In my opinion, only the coldest heart could resist a puppy. Beverly Ruchart apparently possessed an arctic heart. She marched through the gap in the hedge between her property and my parents’ yard behind the church parsonage. Beverly held the wriggling, yipping three-month-old puppy at arm’s length. My father had acquired Tucker for his granddaughter, my niece Cokey, to play with when she visited. A curly-haired rescue, the little guy was all sweetness, energy, and enough wile to slip his collar and go exploring.
“This, this creature has been digging in my garden.” Beverly’s crisp white shirt bore dirt smudges. Her florid neck contrasted with her cap of silver hair, which was definitely not as perfectly styled as usual. She caught sight of me where I sat with my mother, our brightly colored—but empty—plastic margarita glasses in hand.
“Good evening, ladies.” Beverly was a regular at Mac’s Bikes, my bicycle repair, rental, and retail shop here in our small Cape Cod town of Westham.
“Hey, Beverly.” Mom smiled, ignoring Beverly’s tone. “Have a seat. Can I fix you a drink?”
“No, thank you.” Beverly kept her arms extended.
My father, Joseph Almeida, took the puppy. “We’re very sorry, Ms. Ruchart. He slipped out of his collar. It won’t happen again.” He stroked Tucker’s silky dark coat and smiled kindly at his irate neighbor.
“Please see to it that it doesn’t. I pay good money to my landscape service and I grow prize-winning roses.”
“Tucker! Bad boy.” Cokey, with a five-year-old’s frown, shook her little finger at the pup. Her curly blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but escaped ringlets framed her face like angel curls.
“The dog was extremely bad, young lady. I don’t intend to have my grounds ruined by him again.” Chin held high, Beverly turned and slipped back through the hedge a moment later. She’d bought the property adjoining the Unitarian Universalist Church years earlier and had had the house and grounds renovated to her expensive liking.
Cokey stared. “Am I a lady, Athtra?” she lisped to her grandmother, who loved Cokey, calling her Astra instead of Grandma.
“Of course you are, honey,” Mom said.
“I guess she doesn’t like puppies,” I said, gazing after Beverly. “Have you had trouble with her before?” I looked from Mom to Pa and back.
“I don’t believe she thinks much of our modest lifestyle, but we haven’t had this kind of run-in prior to today.” My father gazed at the gap Beverly had disappeared through. “I’m wondering about installing a fence, Mackenzie. What do you think?”
“So Tucker can run around freely?” I asked. “Sounds like a good idea.”
“Yes, and so Ms. Ruchart won’t have cause to complain again. Fences make good neighbors.” Pa, the UU minister, had a steady, quiet presence reflected in the deep tones of his comforting voice.
“I hear you,” I replied.
Cokey dashed off. She came back to us holding Tucker’s leash and collar. “Abo Joe, here.” Abo, the Kriolu word for both “grandfather” and “grandmother,” came from Pa’s father’s Cape Verdean heritage. Pa had grown up speaking the language with his father.
Pa knelt and helped Cokey securely refasten the collar. From the lawn chair where he’d been sitting, he picked up the little harness that went around Tucker’s chest. “We have to put the harness on every time, Coquille, not just the collar. All right?” He was the only person in the family who used Cokey’s full name, bestowed on her by her French mother.
She nodded solemnly. “Cuth I don’t want that lady mad at uth anymore,” she lisped.
“Neither do I,” he said. Together they fastened on the harness, which framed the puppy’s white chest, and hooked the leash to it.
Mom, otherwise known as Astra Mackenzie—thus my first name—piped up. “I’d be willing to bet she’s an Aquarian. Not the most touchy-feeling of signs.” Mom was a professional astrologer and was astonishingly accurate in assessing personalities. She leaned over and refilled my glass from the pitcher, which she’d lifted out of an ice chest.
“Thanks, Mom.” I didn’t believe in astrology myself, but it’s a big world, and my mother’s profession made her happy.
I stretched out my legs. I often stopped by my parents’ place after closing the shop. Mac’s Bikes, which I’d opened a year and a half ago, kept me busy, especially in the height of the season, but it was thriving, and I liked the multifaceted challenge of keeping a business afloat. I sipped the frosty, citrusy drink. A cold drink at the end of a busy mid-summer Saturday and a dose of family was almost never the wrong choice.
