Bridgewater, Pennsylvania
“Aww, sweetie. You look like you’re having a rough morning.”
She has no idea. It’s obvious she also has no idea who I am. Granted, it’s been twenty-five years since she taught me and nearly fifteen years since I lived here, but still. Isn’t there some law about third-grade teachers having to remember all of their students?
I shrug out of my suit coat and lay it on top of the briefcase beside me, pulling a stool up to the counter. Wheelhouse Bakery and Deli is quiet at this time of the morning, just after the breakfast rush and too soon for the lunch crowd, so I’m in no hurry. Especially since the only on-duty employee is apparently my former teacher.
“Mrs. Snider,” I start, giving her a minute to recognize me. “It’s good to see you again.”
Pulling down her bifocals, she studies me until her eyes widen.
“Cole Donovan,” she says proudly.
Why does her jogged memory give me the most pleasure I’ve had all morning?
“How could I not have recognized that handsome face? Especially since it’s been splashed across the local newspaper for weeks.”
Good ol’ Bridgewater. My parents told me this trial is the talk of the town. Which isn’t surprising since nothing—literally nothing—ever happens here.
“Retirement job?” I ask.
“You got it, kiddo. Tried staying home for a year and hated it. Shouldn’t you be at the courthouse, young man?”
“Unfortunately, the insurance company’s lead counsel just lost his mother, and the trial was postponed for a day.”
“Ah, so that’s why you look like the sheriff shot your dog. Sorry to hear it.”
The sheriff here used to be a playground bully, and I try not to conjure an image of him coming anywhere near Casey, my parents’ dog.
“Oh dear, I’ve made it worse.” Mrs. Snider turns her back to me and pulls a bottle from the shelf. “How about a little somethin’-somethin’ in your coffee to take the edge off? You want a cup of coffee I presume?”
Is that a bottle of . . . ?
“Whiskey?”
“I’ll make you an Irish coffee, my boy.”
Before I can respond to that, she adds, “Clearly you need it.”
Without waiting for an answer, my former third-grade teacher, who just asked if I wanted a little somethin’-somethin’ in my coffee, proceeds to push a spiked drink on me, like it or not. Yep, not in Philly anymore. And God, it feels good to be home.
The Wheelhouse has always been one of Bridgewater’s bright spots, both during the day, when it’s a restaurant, and at night, when the other half becomes one of the town’s few bars. The drinks are good, the food is better, and I know the view behind me without turning to look at it: an old waterwheel with the river running beneath it. I know because I used to spend nearly every Sunday in this place.
Mrs. Snider slides the Irish coffee across the counter to me, and I take a sip, watching her expectant face. I have to admit it’s not bad.
“Thank you,” I offer, but she doesn’t move away. Instead, she continues to watch me as if she wants to ask a question but isn’t sure how.
“Go ahead,” I prompt her, having a strong suspicion as to what she wants to ask.
When she leans forward across the counter, despite the fact that there’s no one else immediately around us, I brace myself.
“Is he guilty?”
Yep, just as I suspected.
“I can’t discuss details of a case,” I tell her, a fact Mrs. Snider likely already knows.
I came here to work, not to drink spiked coffee, however pleasant, but it’s obvious I’ll get very little done at the counter. With both of my educator parents at their house, off for the summer, plus my grandfather lurking around, working at home is out. I could find an empty room at the courthouse, but I’d rather not.
In a town with few options, that leaves the Wheelhouse.
“Could I get two eggs over easy and some whole grain toast? If it’s okay with you, I’m going to move to a table so I can get some work done.” I stand from the stool. “And thank you for the coffee. It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Snider.”
“You too, Cole. I guess I’ll be seeing more of you in the coming weeks?”
The prospect is surprisingly pleasant. Some of my fondest childhood memories are from the Wheelhouse—from Bridgewater in general. Too bad I couldn’t plunk this town down in the middle of Old City, where my law firm is located. Actually, I’d take most of it, but leave the gossipmongers behind. That’s one thing I like about Philly, being able to disappear without prying eyes watching your every move.
I like my job too, of course. The main reason I’m there, and not here.
“You bet.” I look around to scope out the quietest spot. The far corner table would be perfect, but there’s someone sitting at it. A woman with her back to me. I didn’t realize there was anyone else in here.
“Zara,” Mrs. Snider says, interrupting my thoughts. “She pretty much works here, at least in the mornings. Sometimes until after lunch.”
Hmm, so maybe the booth next to it.
“I’ll bring over your eggs, dear. You get to work. From what I hear, you’ve got a big case to win. Poor Doctor Dean.”
Just a twenty-two-million-dollar medical malpractice suit against one of my oldest friends. Big is an understatement. It’s the biggest trial this town had ever seen.
And I intend to win.
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