Page 12 of False Start

three

“Heardyou had a hell of a night last night, Maisy Jane.”

“Up late gossiping, were you?” I said, grabbing the coffee filters to start a fresh pot of decaf, because I was down to one refill left for good ol’ Milton. Not that he wanted decaf, but what he didn’t know would likely keep his crusty ass alive.

At least on my watch.

From the day his wife Mary stopped by, worried about his heart palpitations, I’d begun switching out his brew. I didn’t do it all in one shot, mind you. Some things required finesse—in other words, ten percent increments.

My boy finally joined the world of full decaf just last week and I couldn’t be prouder. This must be what it’s like for a mother whose baby walks for the first time.

Mary tried to keep him home, cooking him breakfast so she could control his diet better, but he missed being on his boat and he craved the sea. So he spent his mornings here, the only diner for fifty miles that sat next to a rocky cliff overlooking the Atlantic.

That’s where I took over, giving Mary a little peace of mind while Milton gave me some real live entertainment…and most days the sailor didn’t disappoint.

Every morning without fail, he bellied on up to the counter and settled in.

With his back turned toward his true love, giving it the cold shoulder.

Stubborn shit. Maybe that’s why I liked him so much.

“Aw hell, Maisy, I overheard them talking about it over at the general store. You know I don’t do that gossiping nonsense.”

Sure, he didn’t. “What would you call this?”

“Going to the source.”

“Fair enough. It was a shitty night. Not one I want to repeat.” Grabbing the carafe, I hopped over to where he sat on a cracked black vinyl stool. Or at least I tried to hop over, only to have my momentum reduced to a hobble as a fresh wave of slicing pain sucked the next words right out of my throat. My muscles locked tight and I squeezed my eyes shut while the ache rocked through me, a stark reminder why hopping, gliding, dancing, grinding against my mattress with forbidden coach fantasies—basically why existing was a god-awful idea at the moment.

Bushy gray eyebrows bunched over his cloudy blue eyes. “You okay, kid?”

“I will be. Just my body reminding me I’m not superhuman after all.” I loved derby. I even appreciated the aches and pains, within reason. But the ice pick wedged in my lungs threatened to steal the simple pleasures I get from the crack of dawn squad who kept me company every morning at The Shipwreck.

It’s bad enough I couldn’t take a deep breath which meant I missed my morning inhale of smoked meat tinged with strong coffee and pastries brought fresh each morning by Audrey from Crum Cakes.

Every day for five years, exactly twenty minutes into my shift, the tables and counter still empty, the coffee brewed, and the first of the local bacon and sausage sizzling on the griddle, I’d unpack those sugar bombs and let the quiet settle over me while I breathed in the scent of the closest thing I had to home.

Each time I soaked it in and committed it to memory, I pretended I belonged to these people and they belonged to me.

I missed that this morning and it left me out of sorts and almost as grumbly as Milton over there.

Plus, the pain killed my dancing time. How the hell was I supposed to not dance a little when the oldies station pumped out Dion and the Belmonts at the top of the hour? I’d rather give up Crum Cakes for the day than lose my groove.

“What’s this I hear about not being superhuman, darlin’?” Gerald said, shuffling up to the counter, all set to take the seat next to Milton.

“Oh no, you don’t,” I said, snapping my fingers at Gerald. He matched Milton in the stubbornness department, but they didn’t play nice together. “Move over. You know the rule, one stool between the two of you at all times now. You hear me?”

“She’s in a mood,” Gerald muttered.

“No leaning either, Gerald,” I called out as I grabbed Milton’s food out of the window.

“Damn woman’s got eyes in the back of her head.”

Setting Milton’s piping hot eggs over easy, home fries, and the bacon I wasn’t supposed to let him have in front of him, I shot Gerald a look. “And don’t you forget it. Now, you look at the menu while I take Sheriff Chase’s order.” I glanced between both of them, making sure they were looking at me so there’d be no misunderstanding. “Be good. Don’t make me punish you.”

“How exactly you gonna do that?” Milton said with a scowl.

I crossed my arms and arched my brow, adopting Patti’s best “why don’t you try me” expression. “I’ll take away your salt.”

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