Head ducked, he pulled out his phone and tapped open his notes app, making notations about weed control as he headed down the hill into town. He’d lost track of how many times—yesterday included—he’d been advised on local customs and traditions. Maybe this would be one of those circumstances he could do a bit of exploring while earning some goodwill among the town folk.
When he looked up after slipping his phone back in his pocket, he skidded to a stop. The early-morning haze was just beginning to lift. The sun was barely poking its nose through the clouds, but there, at the bottom of the hill, beyond the curving waist-high stone wall, sat the ocean. Seagulls soared high above and low enough to skim the lapping water’s edge. As he breathed in, he could smell the faint hint of salt and promise. It was, he realized, an unexpected sight and worthy of attention and appreciation.
Attention that was interrupted by the growling of his stomach. Oh, yeah. Those protein bars had long worn off, and as tempting as the lemon ricotta pancakes sounded (his mother would approve), he had yet to find anything better on the planet than a down-to-earth, diner-style morning feast.
“Face it,” Roman told himself as he walked along Monarch Lane and enjoyed the fall decorating around shop windows and various buildings. “Frankie had you convinced at bacon.”
He’d missed the details yesterday, distracted by the idea of checking in at the firehouse and finding a place to stay. The collection of quirky stores and, even at this early hour, the wanderings of residents, were intriguing and appealing. He glanced to the left, catching sight of a group of older men standing in front of the hardware store. Across the street from that was a bookstore, the Cat’s Eye, with a hand-carved sign shimmering in the morning sun. He spotted an old-fashioned ice-cream parlor, a candle shop, a gift shop and...was that a comic book shop? Now that he put on his list for later today. If he could catch up on the three different series he’d lost track of, he’d be a happy man.
He passed a small bank, a shop offering glass suncatchers and other pretty little gifts, and a teeny, tiny hole in the wall, which sold the most exquisite hand-carved animals he’d seen in a long time. Not that he had a lot of giftbuying to manage, but this year could very well be the easiest holiday shopping season he ever had. There were quite a few souvenir shops offering everything from cold drinks and T-shirts to postcards (did people still send those?) and butterfly-shaped sunglasses for both adults and children. Pumpkins seemed to be multiplying by the second, stacked in front of doorways and in window displays, accented with lush orange, yellow and fire-red leaf-tipped branches.
The crisp November air raced over him, driving him through the jingling glass door into the Butterfly Diner. Retro for sure, but rather than red vinyl booths, they were in a rich orange hue complimented by the black trim on the wall. Formica tabletops and counters gleamed. Round orange upholstered stools whirled, and the aromas of coffee and frying bacon reached up and greeted him.
“Hello. Welcome to the Butterfly Diner.” A lovely woman with light brown hair and a friendly gleam in her big eyes approached. “And to Butterfly Harbor.”
“Is it that obvious?” He returned her smile and marveled at the crowd. It wasn’t even 8:00 a.m., and every table, every seat at the counter were occupied.
“Not necessarily. I know just about everyone in town, and you’re a new face. I’m Holly Saxon. This is my place.”
“Holly! We need extra napkins, please!” The frantic female voice exploded from the back of the diner.
“Twyla? Can you—”
“On it.” Out of nowhere, a young woman who moved as if she was wearing skates scooped up a pile of napkins and headed over.
“Always this busy?” Roman asked.
“Thankfully, yes. We have our slow times. But breakfast is a must at least one time while you’re here. Are you okay with the counter or would you rather wait for a table?” Holly motioned to one of the stools that had just been vacated by a bespectacled man in a brown plaid shirt and jeans.
“Counter’s perfect.”
“Great. Take a seat. Here’s a menu. Any questions? Give a holler. You a coffee guy?”
“Explicitly.” He found her friendliness charming and just a bit unsettling.
“Okay then. It’s on the way. You good to go, Kurt?”
“Excellent start to my day, as always.” The middle-aged man gave her a thumbs-up. “See you tomorrow, Holly.” He’d nearly reached the door when he was waved over to the far corner booth, packed to almost bursting with six, no, seven elderly folks.
Roman settled into the vacated seat and found himself sighing at the aroma of the coffee being poured into his mug. “Smells like great coffee.” He lifted the cup to his nose, inhaled deeply and sipped. “Now that alone was worth the walk,” he told Holly before she moved away to take care of her other customers.