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HARRY

If there was one question I’d heard a thousand times, it was this—

“Why haven’t you found yourself a nice wife yet? You’re such a wonderful man.”

I laughed off the question—as I had done a thousand times before—and climbed out from under old Mrs. Abernathy’s sink, stretching a few twitches and aches out of my bulky frame before wiping my wet hands down the front of my hardware store apron. “Well, the new strainer should stop the leak. I’ve also replaced the rubber gaskets and tightened the washers on the trap, so with any luck…” I turned the kitchen faucet, ran the water, and bent low to check the pipes underneath weren’t leaking at all. “There you go. Good as new.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” said Mrs. Abernathy. “I called Handy Andy, but he was too busy to come out. Something about a trip to Eau Claire to pick up some fancy tequila his son likes. Did you know Dean arrives back in town tomorrow? You know Dean, don’t you?”

At the very mention of Dean’s name, I anxiously twisted a crick out of my neck. “Yeah, I know Dean. I’ve been best friends with Andy since we were kids.”

Mrs. Abernathy didn’t seem to bother listening to my answer. “Of course you know Dean. The whole world knows Dean. I have a teenage granddaughter in Indianapolis who’s absolutely obsessed with him and his music. Apparently, she’s planning on having his babies.”

“Oh! Wow! I guess we all need goals in life.”

“I don’t blame her. He’s turned into something of a dreamboat, wouldn’t you say? He’s no longer that shy, skinny little boy who used to stand on Main Street Bridge playing his guitar and busking for pocket money.”

“No, he ain’t. Anyway, if there’s nothing more I can help you with, I best be on my way.”

“Oh, but of course.” Mrs. Abernathy picked her clip purse off the kitchen counter and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “Here, take this for your troubles.”

I waved a hand at the money. “No, please. I’m just happy to help.”

“But I insist.” With a mischievous wink, Mrs. Abernathy tucked the cash into the string of my apron as though I was a stripper.

“Oh! Well, thank you. But why don’t I just add it to your store tab.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. Just don’t spend it all at once,” she advised, sneaking a firm pat on my ass to seal the transaction.

I flinched, but Mrs. Abernathy didn’t seem to notice. A happy, faraway look came over her face. “You know, I once felt the same way my granddaughter feels about having a rock star’s babies. Not Dean, of course. No, I was madly in love with the great Liberace. What a ladies’ man he was. A real tiger, wouldn’t you say?”

Yikes, where was this going? “I should probably get out of your way now,” I said, quickly packing up my tools.

Mrs. Abernathy looked lost in happy thoughts. “All those rings of his,” she purred. “If only he’d have put one on my finger.”

“You have a lovely evening now, Mrs. Abernathy. I can see myself out.”

“The way he tinkled those keys. I’d have let him play ‘ Chopsticks ’ on me any day.”

She was still in the kitchen, romanticizing about Liberace’s tinkling fingers when I made my escape, quietly creeping to the front door—pausing by the hallstand to tuck the twenty-dollar bill under a porcelain figurine of a rosy-cheeked young boy stealing a kiss from a rosy-cheeked young girl—before making my hasty departure.

Outside the spring air was still warm even as the sun sank toward the west.

I piled my toolbox into the back of my truck, slipped off my apron and threw it onto the passenger seat, then climbed in behind the wheel and started the ignition before Mrs. Abernathy had time to realize I was gone.

There was no point heading back to the hardware store at this hour. I’d left Gage and Old Walt to close up shop and was more than happy to call it a day. Besides, it was Friday—among other things—which meant poker night with the boys at Andy’s. No doubt Andy had picked up the usual case of beer while he was out hunting for Dean’s new favorite tequila.

“Tequila? Really?” I mumbled to myself.

Since when did Dean drink tequila?

Not that I would know the answer to that. Dean was barely legal drinking age. It wasn’t as though Dean and I even had a chance to share a drink before fame swept him off to Los Angeles.

“Tequila, huh? I guess that’s what LA does to a guy.”

Me, I wasn’t a fan of tequila myself.

I was a simple man with simple tastes.

I liked my Budweiser with a chaser of beer nuts.

I dined on frozen pizza and Stagg Chili most nights.

And despite my best efforts to try and download Dean’s music on Spotify—which I had failed at spectacularly, accidentally erasing my Cloud account in the process, whatever the fuck that even was—I much preferred to listen to my collection of records from the seventies and eighties.

I liked to watch old detective movies starring Humphrey Bogart.

I read books nobody would have suspected, tear-jerkers by Nicholas Sparks and rags-to-riches romances by Judith Krantz and the kind of pulp-fiction paperbacks you find in the bargain bins of second-hand bookstores with their spines creased and their pages dog-eared.

Sometimes I imagined myself as the leading man in a spicy blockbuster by Jackie Collins or Nora Roberts.

