LITMIR.BIZ

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was an apology for cancelling our dinner date last night. Valentine’s Day! I didn’t have the heart or energy to explain to Lola that I wasn’t sure if things were heating up or cooling down.

      Lola smiled knowingly. “Call me later. I want details.”

      I sneezed.

      “And take care of that cold.”

      This time of year, days ended by five o’clock. I watched Lola step into the dark, freezing night. “Good luck next door.” Lola was going to need more than luck to get the stage rotating.

      I sprayed the kitchen counters with a cleaner, removing all traces of the Swamp Yankee applesauce cake. “Need a ride?” I asked Sally, who was stacking mixing bowls in the pantry.

      “I left my car at the boarding house. I like to walk,” she said.

      “It’s starting to flurry. Pretty windy too,” I said.

      “I’m used to it.” I looked up from my wiping. Her pale complexion gave her a waif-like appearance. Not for the first time I noticed how extraordinary her eyes were: one brown and one hazel. Heterochromia iridium. I’d googled the condition the first time I’d met Sally.

      “I’m from Boston,” Sally said.

      “Right.”

      “Weather like this? Normal for winter. It has to be zero before Bostonians think it’s really cold.”

      “You never told me what brought you to New Jersey.”

      She hesitated. “I wanted a change in scenery.”

      “Sorry to be nosy. In Etonville everyone ends up knowing everyone else’s business,” I said.

      “So I gathered.” She laughed amiably.

      I realized I knew virtually nothing about Sally’s past except for the connection to my brother. He was a therapist, and I wondered if their relationship was that of doctor and patient. “Stay away from Snippets hair salon if you want to avoid town gossip. I call it rumor central.”

      Sally took off her apron. “I’ll be able to help with the hot cider and mulled wine.”

      “Great! Because the rest of the baking class will be busy getting skittish for opening night.”

      Sally and I finished up the kitchen. She slipped into a parka and tugged on her snow boots; I donned my own down jacket and turned out the lights.

      The sun had set. It was already dark and the streetlamps were shining. “See you later,” Sally said and turned to go. Then she froze and caught her breath, staring across the street.

      Barbie’s Craft Shoppe, one of the only businesses on Main Street open on Sunday, was closing up, lights were being flicked off and Barbie was hanging the Closed sign. On the sidewalk outside the store, two kids rolled snowballs and got set to throw them until their mother intervened and escorted them off. Nothing unusual as far as I could see.

      “Are you all right?” I asked.

      “I…uh…” she stuttered.

      I glanced back to see what had disturbed her. To the left of the shop, a man stood under the street light. Big, burly, filling out a camouflage coat, he wore a trapper hat with the ear flaps flipped up. A full beard sprouted out of a face that stared back at Sally.

      “Do you know him?”

      Then he opened his mouth as if about to shout something at us. Before he could say a word, an Etonville police cruiser, lights flashing, came to an abrupt stop in front of Barbie’s Craft Shoppe. Officer Ralph Ostrowski, an agreeable, semi-capable Etonville cop, who was usually assigned crowd control, jumped out. They talked briefly, then Ralph escorted him into the back seat of his squad car. They drove off, but not before the man twisted in his seat and pressed his face against the window, still gazing intently at Sally.

      She stuffed her hands in her pockets and backed up, looking around and checking our side of the street. Then she pulled the hood of her coat over her head. “I have to go,” she mumbled and ran off.

      “Sally?” I watched her leave. Despite the fact that I was warm inside my down jacket and scarf, I shivered. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood upright. My radar system giving me a warning: Something wasn’t right.

      Falling snow had sprinkled a light layer of powdery white stuff on all surfaces. I stuck out my tongue to catch the moisture. Reminded me of afternoons I shared with my little brother, Andy, on those rare occasions when it snowed down the shore. I cranked the engine of my red Metro, ninety thousand miles and counting, flipped on the windshield wipers to clear a patch of window, and set off down Main Street. Slowly. Carefully.

      My cell binged again. I pulled over to the shoulder and checked the text. It was Henry, owner/chef of the Windjammer reminding me that I had to do a freezer inventory first thing in the morning. He intended to add a few new cold-weather items to the menu, like roasted parsnip soup and a pasta-and-veggies dish.

      I eased back onto the roadway. Between the ice and wind chill—which could last anywhere from three months to five months in New Jersey—I was ready to flee to Florida where my parents resided. I could have moved there two years ago after Hurricane Sandy hit my Jersey Shore community and destroyed the restaurant where I worked, as well as my rented home. But I opted to go north across the Driscoll Bridge and ended up in Etonville, a stone’s throw from New York City, managing the Windjammer restaurant, soothing Henry’s feathers on a daily basis, riding shotgun on the staff, and providing support for Lola’s theater ventures. After all, she was my BFF and the leading diva of the ELT. And Bill was in Etonville…

      By the time I pulled into my driveway in the south end of town, a fresh coating of white covered tree branches, my small patch of front yard, and the walkway leading to my door. I stamped the snow off my boots, flung my jacket over a kitchen chair, and debated. Should I call Bill and listen to him apologize? He’d had a work conflict last night…I got it. But it was the third time in the last few weeks that he’d had to bow out of a dinner date. I sneezed, plucked a Kleenex from a box on the kitchen table, and blew my nose. When my high school boyfriend dumped me for my best friend two weeks before the prom, my great-aunt Maureen said: Dorothy dear, life is messy but love is messier. As usual she’d nailed it. Tonight I had to be content with the mystery novel and the hot buttered rum. I’d leave the mess for tomorrow.

      2

      I stuck my nose out from under my down comforter. The air was chilled and I peeked at my alarm: seven thirty a.m. Sun just risen. I had hours before I needed to be on duty at the Windjammer and snuggling under the covers for another thirty minutes felt good. My nasal passages were still slightly stuffed, but my throat was clear. I closed my eyes. The last bits of a dream played around the edges of my mind…something about the American Revolution. I was tramping through several feet of snow while eating burnt applesauce cake. Lola, Georgette, and Mildred stood on a rotating platform laughing at me. And someone else? Was it Sally? I closed my eyes and the image that popped up was not the wayward turntable but the heavily built outdoorsman who spooked Sally on Main Street last night. What was that about?

      A draft of cold air hit the house, startling me fully awake and rattling the window panes. I needed my landlord to re-caulk the glass. My bungalow wasn’t as large as my house down the shore, but its five, cheerfully painted rooms suited my lifestyle. Small enough to be cleaned on the fly; large enough to entertain a few friends, like Lola and my other my BFF, Carol Palmieri. Owner of Snippets Salon.

      I created my mental to-do list. Besides doing the inventory at the Windjammer this morning I had to order the supplies for the hot cider punch and—for those needing a touch of alcohol to make it through Walter’s reinvention of Our Town—the mulled wine. Which reminded me I needed to work out the staff schedule for the weekend. Benny, the Windjammer bartender and assistant manager, would be sharing closing duties with me on the nights of the show, while waitstaff Gillian and Carmen covered the dining room. Carmen’s husband, Enrico, was Henry’s sous-chef, and rarely stepped foot outside the kitchen.

      A

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