Upon a Mystic Tide by Vicki Hinze Page A

Johnson, the baseball-capped mayor who owned The Store across the street from the cafe; Jimmy Goodson, the lanky, young, and shy mechanic who had been orphaned long ago, and who Bess already had met at Seascape. Miss Hattie clearly was very fond of Jimmy. The incredibly handsome Pastor Brown, whose single marital status Miss Hattie had pointed out twice, so far; and Sheriff Leroy Cobb, the bear of a man who sat at the bar and, along with his coffee, indulged in a slice of Lucy’s blueberry pie that, in Bess’s book, qualified as a slab. Sheriff Cobb, Miss Hattie explained, had grown up there and was now the county sheriff. But wherever his duties took him, he made it his business to drop by the Blue Moon Cafe every afternoon for pie, coffee, and lively conversation.
    Trying to keep everyone’s identity straight had Bess’s head swimming. Finally, she gave up. Hearty and generous-natured, the villagers would tolerate any mistakes an outsider might make.
    Even without Miss Hattie’s insight, Bess would have recognized the postage stamp-size cafe as the village hub. It was small, but alive with conversation, laughter, and music. Garth Brooks, via the old jukebox on the far wall, belted out a song about thunder rolling. Its vibrations rocked together the seashells and starfish inside fishnets, hanging from the walls. A partition made of boat oars blocked the view of the kitchen, but someone in there—sounded like a teenage girl—sang along. Lucy Baker, a jean-clad, thirtyish redhead wearing a T-shirt with “I’m Not Old, I Just Need Repotting” emblazoned across the front, snapped her gum and buzzed table to table, refilling mugs of hot coffee from a carafe in one hand, and glasses of iced tea from a pitcher held in the other. The succulent smell of lobster drifted up from Bess’s plate. It had been divine, as Lucy had assured her it would be. Must be true about the deeper, colder water making Maine’s lobster the best.
    “Isn’t it wonderful, about Tyler and Maggie and the baby? I can hardly wait for November.” Miss Hattie sipped from her cup of steaming hot tea, her eyes shining her delight.
    “Yes, it is.” Secretly, Bess hoped she’d be asked to be the baby’s godmother. With her and John divorcing, godmother likely would be as close as she’d ever come to having a child of her own. A little ripple of sadness slid through her chest. Well, at least T. J. and Maggie were happy. And Miss Hattie clearly took their well-being into her heart. That had Bess smiling at the dear soul. Since Bess’s arrival, Miss Hattie, with her kind and gentle ways, her forever-mussed apron and floral dresses and her soft white, bunned hair, had hovered over, nurtured and pampered and spoiled Bess rotten, acting as if it were her personal responsibility to make Bess welcome and happy.
    She’d half-succeeded. Never, including during her childhood, had Bess felt so welcome or comfortable anywhere as she did at Seascape Inn. The house itself seemed to open its arms and cradle her. Strange to imagine until she’d experienced it firsthand, but it felt as a home should feel, though none in Bess’s experience ever had.
    She let her gaze drift to the front door. A birdlike woman rushed in from the storm and tilted back her chin to look around. “Leroy Cobb,” she said, her voice high-pitched and tinny, her eyes narrowing. “I knew I’d find you here.”
    Clad in a wet yellow slicker and floppy hat, she stomped from the door to the bar, dripping a trail of her path onto the wood-plank floor. Standing beside the sheriff’s stool, she shook her finger at his reddened face. “You ought to have more respect for your elders than to make them run after you in this kind of weather, young man. I told your mama back when you were a boy that she needed to—”
    “I’m sorry, Miss Favish,” he interrupted, looking as if he wished he could crawl under the bar to get away from her.
    Bess cocked her head. Amusing, considering he was thrice