Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 95264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Dean doesn’t need help loading, especially not from a man who complains about his creaky, aching bones at least twice a day, but his mouth is too stuffed to say anything.
“I’ve got it. I need to salt the exterior.” The temperatures climbed long enough to melt snow before dropping below freezing again. It’ll be an ice rink out there and dangerous for potential customers. I pat my boss’s shoulder. “You stay in here where it’s warm.”
Ned shakes his head. “I’m one lucky son of a gun to have you here, Justine.”
“And don’t you forget it.” I grab my jacket off the hook. “I’ll meet you out back, Fanshaw. Don’t keep me waiting.” I flash a playful wink before strolling toward the loading dock, feeling Dean’s attention on my back the entire way.
“He needs to think about retiring. Enjoy his life while he can.” Dean’s powerful jean-clad thighs flex as he stands in his truck’s bed, shifting into position the small chest freezer he just lifted in. Scarlet says he’s too muscular. I disagree.
I hug my body to ward off the cold as I lean against the brick wall, admiring the view. “He’s mentioned it a few times, in passing.” Usually while he’s glowering at the sales reports. “I don’t think he can bring himself to do it yet. He likes the routine and seeing people every day. Plus, he has no one to take over.” His father opened Murphy’s seventy years ago and passed it on to Ned. But Ned and Trudy’s only son died tragically in a skiing accident at twenty-two years old. His Little League baseball pictures still grace the walls. “There is no one to keep the family legacy going.”
“I hate to say it, but maybe it’s time for the legacy to end.” Dean pauses to survey the back of the old brick building that is in sore need of a facelift. A rare somber expression fills his face. “Real estate on Main Street is worth a ton. He could make a killing on this location. And business is not gonna get better. I heard talk of more competition coming. Good luck finding anyone crazy enough to want to compete.”
A sour taste fills my mouth. According to Ned, ever since the west end of town exploded with new development, his revenue has dropped by forty percent. Sure, born-and-bred Polson Falls residents still show their loyalty and appreciation for his customer service, but the new families don’t hold the same nostalgia for the town’s history. They want a good deal, and they want it now.
I hate to admit it, but Dean’s right. Murphy’s days are numbered, regardless of having someone to pass it along to. “You know what’ll happen, right? This place’ll end up becoming another dental office.” I counted five when I was in search of one to fill a cavity. “Or a bubble tea shop.” I don’t have any skin in this game—I only moved here a few months ago, and I can’t see myself staying forever—but I know it’s Ned’s heart and soul, and that alone makes me want to see Murphy’s survive for years to come.
Dean grimaces. “I tried that bubble stuff once. Couldn’t stand the texture.”
A sly smile curls my lips. “Are you saying you don’t like the feel of balls on your tongue?” Sometimes he makes it too easy.
“Jeez, MacDermott.” He hops to the ground.
The back door to the butcher shop in the building next door creaks open. A lanky, bundled body emerges, dragging a bag of garbage toward the dumpster, sliding around in his customary white New Balance sneakers that offer no traction against the ice.
“Thank God you’re home. I’m in withdrawal!” I holler by way of greeting. I had a pleasant routine started, heading to Todd’s every day at lunch for a bowl of the daily soup and an earful of town gossip. But then Todd closed shop after Christmas with little warning to his customers or us—a move that stunned Ned.
Todd said he needed a rest.
The forty-five-year-old lifts his head to peer out from beneath his hood, showing off a tanned complexion. “Oh hey, Justine. Happy New Year!”
“Where’d you run off to?”
“Jamaica.”
Explains his chipper mood. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or better yet, take me with you? I thought we had a bond.”
“Uh … yeah, sorry, it was kind of a last-minute decision.” He laughs nervously. “I’ve got a pot simmering. Your favorite.”
“Potato bacon?” I mock whisper, though I’ll take anything that comes out of that magical vintage red Crock-Pot. His recipes have been passed down through generations, and they all have bacon—my kryptonite—in one form or another. They’re like nothing I’ve ever tasted. I’ve accused him on more than one occasion of sprinkling cocaine in to keep me coming back, because I’m addicted.
He grins. “I used the good stuff. Twice smoked, thick cut.”