Sometimes I kicked myself for being such a sappy fool and stayed up late working on the ledgers and invoices for the hardware store.

Sometimes I went to bed, wishing nothing more than to feel the warmth of someone beside me… to hear them whisper my name…

“Harry! Harry!”

What I heard was not a whisper.

As I turned onto Chestnut Drive, the voice calling to me snapped me out of my daydream.

Mrs. Dinkle had obviously spotted my truck from her front yard and was now bounding toward the curb to wave me down, her fluffy pink robe billowing and several curlers flailing about on her head.

I saw the alarm on her face and quickly pulled over and jumped out of the truck. “Mrs. Dinkle? What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

“No, it’s not.” Her voice was trembling, her legs unsteady.

I looked Mrs. Dinkle up and down to see whether she was hurt.

I glanced at the house, expecting to see smoke billowing from the windows.

I reached for the toolbox in back, ready to arm myself with a wrench and fight off any intruders that may have broken into the house.

Then, seemingly from the sky above, I heard the most forlorn— meow!

Mrs. Dinkle and I both looked up to see Binky, Mrs. Dinkle’s beloved ginger cat, dangling from a branch above our heads.

With a terrified whimper, Mrs. Dinkle clamped a knuckle between her teeth and began to cry.

“It’s okay, Binky’s gonna be just fine,” I reassured her. “I’ll save him.”

“But how?” She began to sob. “I don’t have a ladder and he’s at least six-stories high.” Binky was, in fact, no higher than the roof of a single-story house. “Binky’s gonna die!” she shrieked. “Please don’t let him die, he’s in the prime of his life!”

“Nobody’s gonna die today,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t regret what I was about to do. Stepping up to the trunk of the tree, I reached for the lower branches and hoisted myself up.

Above me, Binky howled.

Below me, Mrs. Dinkle wailed.

I grunted as I pulled myself higher up the tree, praying each branch would take my weight, edging ever closer to Binky.

“Hold on there, pal. I’m coming.”

I inched my way along the limb to which Binky was clinging. The cat seemed incapable of pulling himself to safety, instead dangling from the branch precariously, claws sliding slowly down the bark, about to fall until—

I shot my hand out.

I grabbed the scruff of his fluffy neck just as he lost his grip.

“Gotcha!”

Binky shrieked, startled and scared, but safe.

Below, Mrs. Dinkle clapped with excitement and cried with joy.

I slipped the stunned feline inside my jacket, then ever so carefully scaled my way back down the tree.

When I landed on terra firma, Mrs. Dinkle raced over and scooped the cat out of my jacket and into her arms. “Binky Dinkle, you naughty little thing, you gave Mommy the fright of her life! Oh Harry, how can I thank you?”

“It’s nothing,” I said, trying to subtly stretch out a pinched nerve or two. “I’m just glad he’s okay.”

“And I’m so glad you happened to drive past when you did. You’re a hero. So big and brave. How is it you haven’t found yourself a nice wife yet? If it wasn’t for Mr. Dinkle, I’d snap you up myself.” Her tone shifted discreetly. “He’s away on business at the moment, you know… Mr. Dinkle, that is. Would you like to come in for a drink?”

“Oh! Thank you, but I really should be going.” I took a step toward my truck.

“Are you sure? I’ve just opened a nice bottle of chardonnay. Seems a shame to drink it alone, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Thanks again, but I really have to go. You enjoy your wine.” I took two more steps toward the truck and waggled a finger playfully in Binky’s direction. “And you make sure you stay out of trouble, mister.”

Mrs. Dinkle took Binky’s paw in her hand and made him wave to me, saying in a baby voice, “I sure will, Harry. Thanks for saving my patootie!”

She kept waving the cat’s paw as I climbed into the truck and pulled away from the curb, grinning my farewells until Binky and Mrs. Dinkle were out of sight.

As I drove past the park, I caught the scent of jasmine from the trees down by the river. I realized I hadn’t had flowers in the house for years. Suddenly I was taken by the idea to buy a bouquet. After all it was kind of a special day.

I crossed Main Street Bridge then turned onto the promenade, pulling up in front of Bud’s Blooms which was still open… just. Out front Bud was emptying buckets and preparing to move the outdoor displays inside for the evening. “Hey Harry, how you doing?” he said with his always-sunshiny smile.

“I’m doing okay, you?”

“I can’t complain one iota. Spring is in the air, the flowers are blooming, and Pascal has promised to cook me some fancy French specialty for dinner. You ever tried something called ‘escargot’ before?”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to pronounce the ‘t’, and no I haven’t. Not sure I ever want to.” A shiver ran down my spine. Like I said before, I’m a guy of simple tastes. “You do know what escargot is, don’t you Bud?”

He shook his head, eyebrows arched with curiosity.

“Let me give you a hint. They come in a shell.”

