“There’s quiet, and then there’s tree frogs in the trees quiet.”
“Freaking you out?”
Archer gave me a sidelong look. “Maybe. Maybe if you had someone to distract you.”
“Don’t start that shit again.” I shifted in my seat and looked out the passenger window at the shops on Main.
“You know I’m not the settling down type, but you are a different animal. You never really liked the hook up life, Dev.”
The days I’d been the Devil of New York felt like a million years ago.
“And what the hell are you going to do out here once the house is done?”
“What’s with the deep dive?”
Archer shrugged. “I’ve seen your blueprints. Eventually, there’s going to come a point where you don’t have a room to remodel.”
“That won’t be for a good long time. At least not at the rate it’s going.”
“Excuses, Dev. You have three acres. You could at least make yourself a studio.”
“That’s over.”
“You keep saying that, but I don’t believe you.”
“Drop it, Archer.”
He sighed. “Fine. But don’t call me when you’re walking around that big house in the middle of the night like some Victorian bride who lost her man at sea.”
I glanced at him. “That’s oddly specific.”
He colored. “I may have found a diary in the floorboards of the Widow’s Walk.”
“You what?”
“I know. It was waterlogged, but I found it jammed in a hollowed-out space when I was taking measurements.”
“Now you sound like Dahlia. I suppose you’ve seen Harriette too?”
“Not yet, dammit.”
Hmm. That was interesting. Usually when we got close to anything that belonged to Harriette, there was some crazy poltergeist action. Not that I ever said that word aloud, but what the hell else could you call it?
Archer backed into a space in front of the park. There were a helluva lot of people out tonight in Crescent Cove. As we got out of the truck, I noticed the tents and food trucks lining the park trail.
“Oh, hey. There is culture in small town, USA.” Archer slammed his door and met me on the sidewalk.
I didn’t get into the town proper very often, but it seemed as if summer was one of the busier seasons. Between the active tourist things on the lake, house rentals, and the bed and breakfasts, there was no end to the people who’d been pushing through since the end of May.
Whereas everything used to shut down at dusk, they had extended the hours for Crescent Cove’s version of nightlife.
“Is that an honest to God Cuban truck?” Archer rubbed his hands. “This is better than the wine bar.”
We hit a few of the trucks and ended up with plates full of Cuban, Mexican, and even a Greek gyro. Archer was unapologetic with his love for any form of alcohol and had a wine frosty in his other hand.
There wasn’t a seat to be had on the benches, so we just kept walking the path as we ate. There was a volleyball tournament going on by the water. Blankets were spread out along the grassy hills above the beach, and evidently, there would be an evening movie projected on a screen near the water at sunset. The ducks were eating like kings thanks to the influx of children running around.
“What I want to know is where is the street painter?”
“Huh?”
Archer gestured with his sandwich. “This is a goddamn Rockwell painting.”
“Stop.”
“What? Do I lie?” Suddenly, he stopped and turned. “However, you do have some very beautiful women in this town.”
I followed his gaze and the bite of gyro I’d been chewing turned to dust. Dahlia was on a blanket with Avery, TJ, Shelby, and a preteen girl. A tall guy was stretched out at the edge of the blanket with his head on Shelby’s lap.
The lawyer husband-to-be, I imagined.
“C’mon. I want to say hi.”
“Archer, c’mon.”
“Who’s the short one with the dark hair? With the shorts.”
“Back it up there. TJ will eat you up and spit you out, pal.”