“Where’s Derrick?” I asked. Cokey’s single-parent dad worked in the rental-retail side of my shop. “He left work at five today.”
“He’s at a meeting,” Pa said.
“Good.” I nodded. Derrick, my older half brother, was a recovering alcoholic but was stable again. Attending AA meetings regularly was much of the reason why. Pa’s being a solid support for his stepson was another. I watched Cokey walk the puppy around the yard. “Derrick’s doing great, isn’t he?”
“He sure is.” My mom stood. “Are you eating with us, Mac?” She tossed back her nimbus of flyaway blonde hair that included more than a little gray.
“Thanks, but no. Tim’s cooking for me. I’d better get home and clean up so I’m not late.” I glanced at Tucker, who had run toward us with Cokey barely managing to hold on to the leash. Tucker, a Portuguese water dog, rubbed against my leg and I didn’t have to recoil. Pa had been careful to find one of the few breeds of dog that didn’t make me sneeze, wheeze, and reach for my antihistamine eye drops.
“Titi Mac, I want to go to Tio Tim’s, too,” she said, using the Cape Verdean words for aunt and uncle.
“Not tonight, querida.” When I saw her lip push out, I added, “But he wants to meet Tucker, so we’ll get together soon, okay?”
Her expression brightened. “Hold Tucker, Athtra, so he doesn’t get away.” She thrust the leash at my mother and ran over to the swing.
Life was good in August here in Westham. I had family and a thriving business, not to mention a devoted—and handsome—boyfriend. What more could a woman want?
Tim and I walked hand in hand along the beach at nine the next morning on another cloudless summer day. A sea breeze brought a fresh tang of salt and seaweed, and kept the sun from feeling too hot. Tim had taken off his shirt, and I wore only a tank top and my EpiPen bag with my shorts, a pink cap over my short black curls. I normally power walked with Gin Malloy, a friend from the Cozy Capers book group, early in the mornings, but I saved Sundays for Tim. He also took precedence over attending the UU services my father conducted, about which I felt the tiniest jab of guilt.
“I’m glad your assistant baker is working out.” I squeezed his hand. My guy owned Greta’s Grains, an artisanal bakery in town. When we were first going out, he had to be at the bakery by four every morning, including Sundays. He’d finally found another baker to take over weekend mornings.
“Me too.”
“How’s your training going for Falmouth?” A row of plovers at the water’s edge ran ahead of us, poked sharp beaks into the wet sand, and ran again when we approached. Tim had entered the Falmouth Road Race, held next week, but he’d be running straight ahead and fast, not zigzagging like these energetic little birds.
“Eli is a great running buddy, and we push each other. I think I’m ready for the race.”
“It’s a week from today?”
“Yep, and Eli thinks he might actually place in the top ten.”
“Wow. He must be fast.” The race was a big deal on the Cape, with a seven-mile route that started hilly but also led along a beach on Martha’s Vineyard Sound before heading back into town. It had been taking place since 1973 and attracted over ten thousand runners.
Tim laughed. “He just turned forty, so he’s the youngest in his age category. That makes it easier to place in his age group than me in my thirty-to-forty group.”
“World-class runners come to compete, don’t they?”
“They do. Some well-known, elite racers are coming this year. Mostly from Kenya and Ethiopia, as usual.”
“Do you know what Eli does at the Woods Hole lab?” I asked. Tim and I had done a little matchmaking with my friend Gin and Eli. They’d only been dating for a month, but Gin seemed pleased with the guy.
“He’s some kind of marine researcher at the Oceanographic Institute. I’m not quite sure what his area is.” He pushed his shoulder-length dark blond hair back off his face, but the wind blew it back again. “I should have tied my hair. I’m going in the water. You?”
I shook my head. “You go.” I plopped onto packed sand and set my arms on my knees. I hadn’t brought a towel. Anyway, I had to open the shop at eleven and didn’t want to have to shower again.
