Page 6 of The Nook for Brooks (Mulligan’s Mill #6)

CODY

I checked my compass out of habit.

It pointed to “you’re in the right place.”

Yep, not only did the needle point to the usual north, south, east, and west, but inscribed on the face were little messages like “you’re in the right place,” and “maybe backtrack a little,” and “chalk this up to bad timing.” It was kind of like the fortune cookie of compasses, something that offered both advice and direction.

I’d found it in a bazaar in Oman, and despite the gimmick, it had actually got me through more scrapes than I could count.

As I walked away from the steps of Benji and Bastian’s BnB, ready to properly explore Mulligan’s Mill, the heat from the sun took me by surprise.

Wisconsin in summer wasn’t supposed to feel like Queensland in January, but here I was, already sweating through my shirt before I’d even got to the end of the block. I should’ve filled my water bottle back at the BnB. Rookie move.

Before me, the town spread out neat as a pin.

Porch swings creaked in the breeze, flowerboxes spilled over with geraniums and petunias, and shopfront windows were so polished I could see my own sweaty mug staring back at me.

There was, unexpectedly, one exception to the postcard-perfect look. And of course, I was instantly drawn to it.

Raven’s General Store looked like it had been there since the dawn of time, porch boards groaning as I walked up to the front door, windows displays jammed with everything from tins of beans to fishing lures that looked like sick parrots. “Jesus, what’s in that river?” I muttered to myself.

I opened the door with caution and curiosity.

Inside, the air smelled of leather, dust, and jerky so old it probably arrived on the first canoe into town.

Shelves were stacked with snowshoes and wind-up radios and dreamcatchers and jars of pickled…

things! There were toasters and hot-water bottles and kerosene lamps and powdered milk in battered tins.

There was a set of salt and pepper shakers shaped like squirrels, knitted tea cozies shaped like owls, and a fondue pot that may or may not have been used before.

I was in kitsch heaven.

And to top it all off, behind the counter sat a man who could’ve been carved straight out of the timber holding up the place.

He had long black hair with silver streaks, braided neatly, and his face was lined but sharp, eyes dark and steady. He looked at me the way a hawk looks at a rabbit—no rush, no fuss, but I knew he’d already sized me up.

“Hot out,” he said, his voice as flat as his gaze. “You look like you need a bottle of water.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

He tilted his chin toward a crate by the counter. The bottles inside looked like they’d been stacked there since last summer. I crouched, grabbed one, and dropped it on the counter with a clunk.

“Good news. It’s your lucky day, my friend. Two dollars for the first bottle, and because I like you, I’ll let you have the second one for only three.”

I laughed. “Mate, that’s not how bulk buying works.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself, but if you pass out in the street, I’ll charge extra to drag you back inside.”

I laughed again, cracked the lid, and downed half the bottle in one go. It tasted good, even if it was lukewarm with the faint hint of plastic. “You always been this good at salesmanship?”

“Are you kidding? I’m just getting started.” He reached under the counter and thunked a jar of jerky between us. “Tell you what. Buy another bottle and I’ll throw in a free sample of elk jerky. Well… half the jar is free. The other half is the usual retail price.”

He opened the lid, and I peered into the jar. The strips of meat looked so dry they could’ve doubled as roof shingles. “Mate, that’s not jerky, that’s a choking hazard.”

“Good for the jaw muscles,” he said without missing a beat. “Strong jaw, strong man.”

“It’s gray. Is it supposed to be gray?”

He pushed the jar closer. “You buy two bottles, I’ll even throw in a toothpick. On the house.”

“That’s your idea of a deal?”

“Best in town. Nobody else is giving away toothpicks today.”

I couldn’t help but grin. “You always upsell like this?”

“Only when the universe tells me to.” His voice went soft, his eyes steady on me. “Universe tells me you’re the kind of fella who’ll buy something he doesn’t need, just to prove he’s not scared of what comes with it.”

That stopped me mid-swallow from my bottle of water. A second ago, we were haggling over jerky, now I felt like I was being read like an open book. I made a mental note for my article: jerky philosophy, worth more than the meat itself.

I slid the jar back toward him. “Thanks mate, but I’m not really a jerky fan anyway. Reckon I’ll stick with the water for now.”

He gave a small grunt, almost approval. “Smart man. My next offer involved diarrhea pills and a dozen rolls of toilet paper.”

I meandered along the park and crossed Main Street Bridge at an easy pace, leaning on the rail halfway just to take it in.

The river slid beneath me, blue and steady.

Sunlight flashed off the ripples, and I wondered if it froze over in winter.

Who knew? I certainly wouldn’t be here long enough to find out.

