“Tell you what, how about if we talk over beers and dinner at the Salty Dog?”
He glanced around at the thinning crowd. “We’ll close at four. I can meet you there at six.”
“Excellent. I’ll get us seats by the fire.”
On her way out, she snapped a few more photos, then wiped away a surprise wash of tears. This was truly the end of an era.
Mom’s words echoed in her memory: “Change is inevitable, kiddo.”
“Yeah,” she muttered, “but I don’t have to like it.”
A loud crash sounded behind her. She spun and spotted a coffee mug shattered on the floor a few yards away. No one stood anywhere near the mess.
Xander tsked and reached for a broom behind the counter. “That’s been happening all week. Wobbly shelves.”
A break in the clouds outside sent a beam of golden twilight through the plate-glass window and illuminated the cosmic transmitter, giving it an ethereal glow.
A shiver danced down Hannah’s spine. “Sure,” she muttered, “just wobbly shelves.”
In the shifting light, she could swear the life-size alien on the bench grinned.
Chapter Six
Bythetimethelast customer finally left, Xander’s back and feet ached, his head buzzed from multitasking, and his ears rang from nine hours of noisy ruckus. But eager shoppers had bought out nearly all of Gus’s inventory, and his till brimmed with enough cash to begin necessary repairs.
“Hannah worked a miracle, eh?” he asked the bench-sitting alien, now a little squashed from hundreds of hugs and not a few lap sits. “Hope she can do it again when I reopen.”
As he pulled on his jacket, he took a deep breath of musty air. Something was definitely growing in these walls. On Monday, the building inspector would deliver the bad news, or worse news, or potentially disastrous news.
On the far side of the shop floor, a metal shelf toppled over with a clatter.
Xander’s heart leapt like a startled rabbit.
Just a rusted-out shelf. Don’t get your boxers in a bunch.
Expelling a gust of nervous laughter, he addressed the largest of the water-spot aliens. “Gimme a break, Gus. I promised to take good care of your shop, and I will. But now, I’ve got a date with a pretty lady.” A nosy, pushy lady, but still, he owed her big time for deflecting those UFO nuts.
Hannah’s warm smile was a balm on his soul. Even though this was the worst possible moment to fall for someone, his thoughts returned again and again to her dark-honey voice, her plush mouth, her arms around him, her chestnut hair tickling his cheek. Not to mention her sharp mind. She was the perfect person to help him puzzle out Souvenir Planet’s new direction.
Would he prefer to decide that all on his own? Absolutely. But Hannah knew this town inside-out, and if accepting her help came with a side of one-on-one time, so much the better.
The thought of diving into this project without a plan made him nauseated. Then again, he’d had a detailed plan for the failed wine bar, and the gourmet shop before that. Both times, developments he couldn’t have foreseen punched holes in his immaculately researched plans.
Maybe it was time to try winging it.
After locking up, he scanned the shop’s overcrowded façade. All this goofy shit would have to be cleared away—the plywood aliens, the fiberglass UFOs, the cement dinosaur, and the rusty antique farm equipment. What kind of aesthetic was Gus going for? Farming on the moon?
He switched off the exterior lights and headed toward the Salty Dog on foot. Hopefully, the brisk evening air would clear his muddled mind.
The sky had reached the indigo hour between twilight and total darkness. Halfway up Main Street, Xander slowed his steps to admire the inky heavens. Compared to the nighttime view through Seattle’s city lights, out here the night sky glittered with millions of stars.
“Dazzling,” he muttered, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. “No wonder you dreamed of going up there.”
Should he be alarmed by his new habit of talking to his dead uncle? Well, they say everyone grieves in their own way.
So, this was home—for the next few months, anyway. His apartment in Seattle was another puzzle piece. Should he sublease? Though it was just a shabby little one-bedroom, he missed his familiar space, his neighborhood, his routine.
After a ten-minute amble, he reached Salty Dog Saloon and Brewery. The bar’s front deck glowed with strings of Edison lights, propane heaters, and dancing flames from the big firepit table. At the hostess stand—a plank atop a wooden sea captain in a yellow slicker—a young woman in a fisherman’s sweater greeted him with a broad smile. “Hi, Xander. Great job on the sale today.”