He jogged in and dove when the water was deep enough. Here on the bay we didn’t have waves except small ones lapping the shore like a caress. Tim popped up and ambled back out. He was an extraordinarily fine specimen of his gender. He kept his abs toned and pulled in, and had broad shoulders, with a small patch of chest hair at his sternum. He had a luscious set of lips—and knew how to use them—and big baby-blue eyes. More important, he was kind and smart and adored me. I wasn’t quite sure how I’d lucked out.
He leaned over, shaking the water out of his hair. He tossed his head up, tucking his hair behind his ears, and sank with grace to sit next to me.
“Better?” I asked.
“Much.”
A boy and a girl a little older than Cokey dashed by in front of us, shrieking as they chased a seagull. I held my breath, waiting to see if Tim would bring up the question of starting a family yet again. Every few weeks he raised the issue, and every time I said I wasn’t ready. My life was good. Happy, busy, in order. I wasn’t sure I wanted to disturb the status quo by getting married, getting pregnant, figuring out how to live with a baby. It wasn’t like I wanted to be with anyone else, and I supposed one day I’d want a family. Tim, on the other hand, couldn’t wait. And I probably shouldn’t, either. I was thirty-six to his thirty-two, and my eggs weren’t getting any younger.
But the moment passed. We sat quietly looking out to sea, our lives at peace for the moment.
Uh-oh. Here came possible trouble. Beverly Ruchart wheeled her Diamondback hybrid bike through the door of the repair side of my shop at one o’clock that afternoon. Derrick was busy explaining our rental policy to a family of five. My mechanic, Orlean Brown, was deep in a bike tune-up in the repair shop. I’d finished showing our array of brightly colored shirts to a serious cyclist who explained he’d ridden down from Boston and wanted a souvenir of the Cape. Another group of tourists waited to rent bikes, and we had a big sign out front asking people to leave their bikes outside. Now was not a good time for an imperious customer who thought she was so entitled she didn’t have to follow the rules.
“Excuse me, Ms. Ruchart.” I intercepted her. “Please leave the bike outside.” I smiled but blocked her way into the shop.
Her nostrils flared. “I always bring it in. Ms. Brown never has a problem with me doing so. This is a valuable bike and someone could steal it out there.”
It was a very nice bike, true, although not particularly valuable, and the customer should always be right. However, this was my shop, and procedure was procedure. “I’m sorry, we simply don’t have room in here. I’ll come out and give you a ticket, and then we’ll store it where we keep the other bikes waiting for repairs.” I glanced over at Orlean. Technically the areas of the shop were different rooms, but they were all open to the others, except my office and the bathroom, of course.
She’d looked up from her work and now raised a blue-gloved hand black with grease. “Hey there, Bev. Come see me after Mac gets you all set.” She lowered her gaze to her work again.
Bev? I’d never heard anyone call her anything other than Ms. Ruchart or Beverly.
“Very well,” Beverly said to me. She wheeled the bike back outside and stood tapping her fingers on the handlebars.
“I’ll be right there.” I hurried over to the desk and grabbed the repair book. “What do you need done?” I asked her once I’d joined her.
“The front tire keeps going flat, and something’s rubbing the rear tire. I inadvertently ran over a big stick yesterday. It had fallen onto the trail during that windy night Friday, I believe. It must have knocked things out of alignment.”
“The Shining Sea Trail?” The lovely, flat trail ran along the coast on the former rail bed and was a popular locale for walkers, runners, and cyclists. I jotted down her name and what she’d said on the ticket.
“Yes, I ride it in its entirety every day. My cardiologist recommended vigorous daily exercise.”
“The trail is a good place for it. And a twenty-one-mile round trip is a decent ride. Can I have your phone number, please?”
After she told me, I added it and tied the ticket to the handlebar. “I’m not sure when it’ll be ready. Depends on how many are in front of you. I’ll get to it myself tomorrow if I can.”
“I will need it as soon as possible.” She pursed her lips, which made a little row of lines appear above her top lip.
“I understand. We do repairs in the order in which we receive them, however.” She had to already know this. She’d been a customer here ever since she’d moved in three summers ago.
“Very well. Now, Ms. Almeida, I have another matter to bring up with you. I must say I am increasingly concerned about the riffraff who frequent that soup kitchen you all run at the church.”
