“Yes, please.”
“I’m also happy to get some time in Traverse City. I haven’t been down there in months, and even then I didn’t have a chance to stop at the bookstores.”
“Bookstores?” His eyebrows went up. “What makes you think we’re going anywhere near downtown?”
Cold stole into me, all the way down to the marrow of my bones. “You said . . . I mean . . . I thought . . .” Just like that, my happiness vanished. No browsing at Horizon? No seeing what Brilliant Books was recommending? No checking to see what treasures the used bookstore, Bookie Joint, might happen to have?
Rafe grinned. “Breathe deep. I was just messing with you. We can spend all afternoon downtown if you want.”
I squiggled around and readjusted myself in my seat. “You are a horrible person,” I said comfortably, “and remember what they say about paybacks.”
“That’s what the school sends me twice a month, right?”
“I’m glad you’re not really as dumb as you sound.”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
I laughed, happy inside and out. An unexpected day with my boyfriend—what could be better?
• • •
Two hours later, I knew exactly what could be better. That the unexpected day would have included only ten minutes in a specialty wood store, not the hour it was starting to become. Ten minutes had been interesting; the different woods were pretty and learning what countries the exotics had traveled from was fascinating, but my mind started to wander when Rafe and the sales guy—Rafe’s new best friend—started talking about wood density and humidity factors. When I murmured that I wouldn’t go far, Rafe nodded and continued the conversation.
The store was located on the south side of Traverse City, past the car dealerships, past the big box stores, and even past the flooring stores. It was in a small strip mall, sharing its parking lot with a Chinese takeout and a nail salon. Since the nail salon interested me as much as the wood store did, I ambled over to the restaurant in hopes of seeing a menu stuck up somewhere.
Wind blew and snow swirled, but I was in the mood to be fearless, so braving the cold for nearly fifty feet didn’t faze me a bit. There was indeed a menu taped to the door. I peered at the selections, wondering if eleven o’clock was too early to be thinking about lunch, when a truck door slammed shut.
I turned and saw Land Aprelle, handyman to Rowan, kicking the snow out of his truck’s wheel wells. With that streak of white hair, he was easy to spot in a crowd.
“Good morning, Land,” I called.
He spun around. “Minnie. What are you doing here?”
“No idea, to tell you the truth. I’m waiting for Rafe.” I paused, suddenly unsure. “You know Rafe Niswander, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Land glanced at the store, then back at me. “I, uh, just stopped to clear the snow out of my truck. It was jamming up the suspension and making a vibration to beat the band, and I know this parking lot is usually empty, so I stopped. Just for a second. I’m going now. See you around, okay?”
As Land’s truck sped back out onto the highway, Rafe came outside. “Wasn’t that Land Aprelle? Why didn’t he come in?”
“I have no idea,” I said slowly. “He was acting very strange.”
“How can you tell?” Rafe clicked his SUV unlocked and we climbed in. “Land can be a pretty strange guy at the best of times.”
“Sure, but he was talking.”
Rafe, who was buckling his seat belt, paused mid-buckle. “Talking?”
I nodded. “A lot.”
Rafe looked over his shoulder, but Land’s truck was long gone. “Maybe it was his long-lost identical twin brother, who dyed his hair just like . . . okay, maybe not.” He looked at my expression and grinned. “Okay, almost certainly not. But really? A loquacious Land makes you wonder about the end of the world.”
I wondered, too. But I was wondering if Land’s odd behavior had something to do with Rowan’s death, and even the heady odor of books in the bookstores that Rafe and I, hand in hand, happily traipsed through that afternoon didn’t quite dispel my questions.
Chapter 10
Sunday morning I looked at my best friend, who was sitting to my immediate left. “This was an excellent idea.”
“Told you,” Kristen said. “Why don’t you ever listen to me?”
“Because sometimes your ideas are horrible.”
“Like when?” she challenged.
I snorted. “Do you really want to talk about the jumping-off-the-roof-of-your-house-onto-the-leaf-pile idea?”
“And I still say it would have been fine. My mom overreacts.”
The two of us were sitting side by side on a Nub’s Nob chairlift with our feet, boots, and skis dangling, on our way to the top of the ski hill. It was the kind of winter day skiers dreamed of—blue skies, no wind, twenty degrees—and having to spend this day inside working on wedding details would have been painful.
Not that I was a Real Skier. I was happy to ski on the blue runs, the ones marked for intermediate skiers, and I didn’t care if I ever got good enough to do the steepest hills.
Kristen was a much better skier than I was, having grown up in a family of downhillers, and she’d been on the high school ski team. But that had been years ago, and now she wiggled her mittens, eyeing them critically. “My fingers are getting cold.”
“Not possible,” I said. “You have three sets of hand warmers in there. And you’re wearing those incredibly expensive heated electric socks I borrowed from Donna.” This was in addition to the multiple layers underneath the warmest coat we’d found in my aunt’s closet.
“Getting cold,” she said again as we off-loaded at the top. “We need to go in.”
I wanted to protest, but a cold Kristen was a cranky Kristen, and besides, we really needed to work on wedding stuff. Saturday had been marginally productive, but there was a lot more to do and the weight of it was starting to make me a tiny bit nervous. We swooshed our way down, Kristen fast and elegant, me trailing behind slow and choppy.
When I reached the bottom, Kristen had already taken off her equipment and was slinging her skis up onto her shoulder. I took a final turn to get around a man and a woman walking toward the ski lift. Though they were carrying rental skis—usually an indication of novice ability—they looked comfortable with the equipment.
Something about them was familiar, but it wasn’t until the woman said, “New series. Snow scenes without any shades of blue,” that I realized who it was. And why I didn’t recognize them in ski clothes.
“Barb!” I called. “Cade! What are you two doing in Michigan?”
Russell McCade whirled and grinned. “Why, if it isn’t our favorite bookmobile librarian!”
As I was the only bookmobile librarian they knew, I ignored the comment as I gracelessly ski-skated over to the couple. “I didn’t know you two were skiers. And why didn’t you tell me you were in town?”
Barb and Cade, both on the far side of fifty and neither one looking it, summered on Five Mile Lake and wintered in Arizona. Cade made a mint of money through his paintings, works that his fans loved and that the critics called sentimental schlock.
I’d always loved his work and had been thrilled to learn that he and his wife had a summer place Up North, but we hadn’t crossed paths until he’d needed a quick ride to the hospital and the bookmobile had been handy.
“The snowbirds are flocking together,” I said, smiling. “Kristen’s up for the weekend to do wedding planning.” I looked back at the ski rack. “She was here a minute ago. I’m sure she’ll want to say hello. Where on—”
A short and sharp shriek startled all of us. But I was on the move instantly, because it was Kristen’s voice, and she was calling my name.
With the points of my poles I jabbed at my bindings, unlocking them, and left my skis lying in the snow. “Kristen!” I shouted, running as well as anyone could in boots with soles that were stiff as boards. “Where are you?” Reaching the parking lot, I looked left and right. Since it was a Sunday, there were dozens of people wandering around, and they were all starting to gather around the back of my car.