Dolly’s test results are back and that little lump is totally benign and nothing to worry about! Thank you to everybody who donated to help cover the cost of the testing. We know she’s grateful, too, but fair warning: She’s a little cranky right now.
—Wayward Harbor Online Community Group
Buoyed by the fresh pot of coffee Nick had set up for her to brew before he quietly left for work without waking her—he reallywasa great guy—Lucy parked her car in the public parking lot, ready to walk the town and find a job.
First, though, she was going to visit Cricket’s statue for luck. It was something she remembered doing as a child sometimes. Her memories of Wayward Harbor were always hazy, but she recalled Gran telling her how a toddler had been torn from his mother’s arms by a big wave during the fifties, and how the dog had swum out and hauled the baby to shore.
She also remembered Iris’s snarky comment about how the dog probably half drowned the kid rescuing it and the town just wanted a quirky statue like all the other coastal towns had. But Lucy didn’t care. She loved dogs and she’d need the luck.
The statue stood at the center of the town green, which abutted the rocky shore of what passed as the public beach. Shoes definitely recommended. Lucy knew in the summer the place would be bustling with tourists and ice cream carts and artists. But right now, it was quiet as she leaned across the metal chain to rub Cricket’s nose for luck.
With her hood up in a vain attempt to hide her hair, Lucy strolled along the sidewalks of Wayward Harbor. She skipped the street that followed the shoreline as most of those businesses catered to the tourists and probably weren’t even open yet. Plus, those were the most likely spots to be filled by local teens and college kids.
So far the only business she’d seen with a Help Wanted sign in the window was a hair salon looking for a stylist. Reception, she might have been able to pull off, but nobody wanted Lucy cutting their hair.
When she turned a corner, a huge oval sign with a storm blue background and gold lettering caught her eye. In fancy script, the sign read Scuttlebutt, Spirits* & Scones. And underneath, in smaller block letters, *Ghosts, Not Liquor.
Lucy could use a little sugar fortification, and she was a sucker for a good sense of humor—and also for scones, of course—so she pulled her hood off and stepped through the door into what smelled like carb heaven.
The front of the shop was adorable. A lot of wood, but accented with a pale yellow that, combined with the large front window, made for a light, cheerful atmosphere.
The woman behind the pastry case that doubled as a counter turned when she came in, and something pinged in Lucy’s memory. Straight dark hair pulled up in a ponytail, with bangs. Warm honey-brown eyes, and dimples when she smiled.
A name rose from the dusty depths of her mind and spilled out of her mouth. “Willow?”
“Lucy! Welcome back, stranger.”
“Wow, we used to hang out on the beach all the time. We climbed all over the rocks and explored the tidal pools.” They’d been summertime best friends, so long ago Lucy couldn’t believe she recognized her.
“I remember! My great-aunt owned the house two up from your grandmother’s. And my aunt ran this as a bakery, but it was called Brown’s Bakery, then. I spiced up the sign a bit when I bought it from her.”
“Yeah, you certainly did. So, you sell scuttlebutt now?”
Willow laughed. “We don’t sell scuttlebutt, but it often comes free with the scones.”
“I know I’ve heard that word before, but I’ve never seen it on a sign.”
“It’s gossip, basically. Back in the day, the drinking water on a ship was kept in a scuttlebutt and the sailors would gather there to chat over a drink.”
“There are a lot of nautical terms in this town.”
“Yeah. Some of the puns are a little out there, but the touristslovethat sort of thing.”
“And the spirits?”
“Well, there’s Jacob, right there in the middle of his brothers.” She pointed to a grainy monochrome photograph on the wall, and Lucy stepped closer to see the three young men standing in front of this building. The sign, which was much smaller than the current one, simply read Cobblers. “They weren’t very good at cobbling shoes, but they made a lot of money smuggling bootleg liquor from Canada by boat. They kept the booze in the cellar, and one night in 1853, whether he was helping himself to the product or going down the steps in the dark to avoid the light being seen, he fell down the cellar stairs and broke his neck.”
“Poor Jacob. But 1853? Wasn’t Prohibition later than that?”
“For most of the country, yes. But Maine outlawed alcohol in 1851.” She pointed to a black-and-white photo of an apple-cheeked woman holding up a whoopie pie. “And that’s Lavinia. She was poisoned by a jealous wife in 1932.”
“Wow. That must have been quite the scandal.”
“Truly. Her husband owned this building then and ran it as an apothecary. She supplemented their income by selling baked goods that people came from miles around to get their hands on. Especially the whoopie pies.”
Lucy didn’t have a lot of memories from her visits to Wayward Harbor, but she definitely remembered the time Gran made whoopie pies with a whipped raspberry filling.
“There was a man named John who was always first in line for Lavinia’s whoopie pies. He loved those things, and his wife, whose name was Mary, wasn’t happy about that because she considered herself quite the whoopie pie maker. So she poisoned Lavinia.”