I stared at her. The riffraff? Despite the steady stream of tourists with money to burn and the affluent folks who summered here, Westham had local residents who were hungry and even homeless. The soup kitchen Pa ran out of the church basement several days a week, along with the food pantry he hosted, made all the difference to those down on their luck. I was a regular volunteer at both, as was Gin, who owned and ran Salty Taffy’s candy shop at the other end of the main drag from here.
“They have left trash in my front yard and sometimes loiter about smoking cigarettes. I meant to speak to your father about it yesterday, but that dog had me too rattled to remember.”
I did not have time for this. “Ms. Ruchart, we feed the desperately needy. Often it’s their only meal of the day. I’ll let my father know your views. If you’ll excuse me, I have customers waiting inside.” I turned to wheel the bike around to the back.
She called after me. “Please call me as soon as my bicycle is ready.”
At least she’d said please. I stashed the Diamondback in the walk-in shipping container serving as repair storage. The space wasn’t great, but acquiring it had been a lot cheaper than adding on to the building after I’d bought the business last year. I’d run electricity into the container and painted the inside white so we could see which bike was where. Customers not picking up their repaired or tuned-up bikes promptly were a real problem and meant we provided free storage for them. I was thinking of a way to penalize anyone who left it more than a week unless they had extenuating circumstances.
I hurried back into the shop. Beverly had, in fact, gone back in to talk with Orlean on the repair side. My mechanic was a normally taciturn employee, stopping a few millimeters short of being dysfunctional. She was so talented at fixing bikes, though, I forgave her almost anything. Since Derrick was now helping the second group of renters, I moseyed over and straightened the nearest merchandise so I could listen in on Orlean and Beverly’s conversation.
“I got a nibble on my Colby line,” Orlean said. “Found the town records for 1903.” She hung a blue-handled wrench on the hook in the middle of the set, arranged in order of size. She kept her work bench tidy, a sight dear to my neat-freak heart. Tired straw-colored hair peeked out of the Orleans Firebirds ball cap she wore every day.
“Good work,” Beverly said. “And I might have unearthed that missing aunt on your maternal line we were talking about.”
Orlean nodded. “We’re meeting again Tuesday night, right?” She grabbed the curly blue air hose hanging from the ceiling. It hissed as she half inflated the tube she was checking.
“You can count on it.” Beverly smiled at my no-nonsense mechanic.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen Beverly smile. Also—town records for 1903? A missing aunt? It sounded like they were talking historical research. Or . . . of course. Beverly Ruchart was a professional genealogist. I’d known her occupation, but it had slipped my mind. What I hadn’t known was that Orlean was interested, too, and apparently good at finding old records. Beverly’s expertise must have been the trigger to get Orlean to open up, as well as their mutual love of bicycles. Beverly sounded polite and respectful speaking to Orlean, quite a change from my interactions with her this weekend. But I was a staunch attender at the church of Live and Learn, and happy to witness Beverly’s good side.
I’d finished my closing checklist at five o’clock and had locked the door to the shop when I spied Gin hurrying down Main Street toward me. I waved and waited for her to reach me, which took a minute as she dodged tourists and a friendly pair of dogs on leashes.
“What’s cooking?” I asked, smiling.
“I’m going out tonight, so I thought I’d check in with you about tomorrow.” She was breathless from her fast walk, and her thick brownish-red hair was straggling loose from its ponytail.
“Do you have time for a beer?” I asked.
“Absolutely. Today was nuts at the shop.” She shook her head.
“Same here.” I led the way through the yard behind the shop, past the picnic table under a big tree where I often ate lunch, and through a break in the low hedge to my 350-square-foot tiny house. Once inside, my African gray parrot, Belle, started talking.
“Hi, Mac. It’s about time. Belle’s a good girl. Belle wants a treat. Hi, Mac.”
I stepped out of my sneakers and padded to her cage. “Hi, Belle.” I opened the door, scritching her head before she hopped out.
Belle cocked her head at Gin. “Hi, gorgeous. Give Belle a treat?” She let out a perfect wolf whistle. “Belle’s a good girl. Grapes?”
Gin laughed. “Does she ever shut up?” She took off . . .
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