He shrugged. “Again, that depends. I’ve written songs in less than a day and there are some that took weeks.”
Ethan pointed a finger at Derek. “‘Begin Again,’” both men said at the same time.
“We wrote that song together,” Derek explained, seeing my confused expression. “We were stuck on one line—one line—for I don’t know, three weeks maybe. It drove me crazy.”
Ethan cleared his throat.
Derek turned his head. “Are you hacking up something or was that commentary?”
Ethan was turned sideways in his chair, one hand wrapped around his coffee mug. “Drove you crazy?” he said. “You drove everyone around you crazy.” He gestured with his free hand. “I’m not kidding, Kath. One of his neighbors called the police for a wellness check because she was worried that Derek was suffering from some kind of mental health crisis because he was wandering around the block talking to himself!”
Derek laughed, a bit shame-faced. “Okay, I admit that I can get a bit of tunnel vision when I’m stuck on a song.”
Ethan leaned his head in my direction, a conspiratorial tone to his voice. “Same woman who called the police for the wellness check? She made him a fanny pack with change for the T, some wet wipes and a baggie of granola in case he wandered too far away and got hungry.”
“Don’t knock it,” Derek said with a grin. “That was homemade granola that Mrs. Melanson made herself with a bunch of that dried fruit and chocolate chips. It was really good.”
Claire arrived then with our steaming ramen bowls. We ate, we laughed, we talked about song writing and the tour and life in general and I thought how happy I was to be spending time with my brother. I noticed Derek glance out the window a couple of times and I hoped that Lewis Wallace left town soon.
After lunch—which Ethan insisted on paying for—the guys decided to head to the co-op store. Maggie had mentioned some guitar straps that Ethan wanted to see.
“Would you give this to Maggie, please?” I asked, taking a small brown paper bag out of my bag.
“Sure,” Ethan said. “What is it?”
“It’s a peanut butter and banana muffin—her favorite—from Sweet Thing.”
He frowned. “Sweet Thing?”
“It’s a bakery. She’ll know,” I said. I’d swiped it from the box Abigail had brought in—with her permission.
I walked back to the library to get the truck because I had to go over to Fern’s Diner to drop off a large coffeemaker that Peggy had loaned me for Harrison Taylor’s talk about Mayville Heights’s history. The library’s coffeemaker had died, shooting water and coffee all over the staff room in one messy last hurrah.
Eight or nine years ago, Fern’s had been restored to its 1950s glory, or as Roma liked to describe it, “Just like the good old days only better.” The building was low and long, with windows on three sides, aglow with neon after dark. Inside there was the all-important jukebox, booths with red vinyl seats and a counter with gleaming chrome stools. The diner’s claim to fame was Meatloaf Tuesday: meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans in the summer, carrots the rest of the time, brown gravy and apple pie.
It was quiet at Fern’s. Larry Taylor was in the back corner at a table by himself, having a late lunch. Larry was Harrison’s younger son, an electrician who had done a lot of work at the library. He raised a hand in hello and I waved back at him.
“You didn’t have to rush to bring this back,” Peggy said. She was wearing polka-dot pedal pushers, a short-sleeved white shirt with Peggy Sue stitched over the left breast pocket and rhinestone-tipped, cat’s-eye-framed glasses. Her hair was in a bouffant updo with a red bow bobby-pinned at the front.
“Thanks for lending it to us on short notice,” I said, laying a hand on the top of the box that held the coffeemaker. “I ordered a new one and it should be here on Monday.”
Peggy took the box and set it behind the counter. “Well, if you need it again, just let me know.”
Peggy had been seeing Harrison Taylor for months now, or as he liked to describe it, “keeping company.” Since I regularly spent time with the old man, I’d gotten to know her better. Although Peggy was a lot younger than Harrison, she’d been good for him, getting him to keep doctors’ appointments and cut back on caffeine. Most of all, he was happy, which was all any of us cared about.
Behind me the door to the diner opened and Georgia Tepper came in, carrying a large cardboard box with the logo of her company, Sweet Thing, stamped on top. Her shoulders were hunched, body rigid, and she was clenching her teeth. When I saw who was behind her I understood why.
“No,” I said, under my breath. It was Lewis Wallace yet again. Why on earth was he turning up all over town?
He was hitting on Georgia, that much was obvious. He towered over her; in fact, he seemed to take up way too much space in the diner, and way too much air. “I’d love a little taste of something sweet,” he was saying.
My first impression of Wallace hadn’t been a good one and neither had the second and now the third. The man used his size to bully people and his lack of self-awareness was disturbing. He put a hand on Georgia’s shoulder and she stiffened, twisting her body out of his grasp as she moved sideways.
Wallace looked at the box she was holding. “Aww, don’t be like that, sweet thing,” he said as he reached over and trailed a finger down the arm of her jacket.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Larry stand up. At the same time Peggy and I both began to move toward Georgia. She stepped sideways again, closer to Lewis Wallace, coming down hard on his left foot in his not-appropriate-for-March-in-Minnesota Italian leather loafers with the chunky heel of her boot.
“Hey, watch it!” he exclaimed, grimacing and taking a step backward.
Georgia was trembling, almost imperceptibly, but her voice was steady when she said, “You should really watch where you put your . . . feet.”
“Is everything all right?” I said, walking over to her.
Georgia nodded. “Yes, it is.”
Wallace shook his head and said, “Jeez, a guy can’t even give a girl a compliment anymore.” He looked at Larry, who had just joined us. “Am I right?”
“No,” Larry said. “You’re not.” Larry was one of the most easy-going people I knew. He, too, was a big man. Unlike Wallace with his doughy build, Larry was all solid muscle, with blond hair and green eyes. I’d never thought of him as being the slightest bit intimidating. Until now.
Wallace looked at us for a long moment. “Aww, screw it,” he said. He turned and went back out the door.
I took the big box of cupcakes from Georgia and handed it to Peggy. “Are you okay?” I asked.
She nodded. “I am. Thank you.” She looked at Larry. “Thank you, too.”
“Georgia, do you know Larry?” I said.
The question got a tiny smile out of her. “I’ve seen you around town,” she said, directing that small smile at him.
He nodded. “I’ve had a couple . . . dozen of your cupcakes.” He patted his stomach.
Georgia glanced at the door. “That guy is creepy. He followed me across the parking lot and he wouldn’t stop hitting on me.”
Larry shrugged. “Yeah, well, he has that reputation.”
“So you know him?” Georgia asked.
“I know of him,” Larry said. “His name is Lewis Wallace.”
Peggy was nodding. “I thought that was him. He’s the one the development committee is talking to. They’re hoping he’ll set up his new business in one of the empty warehouses down by the waterfront, if he gets everything he wants.”
I remembered the information packet I’d brought home from the meeting Maggie and I had attended. “Wallace is a former athlete, isn’t he?” I said. “Football?”
Larry nodded. “He played college ball but he couldn’t cut it in the NFL. He wasn’t really big enough. So he went to Canada and played there for a few years. Offensive lineman.”