Mike flashed his pearly whites. "How did you guess?"
"Is there anything in the works?" she asked, thinking about the rumors of a big box store coming to town.
He kept his eyes on the road. "There might be, and that's all I'm at liberty to say about it."
"You're a tease."
"And you're beautiful."
That wasn't true…but she liked hearing it anyway.
She cast around for something else to talk about. "I've noticed the locals don't seem too interested in supporting the booksellers. Why do you think that is?"
He shrugged, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. "You don't sell what they need."
"Which is?"
"That's something I need to learn," he admitted. "Rare and antiquarian books and expensive baubles-those are for collectors and people who don't know what to do with their money."
Hurt and irritation suddenly welled within Tricia. "Is that how you feel about us?"
Mike momentarily tore his gaze from the road. "Of course not. But that's what a lot of the villagers think. Surely you've at least considered that."
"Yes," she grudgingly admitted.
The Jaguar slowed and Mike pulled into the parking lot of a little ramshackle building, its white paint peeling, the bands of color on the lobster buoys decorating it bleached to pastel hues. A hand-painted sign with red lettering proclaimed ED'S.
"Oh," Tricia said, trying-and failing-to hold her disappointment in check. "It's a clam shack."
"Don't let the outside fool you. They serve the best chowders and bisques on the eastern seaboard."
Except that they were at least fifty miles from the ocean. Tricia painted on a brave smile. "And I can't wait to try it."
The decor inside Ed's consisted of nets studded with lobster buoys, lobster traps-complete with plastic lobsters-starfish, and shells. Picnic tables were covered in plastic tablecloths with lighthouse motifs, and each had bottles of ketchup, vinegar, salt and pepper shakers, as well as bolts of paper towels on upright wooden holders.
"Nothing too fancy," Mike conceded. "But you won't be disappointed. Sit down while I go order."
Tricia nodded, her smile still fixed.
She chose a table near the rear of the tented patio. Attached to the wall was a large gray hood with a heater inside, presumably used to keep the makeshift dining room habitable during the colder months. Several other couples munched on fried clams and fries served on baker's tissue set in red plastic baskets, washing it down with cans of soft drinks or bottles of beer.
Settling at the table, Tricia ran her fingers across the tablecloth, thankful to find it wasn't sticky. Still, she tore off four sheets of paper toweling, fashioning two crude place mats.
Mike returned with napkins and plastic cutlery. "It'll only be a few minutes." He settled on the bench across from her and tied a lobster bib around his neck, settling it over his suit coat. "Don't want to spill soup on my tie. Have to look presentable for my speech this afternoon."
"What are you talking about? Who are you speaking to?"
"A group of seniors at the center on Maple Street. Thanks to my mother's difficulties, I have a unique perspective on the kinds of problems they have, what with the cost of medicine, health care, and the realities of living on a fixed income."
"You mentioned your mother's difficulties," she began, interested, but not wanting to appear too nosy.
"I probably wouldn't have returned to Stoneham last year if it weren't for Mother. Alzheimer's," he explained succinctly.
Something inside Tricia's chest constricted.
"At first she seemed safe enough to leave on her own, but her mind has really deteriorated in the past year," Mike continued. "I had her moved into an assisted living facility almost six months ago. The next step is probably to a locked ward in a nursing home."
"I'm so sorry." Head bent, Tricia looked unseeing at the table in front of her. Mike's words had triggered a plethora of unhappy memories for her. She'd watched her former father-in-law go from a funny, loving man to a sometimes violent, empty-eyed soul. It had torn Christopher's immediate family apart, putting a strain on her own marriage. A strain that contributed to shattering it.
"Let's talk about something more pleasant," Mike suggested. "Like books. They're your specialty. I've slowly been cleaning out mother's house, and I don't have a clue about what to do with her lifelong collection of books."
Though not a true change of subject, it was something Tricia was much more interested in discussing. "What kinds of books did she have?"
"A little bit of everything. Strike that: a lot of everything. Mother was on the village board when Bob Kelly came up with the idea of bringing in all the used booksellers. I'm sure she was one of the booksellers' best customers."
"Can she still read?"
Mike shook his head, grabbed the pepper shaker, and set it in front of his place.
How sad to lose the thing that means the most to you, Tricia thought. Of course her scattered family was important to her-she even grudgingly loved Angelica, and couldn't forget dainty little Miss Marple-but to be deprived of her favorite pastime would be akin to stealing a portion of her soul.
"Would you like me to have a look at the collection?"
Mike tore his gaze from the paper towel place mat he'd been playing with. "Would you? I'd like to see every one of them go to a good home, but that just isn't practical. I've already called libraries within a hundred-mile radius; they aren't interested. Booksellers are my last hope before I resort to a Dumpster."
"Never say that word to a bookaholic," Tricia warned. "And yes, I'd love to have a look. But it'll have to be on a Sunday. That's the only day my shop has limited hours. What's best for you, morning or evening?"
"Morning. Campaigning has eaten a lot more of my time than I'd planned. I'm afraid I'm falling behind in my work with deadlines looming."
"How does nine o'clock this Sunday sound?"
"Perfect. I'll give you the address later."
A portly, fiftysomething man with a white plastic apron over a stained white T-shirt and a paper butcher's cap covering his balding head approached the table and plopped down a couple of bottles: a Squamscot black cherry soda and a straw for her, and a bottle of Geary's pale ale for Mike. Retrieving a church key from a chain on his belt, he opened Mike's beer. "Be right back with your soup," he grunted.
"Ed?" Tricia guessed.
Mike laughed. "You got it. He's a client of mine. Saved him a lot of money when I took over his insurance accounts. Let me know if you'd like me to take a look at your contracts. I'll bet I could offer you lower rates, too."
Always the salesman, she thought. "I'll consider it."
Mike took a swig of his beer and smacked his lips. "Great stuff."
Tricia wrestled with the cap on her bottle, before giving it up for Mike to open. Uncovering the straw, she popped it into the bottle and took a sip. "Oh, this is nice." She examined the label. "Ah, a local product."
Mike held up his beer in salute. "I think I've patronized every microbrewery in New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and Maine."
"A real pub crawler, eh?"
Mike dazzled her with another of his smiles. "In my youth. Those wild and carefree days are behind me now."
"But you never settled down."
"With a family? Not yet, but there's still time," he said and winked.
Tricia sipped her soda. A couple rose from a nearby table and walked in front of them to deposit their trash in a bin. The man's pants were slung low around his hips, exposing the top of his rear end and reminding her of the nudist tract in her purse. She'd meant to call other shop owners this morning but hadn't had time. She opened her purse and removed the leaflet. "Have you seen any of these around town?"
Mike took the paper and squinted at the text. Then he laughed. "This is a joke, right?"