“Oh, it’s nothing,” I say, hoping my voice sounds lighter than my body feels. “Been a long week of my patients not feeling well.”
“Mmm. Damn modern contraptions … why do I need this? You think Carly would be in charge of this artificial intelligence since she’s the one who demanded this nonsense. Have you seen where she’s hidden my vintage cashbox? That sweet ring it made every time I lowered the handle reminds me of my gambling days.” Maisy lifts her head for a good, nostalgic laugh, her smoker’s voice circling the crowded cafe.
Say what you want about Maisy, a bird going on seventy-five—her words—but her laughter could stop a spontaneous bar fight any time of the day.
“Here, I have cash.” I shove a hand into the pocket of my green scrubs, partially aware of Past Me shoving a few dollar bills in there when I was shopping for groceries yesterday.
Maisy’s cataract eyes narrow. “Tell me you have exact change.”
“You bet.”
“Ah, save your soul, doll.” Her heavy silver bracelets clank as she gestures for it with her hand. “You just saved that gentleman behind you at least ten more minutes of waiting time.”
She winks at me.
Winks.
This is Maisy’s not-so-subtle way of telling me there is a very available bachelor standing nearby, and here in Falcon Haven, that is no small feat. Bachelors—indeed, men under fifty—are scarce in these parts, and Maisy knows it.
I swear I amnotturning around.
He’s probably passing through on his way to New York. We’re right off the highway. You can see the Empire State Building if you squint your eyes hard enough, and this man whose face I willneversee probably wanted to stop for a pee break and caffeine hit, not a spontaneous match-up from the eclectic barista.
He’d want nothing to do with me, dressed in yesterday’s scrubs with two-day hair and … I can’t remember the last time I put on makeup.
I say to Maisy, “I’ll ask Carly where she hid your register next time I see her.”
Maisy’s lips crimp into a magenta-colored frown, disappointed I wouldn’t flirt and find my future husband where she could bear witness and tell everyone for years to come that she found poor Noa-Lynn Shaw—spinster-at-largebut with such a sweet face—a man.
Maisy shoves the bills in the tip jar, then waves me to the side. “Off you go.”
I sidestep to the pickup counter, waiting for my coffee by staring at anything but the growing line in front of Maisy as the man asks whether the Mercantile does pour-over coffee.
“Do I look like I have ninja barista skills?No.I got milk. I got coffee. I can get you one of each if you’re so inclined.”
Smiling at how the man blubbers under Maisy’s commands, my eyes snag on the newspapers.
Typical news outlets decorate the old-fashioned wire spin stand, but with the Mercantile being under Maisy’s ownership since the sixties, she also demands the latest tabloids and gossip rags.
As I’m idly scanning the headlines, a face cuts through my vision in the same way I picture theTitanichitting the iceberg.
The headline above that devilish, dimpled face shouts,STONE WILLIAMS IS AT IT AGAIN!
“Noa? Your coffee’s ready.”
The teenager employed for the summer months inches my cup closer to my suddenly immobile limbs.
His attention darts from the newsstand to me, then back again.
“Um, I gave you an extra shot because … you know.” Chewing on his lip, he gives me one last pitying look before disappearing behind the coffee machine.
Damn, if a sixteen-year-old boy who has more of a relationship with his video games than actual people is aware of what happened ten years ago, Itrulyam a lost, pathetic spinster.
I swipe my coffee from the counter and leave enough change to cover the tabloid. Flipping the plastic lid off my drink with my thumb, I pour my fresh, super hot, extra shot coffee all over his stupid face over the trash can near the exit.
I let go, and the soggy mess lands with an audible plop.
The Merc goes silent.
