day was perfect for a splurge, it was today. With caffeine, I could do just about anything.
Now I just had to convince Lennon Hathaway that Central New York was special enough to get her to work for me.
SIXTEEN
RONAN
OLD TIMES
It wasa little early to stop and get fried chicken from Crescent Cove, but the hangover gods were still playing havoc with my gut. Wine wasn’t my usual drink of choice, and the two bottles plus lack of sleep equaled a desperate need for grease. So much so, I was tempted to land at the diner near the gazebo. With a name like The Rusty Spoon, it seemed a no brainer for what I needed.
However, a lack of sleep added to my urge for a full reset. Bucket of Love was my only hope. And the joint was my happy place ever since I found it.
Unfortunately, that meant I had some time to kill before it opened. Some fresh air and exercise helped blow out some of the cobwebs, especially after an exceptional cup of coffee from a place called Brewed Awakening.
I ended up in front of a catchall book and craft store on the main drag. The inviting window was decorated with canvas bags full of books perfect to bring to the nearby beach. Handmade wearables were cleverly draped over a vintage metal beach chair in candy apple red. A rack of more mesh-styled bathing suit coverups was discreetly tucked behind it. Surprisingly, a basket of cotton yarn exploded with summer colors beside the chair anda half finished project was set in the chair as if someone had just gotten up and left it to go in the water.
Damn good marketing since I planted my boots outside the window for a full minute looking around. Every Word A Story was scrawled across the top of the window, hand painted on an old school wooden sign. Seemed like the perfect place to find something to send to my mother and sisters to remind them I was their favorite.
Five minutes later, I had to grab one of the cotton shopping bags to hold the collection of gifts I’d found. A pewter dust catcher for my mother—she loved anything to do with turtles. A leather bound sketchbook for my brother-in-law and fancy watercolors in an array of stormy grays and blues, also for my mom.
I wandered to the second floor and found some ridiculously expensive yarn for my sister Norah. She was as creative as my mother but preferred textiles. I was helped by the colorful yarn saleswoman who definitely saw a target on my forehead. She even offered to package up and mail my purchase off for a fee. I suppose it was the least she could do considering the triple digits I spent on cashmere yarn. But Norah would love it, and it would make up for me missing her birthday party thanks to my move to New York.
Before I could do any more damage in the yarn section, I returned to the first floor. For my little sister, Maeve, I ended up with a stack of books. Most of them were from the used shelves and were lovingly thumbed through. She was the thrifter in my family and appreciated upcycling in its many forms. I paused over the Yeats Irish folklore hardcover with little notes scribbled in the margins.
I snapped a photo of the page and put the book on top of the stack. I sent a text off to her with the photo and noticed threeothers waiting for me. One from an unknown number. I almost ignored it—probably a spam text.
Unknown
Hey Boa—new number for now. I’m road tripping your way. Got time for a beer? Maybe seven.
“Kain,” I muttered out loud. Surprise and confusion warred inside of me.
