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)
Can this day get any worse?
“Pretend you didn’t hear her,” I say.
Mom cuts me a glare before smiling wide and waving. “Hi, Rae!”
I groan inwardly. Of course, that’s the right move—Rae had no part in her father’s treachery. With a deep inhale, I peer over my shoulder. The six-year-old is perched on Bill’s arm, held high enough to glimpse the display case. My heart softens for a few beats as I smile at the little girl, her pigtails poking out of a pink knit cap, before it hardens again for the man holding her.
At least Bill has the decency to look uncomfortable, wincing as he casts a smile my way. His lips move almost imperceptibly—a curse, no doubt; he’s worried I’m going to cause a scene—as his shifty gaze flickers over to his partner in crime.
She’s biting her bottom lip as she watches the exchange.
She knew about me.
She damn well knew what part she was playing in all of it.
“Excuse me, ma’am, have you decided on your flavors, or should I move on to someone who’s ready?” the server behind the counter asks, raising her voice a touch, nodding at the line of people waiting behind us in this sweaty, rammed hellhole.
The one helping Bastard Bill is closing up his box, which means he’ll be leaving shortly. The absolute last thing I want to do is run into him on the sidewalk. I need to stall.
“We’ll take one of everything, please,” I order as calmly as possible.
The worker tips her head in disbelief. “Everything?”
“Justine!” Mom’s mouth gapes as she surveys the display cases in horror. Beyond the cannoli is a vast selection of cookies and other delectable pastries.
I plaster on a saccharine smile. “You should get a bigger box.”
Chapter Two
“Did you hear anything about that order for the Simpsons?” Ned calls out, his focus on his daily crossword puzzle, his light Scottish brogue laden with skepticism.
“Uh-huh,” I answer around a mouthful of amaretto cannoli.
“Oh?” He peers over his reading glasses. We’ve been chasing after the company’s distribution center for a week since they missed the original delivery date. “Good news, I hope?”
A nod is all I can manage while I struggle to chew.
“You know, you could always take smaller bites.”
I finally swallow. “Where’s the fun in that?” Mom sent me back to Polson Falls with everything from Sam’s Pastry she couldn’t freeze. My expensive plan worked—I avoided a direct run-in with Bastard Bill—but I may die from a ricotta overdose before the week is through. “Here. Help me out.” I hold the Tupperware container toward Ned.
“Oh no, I’ve had two.” He pats his trim belly. The man is tiny—only a few inches taller than me, and slight in stature, perpetually drowning in his winter coat. I worry he isn’t eating enough. “So, the fridge? What’s the scoop?”
“It’s on its way.”
“Is it certain, though? I can’t tell Josie that if it’s not certain.”
“Oh, it’s certain.” By my fourth call—and my promise to call every hour on the hour until I had an ETA—the girl got off her ass and tracked down the exact location. “The fridge is on a truck from Pittsburgh as we speak. I got the truck number, the driver’s name and cell number, his underwear size—”
Ned snorts.
“Delivery is set for tomorrow morning.”
His shoulders sink with relief. “Thank goodness. They’ve been waiting an awful long time for that thing. Josie was none too happy with me when she called.”
Josie Simpson is lucky she didn’t physically come into the store to chew Ned’s ear off, or I might have returned the favor. I’ve only known Ned for about six weeks, but I’ve grown protective of him. “Hey, you warned her. She could have had any of those”—I gesture toward the row of floor models that fill the back right corner of Murphy’s—“within days, but no, she had to have the fancy special-order retro fridge, and that means waiting.”
“I suppose.” More quietly, and bitterly, Ned adds, “Bet they wouldn’t give Home Depot the runaround.”
“Nah.” I wave off his grumbling, though I can’t say the distributor would leave a big-box store hanging like they did us. Murphy’s Appliances may be a staple family business in Polson Falls, but it doesn’t bring in a fraction of the revenue that one of those big chains does. That, coupled with higher prices because we can’t negotiate the same bulk discounts, and any talk about our competitors leaves my kindly old boss in a bitter mood. “Bet Home Depot doesn’t send out Christmas cards and shortbread every year.” A tradition his late wife Trudy always took care of until her passing last year. My first weekend as a Murphy’s employee was spent in Ned’s kitchen, elbow deep in butter and flour.
The door chimes, announcing a customer, the first one today.
I spin on my heels, ready to greet the newcomer, until I see the hulking man sauntering along the aisle, his snow-covered boots leaving tracks on the runner. “Oh, it’s you.”