Bud’s face lit up. “Like lobster? I love lobster. God, that Parisian pastry chef of mine sure knows how to spoil me.”

The puppy-love shimmer in Bud’s eyes was so sweet I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was about to be served up a plate full of snails. Something told me it wouldn’t matter anyway. Bud and Pascal had been together almost a year now and they still both walked around with a honeymoon glow about them. You couldn’t help but feel your heart swell at the sight of it, like a reminder that good things did happen to good people, that the world was still capable of conjuring up something hopeful and wonderful when it needed to. But by the same token, I pined for the day I might be lucky enough to experience it for myself.

“I should take some flowers over to Pascal’s tonight.” Bud’s eyes were already dancing excitedly. “And candles. I’ll take some candles in case things get romantic. And ice cream! I’ll pick up a tub of Clarry’s new Pink Champagne Sherbert. I can almost taste it now.” He licked his lips, then his nose caught a whiff of something else entirely. Like a truffle pig he sniffed his way down his sleeve and lifted one arm. “Woof! Note to self, I probably need to take a shower too. Do I smell to you?”

I raised both hands in surrender. “Not from where I’m standing, but let’s not get any closer just in case.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, I haven’t stopped talking since you pulled up. I’m sure you didn’t come here to listen to me yammer on. So, what can I do for you, Harry? You after some flowers? You got a hot date tonight? Don’t tell me, it’s Madeline Montgomery, the new math teacher at the school. Apparently, she moved here for a fresh start after her divorce. She seems lovely. And smart. And very polite.”

“Bud, the flowers aren’t for Madeline Montgomery. I’ve never even met Madeline Montgomery. The flowers are for me.”

“For you? ”

I gave a casual, one-shouldered shrug, intent on not making a big deal of it. “Sure, why not? I need a little color in the house, something to brighten things up.”

Bud smiled. “Then a bunch of flowers is exactly what you need. Why don’t you head on inside. Maggie can help you out while I keep packing things up out here.”

As I walked through the door of the flower shop, the bell dinged overhead, and Maggie looked up and beamed at the sight of me. “Harry, you great big beautiful lug! Come here and give me a hug, I wanna lick your face, you gigantic lollipop you!”

As Maggie dropped what she was doing—like, literally dropped a bunch of daisies and pruning scissors on the floor—and charged at me, I braced myself like a running back about to get pummeled, then grunted as she slammed into me, arms around me in a death squeeze and tongue lapping at the air, trying hard to reach my face.

I craned my neck, head high as I laughed awkwardly. “Great to see you too, Maggie. Although I’m not really a lollipop. Now if you wouldn’t mind just… letting go of me… I think you’re about to crush one of my ribs… my God, you’re like an octopus.”

Maggie loosened her grip, and I managed to shake her off. “Sorry, I guess my sugar levels are low. I get a little light-headed and hangry if I don’t have one of Pascal’s chocolate croissants every hour… on the hour… along with a couple of strawberry macarons… and a custard éclair… and to make sure nothing gets stuck in my teeth it only makes sense to wash it all down with one of Clarry’s Creamy Cookie Malty Milkshakes.” Thunder rumbled. I looked to the windows and saw nothing but a clear sunset outside, then realized it wasn’t thunder at all but Maggie’s stomach. She gave an I told you so nod. “Like I said… low sugar levels. Dangerously low.”

I reached into my pocket. “I have some gum if that’ll help.”

Maggie huffed dejectedly. “Thanks, but what’s the point of chewing something you can’t swallow. If you ask me, gum is the cruelest joke of all. Worse than the one about the priest, the pastor, and the rabbit who walked into a bar.”

I felt sorry for her—slumped over and tummy rumbling—and took the bait. “So, what happened to the priest, the pastor, and the rabbit who walked into a bar?”

“The bartender asked the rabbit what he wanted to drink, but all the rabbit could do was shrug and say, ‘I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Blame auto correct.’”

I snorted a laugh. “That’s kinda funny.”

“I don’t get it at all. And what if the rabbit really needed a drink? If you ask me, it’s just ducking cruel.”

“I guess you don’t want any gum then.”

“No thanks. Besides, it gives me gas. It don’t matter how many pretty-smelling flowers are in this room with us. If Mount Maggie blows, she leaves no survivors.”

I blinked back this information. “Right. Well. Speaking of flowers, I was hoping to buy a bunch from you. Something nice and colorful to brighten up my place.”

Maggie gasped. “Oh my God! You’ve got a date. Is it Madeline Montgomery, the new history teacher at the school?”

“I thought she taught math.”

“So you are interested in her!”

“No, I’m not. I haven’t even met her.”

“You should. She seems lovely. And smart. And kinda hot! Oh yeah, she could help me out with my alge- bra any day.”

“Oh God! No! Maggie, the flowers aren’t for Madeline Montgomery. They’re for me.”

