Читать книгу Eastbound Sailing - Todd Foley - Страница 12

6. MEMORY’S DOCK

Late September manifested itself along Canoe Drive. The pavement was covered with red leaves from the bordering maple trees. Countless trees extended their top branches far out over the middle of the road, providing a tunnel of shelter for cars and creatures alike.

Chickadees and gold thrushes sang their songs as they weaved in and out of the trees. Grey squirrels hopped across bridges made of branches, collecting seeds and nuts for a late breakfast. Few cars were on the road, and the deer seized the opportunity to cross to the other side of the woods.

There was a stillness in the air, a thin fog drifting below the forest canopy.

All Aiden cared about was the Americano he so desperately needed as he sped down the narrow road.

Last night’s spurts of insomnia left him feeling like the undead: eyes dry, mouth parched, joints sore. Sleep is so crucial but is the first thing that’s sacrificed to make room for living a lively existence.

Aiden was hardly thriving and would gladly give up any activity to catch up on sleep.

Partying wasn’t the interference; his subconscious was. At 8:30 in the morning after minimal rest, a dose of straight caffeine would at least push him out of this walking slumber and exhaust the last of his energy so that he could sleep tonight.

He turned onto Borough Boulevard, driving for a few blocks with his eyes peeled for a coffee shop. Finally spotted a small burgundy cottage with a sign hanging from a trellis that read “The Bean House.” He pulled into one of the three car slots in the gravel driveway.

The single-story cottage shared a plot of land with a large willow tree that stood just to the right of the building, its branches draping along the roof and shedding their yellow leaves onto the front steps and driveway.

The door revealed a quaint room. Dark brown trim accented the cream-colored wall.

The paint was chipped in places, giving the space a weathered look. A long bar ran against the back wall with five stools. Three tables between the bar and the front door.

Walls adorned with funky, Bohemian art.

Rosemary was sitting at the middle table by herself, holding a black ceramic mug and reading a newspaper.

She looked up.

“Doesn’t get much smaller than this,” Aiden thought to himself.

He actually was pleased to see her. Didn’t consider her a friend by any means but she seemed well networked. A source for local information. Maybe she knew of a contractor he could hire to fix up the cabin.

“Good morning,” he said with a dimple-inducing grin, hoping it looked sincere.

She nodded in return, with that same subtle smile.

“Mind helping me out?” he asked.

“I can later. My shift starts in 10 minutes.”

Rosemary didn’t want to talk?

“Meet me at the Harvest Cafe at noon and we can talk then, just a few blocks down,” she said, standing up and walking toward the door.

Fair enough, he thought.

Aiden nodded in agreement, made a mental note of the time and place, then turned to the counter.

He ordered a large Americano and sat at her vacant seat, turning the paper back to its front page. The Cielo Platform. A weekly paper. Cielo must not have enough news for a daily.

He flipped to the classifieds, looking for names of contractors. Circled a few. But what good were names without references? He could wait till noon to ask Rosemary.

That was more than three hours to pass, and this was Cielo.

He downed the coffee in three gulps and felt the strong substance hit his stomach with an abrasive warmth.

Perfect balance.

Aiden rolled up the paper, paid his tab and hopped back in the car. No way would he spend three hours in the Borough.

* * *

The 15-minute drive back to the cabin put him just after 9 o’clock. He threw the keys on the loveseat and grabbed a change of clothes from his duffle bag. It was time to shower.