By the time I reached the other side my stomach had started to grumble. I’d skipped breakfast and wisely declined the jerky from the general store, but now I was bordering on starving.

Ahead, the smell of butter and sugar drifted out of a café painted in the colors of France. The sign on the awning read Pascal’s Patisserie —a place Benji and Bastian had mentioned—so I let my stomach make the decision.

Inside, glass display cases gleamed with croissants, éclairs, and tarts, all dusted and glazed within an inch of their lives. The air smelled sweet enough to give you cavities just by breathing. It was heavenly.

“Welcome, welcome!”

I looked up to find two waitstaff bearing down on me—a couple in their late fifties or early sixties, wearing matching aprons. They were both grinning like I’d just wandered into their living room, both talking at the same time.

“New in town?” they asked in unison. “We haven’t seen your face before.”

“Sit anywhere you like,” the woman said.

“But not that one,” added the man, pointing vaguely at a perfectly fine table. “That one wobbles.”

She nodded seriously. “Terrible table. Don’t trust it.”

“Nearly tipped soup right into Mrs. Roper’s lap last week.”

“Hot soup too!”

They both laughed like this was the funniest thing in the world, before the woman guided me toward a booth and handed me a menu. “Sit over here, dear. I’m Lonnie.”

“And I’m Ronnie,” said the man.

Then together, “We’ll be your waiters today.”

“Are you Benji’s parents?” I asked, realizing too late I was supposed to pretend I couldn’t speak English.

As soon as the words left my lips, the pair of them gasped.

“Yes, we are,” Lonnie said. She turned to Ronnie. “Sweetie, it would appear our reputation proceeds us.”

“I think you mean, it precedes you,” I said.

Ronnie and Lonnie ignored my correction and gasped again. “Is that an accent I detect?” Lonnie asked. “Where are you from, sweetie? No wait, let us guess.”

Instantly they both closed their eyes.

“Say something in your native tongue,” said Ronnie.

I looked at them both as they stood before me, eyes shut. “Um. Okay. G’day.”

“Oooooh, that’s a tough one,” said Ronnie.

“I think I know,” said Lonnie with a nod, eyes still shut. “Is it Ontario?”

“No.”

“Can we get a vowel?” asked Ronnie.

“There’s an A in my country’s name.”

“Oooooh, it’s on the tip of my tongue,” said Ronnie.

“I think I know,” said Lonnie confidently. “Is it Fiji?”

“There’s no A in Fiji.”

“Oh, you said A . I thought you said I .”

“It’s the accent, sweetie,” Ronnie told her. “It’s a tough one. Any other clues?”

“We have kangaroos where I’m from. And koalas. And the Sydney Opera House. And the Great Barrier Reef… where Nemo lives.”

Suddenly Lonnie jumped up and down like an excited gameshow contestant. “Oh, I know, I know, I know. It’s where the Hobbits are from! New Zealand.”

I shrugged, not that they could see. “Close enough.”

They opened their eyes and grinned triumphantly, taking a good look at me. Lonnie even leaned her elbows on the table, chin propped in her hands. “We don’t get New Zealanders in here very often.”

“Actually, I’m from Australia.”

“That’s part of New Zealand, right?” asked Ronnie.

“Not really.”

“Do you eat croissants back home?” Lonnie asked, still on the gameshow theme by gesturing her hand up and down the menu like she was presenting a set of overpriced luggage up for grabs.

I blinked. “Yeah. We’ve got bakeries.”

Ronnie slapped the table like I’d just cracked the DaVinci Code. “Hear that, Lon? They’ve got bakeries in Australia.”

“Yes, but are the croissants shaped the same there?” Lonnie asked. “I mean, do they make them upside down in Australia?”

“No, Lonnie. Gravity works the same way. They’re still shaped like croissants. You know… kinda like a pastry in the shape of a boomerang.” By now I kept glancing over at the display case, wondering if I was ever gonna get fed.

Ronnie nearly doubled over laughing. “A boomerang croissant! That’s brilliant, Lon, we should pitch that to Pascal.”

She lit up like he’d just solved world hunger. “We’ll call it a buttered boomerang!”

I rubbed my stomach, which growled loud enough to join the conversation. “Can I just order something to eat?”

Lonnie pulled out her pad. “Of course, dear. What would you like?”

“Just a croissant would be great. Thanks.”

“You mean… buttered boomerang!” declared Ronnie.

They both burst out laughing, then hurried excitedly back to the kitchen, calling out to Pascal as they pushed through the swinging doors.

I left Pascal’s Patisserie licking flaky pastry crumbs from my fingers and wondering how soon was too soon to order another “buttered boomerang” without looking like a greedy emu.