“For you? ”

I gave another casual, one-shouldered shrug, again intent on not making a big deal of it. “Sure. I was thinking something like…” I pointed randomly. “Those, over there.”

“Oh, you mean the, um, daffodillolilies. Yes. Nice choice.”

I gave her a quizzical look. “Daffodillo-what?”

“Daffodillolilies. I believe that’s their Latin name.”

“Really?”

“Are you questioning my expertise in plantology?”

“I don’t think ‘plantology’ is a word.”

“Says the guy who thinks the rabbit joke is funny.”

“What about those over there?”

“Ah, the chrysanthemummies. One of our biggest sellers. Believe it or not, they’ll stay in full bloom all the way through to next winter… and maybe even the next… and the next.”

“Seriously? A bunch of flowers can actually last that long?”

Maggie scoffed a laugh. “Well, obviously you need to put them in water first.”

“What about those?” I pointed to an especially beautiful bunch of yellow flowers. They reminded me of sunny days. They reminded me of warm spring nights. They reminded me of the color of his hair when he turned in a particular light, not that he even knew I was looking. “I’ll take those. They’re perfect!”

“Ah, the marigolden-girls. Beautiful this time of year, and perfect for those heading into the twilight of their life.”

I was about to pluck a bunch out of the bucket when Maggie’s words pretty much jarred my back. I pinched the base of my spine, straightened up and asked, “What do you mean, ‘the twilight of my life?’ Are you saying I’m getting old?”

Maggie blushed, embarrassed that she’d embarrassed me. “No, no, no! I didn’t mean you, you big old bear.”

“You literally just used the word ‘old.’”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes, Maggie. You just called me a ‘big old bear.’ You honestly think I’m old?”

“No! You look great for fifty.”

“I’m thirty-nine.” I checked my watch. “Still.”

“That’s what I said. You look great for thirty-nine… still. Now, what about those marigolden-girls, huh?”

While Maggie wrapped the flowers, I noticed the stand of greeting cards on the counter. My eyes lit up when I saw one with an illustration of a guitar on the front of it. I picked it out and saw the inside was a blank canvas. “I think I’ll take this card too, Maggie.”

“A card?” She eyed me suspiciously. “Are you sure these flowers aren’t for Madeline Montgomery?”

“I assure you, the flowers are not for Madeline.”

* * *

After I left Bud’s Blooms with my bunch of marigolden-girls in hand, I decided I might need more cheering up than I first expected on such a day. The irresistible aromas wafting over from Pascal’s Patisserie called to me.

“Ah, Harry! Bonjour! What can I get for you on this fine spring afternoon?” Pascal had changed since settling into Mulligan’s Mill. He was no longer the cynical, stubborn sourpuss he was when he first arrived. It seemed that Bud’s rays of sunshine had succeeded in melting the ice around Pascal’s heart. You could practically smell the love in his shop… or maybe it was all those mouth-watering tarts and cakes or even the range of savory pies he had started baking that had the whole town talking.

I was standing at the cake display, eyeing all the petite pastries and tantalizing French tarts indecisively. “It all looks so delicious, I’m not sure what I want.”

“Let me help. What are you in the mood for?”

“Something small, I guess. Just enough for one.”

“Feel like treating yourself, oui? Why not? We all deserve a sweet reward every now and then.”

“Actually, today is…” I thought twice about mentioning what today was.

Pascal looked at me quizzically. “Today is what?”

I gave an easy-going, one-shouldered shrug. “Today is a good day for one of your delicious pastries.”

Pascal beamed. “I couldn’t agree more. Why don’t you try a mille - feuille ? The crème patissiere is so light it could float on air, the puff pastry is so delicate it will crumble and melt in your mouth, and I think you’ll find it’s just right for one. Nobody wants to share a mille - feuille… something I constantly have to tell Bud. He always wants a little bite of mine… then another… then another… and before long, it’s all gone. Never mind, I still love him.”

“It’s kind of a nice problem to have,” I said. “Having someone you love eat all your dessert.”

Pascal smiled sweetly. “I suppose it is.”

“Bud tells me you two have a romantic dinner lined up for tonight, although I’m pretty certain he has no idea what escargot is.”

Pascal chuckled. “I’m sure his beautiful brown eyes will pop right out of that handsome head of his the moment I serve them up. But as soon as I tell him they’re an aphrodisiac, he’ll be licking his plate clean in no time.”

“I didn’t know escargot was some sort of love potion.”

Pascal shooed the idea away like a fly. “Oh please, they’re snails. Of course they’re not. But Bud doesn’t need to know that. Now,” he said, pulling a tray of mille - feuille from the display cabinet. “Are you intending to have your pastry here, or would you like it to -go?”

“I think I’ll save it for later tonight.”

“To -go it is.”