She waved my objection away. "I'm sure it will all get worked out. Agatha can't possibly have a claim on the property."
"I wish it weren't so, but I think she may. Loretta and I did a really simple real estate transaction, and I don't think we did a title search," I told her.
"Oof," she said, wincing a little.
"Yeah. I'm hoping Nicholas can help me figure it out; I can't afford an attorney, but I thought maybe if I took him to lunch he could give me a cursory professional opinion."
"For old time's sake, you mean?" she said with a half-smile. "He's still pretty cute, you know."
"I did notice," I confirmed.
"And single."
"He mentioned that," I said. "But it's too soon for me to think about dating. I'm not ready to jump back into something else just yet, you know?"
She shrugged. "A few dates won't hurt. Help shake off the cobwebs. After all, your ex showed up in tow last night."
I groaned. "Don't remind me."
"With his girlfriend. The author. Did you know they were together?"
"I had no idea," I said. "But apparently, he's told her everything he knows about me, including my favorite foods. It's a little disconcerting."
"I'll bet," she said, brown eyes dancing. Except for her hair color, she hadn't changed much. She still had the same engaging smile, the same slight build, and the kind of energy that always made me think of Tigger.
"But enough about me," I said. "Didn't you say you were bringing scones or something?"
"And coffee," she said, holding up a carton with two paper cups and a pastry bag. "Where should we sit?"
"There's no one in the store, so let's go out to the porch."
"Sounds like a plan," she said, and I followed her back out the door to the front of the store, taking a deep breath and wondering once again at the difference between the diesel-scented air of Boston and Snug Harbor's salty, pine-tinged breezes.
"I do love it here," I said as she handed me a cup and I sat down on one of the rockers.
"Well, then, we just have to make sure you stay," she said. "Last night's receipts must have been good."
"They were," I said. "But tell me about you."
"Oh, not much to tell," she said, pulling two enormous blueberry muffins out of the bag and handing one to me. As she spoke, I took a big bite, and just about swooned. Sweet, moist blueberries, soft, slightly tangy muffin, and crystallized sugar that added a sweet blast of crunch.
"These are amazing," I told her.
"You think?" She smiled. "It's my recipe; I've been working on it for years. We just started selling them."
"I'll take all of them," I said, and she laughed. "But I didn't mean to interrupt; tell me more.”
She took a big bite of muffin herself first, and when she'd swallowed, she took a swig of coffee and gave me the short version. "I went to school for a couple of years, got an English degree. Spent some time in New York City and L.A., trying out some corporate jobs, but I missed Snug Harbor, so I came home. I manage the coffee shop now, but my dream is to own a shop of my own.”
"It was the same way for me in Boston," I said. "Although I hadn’t realized I wanted to own my own shop until Ellie—my manager—suggested I look into Seaside Cottage Books. She couldn't make it to the opening, but she's going to come up this week on her day off."
"I can't wait to meet her," Denise said. "What made you decide to go for it?"
"Ellie offered me an assistant manager position in Boston, but there was no way I could afford rent with the salary. And Loretta and I came up with something I could manage—barely— so I went for it."
"Good for you," she said. "You're an inspiration. How are you with the whole... divorce thing?" she asked, compassion in her eyes. "It must have been hard seeing your ex with someone else so soon."
"It's fresh," I admitted. "It's still sinking in."
"I'm sure the grief will still come, at the most unexpected moments. But I know it will get better." She reached out to grasp my hand as the tears rose to my eyes. We hadn't seen each other in years, but despite everything that had happened in the interim decades, it was as if that day on the playground had been just a few days ago.
"Thanks," I said in a husky voice, and swiped at my eyes. "Whatever happened to Donny Knee, anyway? Do you know?"
"He still lives with his parents and works down at the library," she said. "He's part of the town; we all look out for him."
"Life as it should be," I said. As I spoke, a woman with a purposeful stride and an unpleasant set to her mouth stopped at the end of the walkway and marched up the front walk.
"Is that Agatha Satterthwaite?" Denise asked under her breath.
"I have no idea," I said. "I've never met her."
"It is," she confirmed as the woman came closer. "Gird your loins. She looks like she's spoiling for a fight."
The woman stopped a few yards from the store. Her eyes swept over it with a proprietary air, then came to rest first on Denise, and then me. As I sipped my coffee, she marched up to the porch and put her hands on her hips. "You're Maxine Sayers," she announced. She wore boots, a long black skirt, and a gray blouse that buttoned all the way up to her chin and was covered with a lint-specked cardigan; something about her reminded me of a visitor from the late 1800s.
"I'm Max," I confirmed.
"I
