“When you hear a thud, come running.”
There were many things I didn’t understand about Rafe Niswander; his penchant for working so hard on his house was just one more. I called a good-bye and walked the last few yards to the marina, but when I made the final turn toward my dock, I stopped short in surprise.
When I’d headed out for my walk, the berth to the right of my adorable little houseboat was empty. Now it was filled with a sleek cruiser half again as wide as my boat and almost twice as long. Chris had said I’d be getting a new neighbor, but I hadn’t thought it would be so soon.
I eyed the boat’s insignia. Well, at least it was a Crown, which meant it was designed and built right here in Chilson. And it wasn’t nearly the size of the boat that had berthed in that slip the last few years. What remained to be seen was if the new folks would turn out to be friends, like my left-hand neighbors Louisa and Ted Axford, or if they would turn out to be more like what Gunnar Olson had been. I didn’t even know which to hope for, since my cut-rate slip fee more or less depended on the new guy being a jerk.
“Nice night, isn’t it?”
I spun around and looked up at a fortyish man. In the light cast by the marina lights, I could see that he was wearing shorts, running shoes, and a Wayne State University sweatshirt that had seen better days. He also had untidy brown hair, an easy smile, and was high on the one-to-ten scale of hotness. Not a ten, I wouldn’t award that to anyone who wasn’t an angel descended from heaven, but certainly a solid eight.
“Hi,” I said. “Minnie Hamilton. That’s mine.” I gestured at my slip and steeled myself for the inevitable smirk.
He introduced himself as Eric Apney, then nodded at my summer home. “Nice,” he said. “I’ve always had a thing for houseboats. Yours looks handcrafted. Did you do it yourself?”
Aunt Frances could have done it in a winter, but my woodworking skills were more in the paint-what-Aunt-Frances-made category. Still, I was pleased that my new neighbor had assumed I was that capable and mentally slid him into the Friend side of the aisle. I told him I’d purchased it from a local couple who’d since moved to Florida.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Grand Rapids. My family has summered in the area for more than fifty years and I love it up here. I don’t want to take care of another house, but you don’t have to snowplow a boat’s driveway.” He grinned.
Smiling back, I asked, “And your wife? Has she spent much time in Chilson?”
“No wife,” he said. “Divorced years ago, and never got around to marrying again.”
We chatted a little more, then went our separate ways. But as I got myself ready for bed, which consisted mostly in brushing my teeth and moving Eddie to the side of the bed instead of the exact middle, I kept thinking one thing: Hmm. It was too soon after my breakup with Tucker to think about dating, but still . . . hmm.
Just as I was sliding between the sheets, maneuvering myself around Eddie, who’d edged back toward the center, my cell phone rang.
I picked it up off the small chest of drawers that served as my nightstand and looked at the screen. “No idea who this is,” I said to Eddie. “Looks like a corporate name. And I don’t even recognize the area code. What do you think, should I answer?” I was starting to put the phone back down when Eddie picked up his head and stared at me.
“Okay, fine,” I grumbled. “But if it’s a telemarketer, you don’t get any treats for a week.” I thumbed on the call. “Hello?”
“Minnie, my dearest, my beloved, my most treasured of all bookmobile librarians, how are you this evening?”
Grinning, I sat up and pulled my knees to my chest. “Trock, my most favorite of all the celebrity chefs I have ever met in my life, I am just wonderful. How are you?” I’d met Trock Farrand, host of Trock’s Troubles, last summer and was still reeling from the force of his personality.
“I am,” Trock said cheerfully, “in the depths of despair.”
“You are?”
“I am. And it’s all your fault, dear one.”
“Oh?” I reached out to pet Eddie, who began a low rumbling purr. “How’s that?”
“Because I heard through the grapevine—a very twisted one, mind you—that you are in difficulties and that you did not call me for assistance.”
I frowned. “What difficulty? I haven’t been in the kitchen for a week.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but it was the point that mattered when conversing with Trock, not the details.
“Your library’s book fair, my sweet. That last-minute cancellation from the erudite Ross Weaver.”
“You know Ross Weaver?” Maybe everyone did, except me.
“But of course.” He chuckled, and I could almost see the big man’s round face all puffed up with laughter. “It’s New York, Minnie dear. The biggest small town in the world. Besides, we share a publisher.”
“A . . . publisher?”
“Dear, dear girl. Didn’t you know I was coming out with a cookbook? Yes, I resisted the lure of publication for years, so much work, you see, but I was finally convinced to assemble a collection of my favorite recipes. Delectable, every single one, and the pictures are exquisite.”
“Sounds nice,” I said.
Trock tsked at me. “You are not getting the point, my curly-haired young friend. My cookbook was released this week. And I will fly to your tiny little airport on Friday so I can appear at your book fair on the a.m. of Saturday.”
My mouth got stuck half-open. The only noises that came out of me were odd squeaky ones that made Eddie pick his head all the way up off the comforter and look around.
“Is that an acceptable solution to your difficulty, Ms. Hamilton?” Trock asked.
I sniffed. “That’s . . . that’s . . .” Sniff. “That’s wonderful. You’re wonderful. But I can’t let you. It’s too much. It’s too far to fly for a little book fair. I can’t let you spend that kind of money.”
“Ha.” He scoffed. “My son tells me I’m made of money. And if money can’t help me do a favor for a friend, what good is it?”
Sniff. “None, I guess. Trock, you’re—”
“Indebted to you for many reasons,” he said gruffly. “And stop blubbering. It’s unlike you, and far, far worse, it’s making me uncomfortable.”
Which made me laugh. I gave him the details of the event, asked how many books he could bring, asked if he had anything special he wanted us to provide, thanked him again, and ended the call. Then I jumped out of bed.
“Mrr?” asked a sleepy Eddie.
“Sorry, pal,” I said, grabbing my laptop from the other bed and turning it on. There were Facebook posts to make and a press release to write and e-mails to send and an emergency flyer to convince Pam to create.
“This is going to be great,” I murmured. Trock hardly ever made public appearances in Chilson; it was his vacation home and he didn’t like to tape there unless the show’s schedule demanded it. To have him volunteer to attend the book fair—in the off-season, no less—made it even more of a special event.
The book fair was a go. “It’s clear sailing from here on out,” I told Eddie. “Nothing else could possibly go wrong.”
I really should have known better.
Chapter 16
The next morning I woke up to sunshine.
“Which is the best way to start the day,” I said to my unmoving feline friend. But his inactive state was understandable because slightly over half of his body was lying inside the sunshine and nothing short of an irresistible force was going to get him to relocate.
And since I had the morning off, nothing short of an immovable object was going to keep me from heading off into the wild blue yonder and checking out the timing on a couple of new bookmobile routes.