Софи Райан - No Escape Claws

I’d seen Liam set the foam football on top of a cardboard carton in the trailer before he grabbed the bungee cords, so I was ready when he launched it in my direction. I snagged the ball out of the air and did my end-zone victory dance, which I admit looks a lot like the Bird Dance. Then I handed the ball to Charlotte and went back inside.

I cast a critical eye around the storage unit, trying to decide what would fit in the space we had left in the trailer and the SUV. Charlotte had discovered several boxes of books. They should fit into the back of the SUV, I decided. The books all seemed to be hardcover and would probably bring a few dollars each.

“I’ll check out all of them,” Charlotte said as we carried the cartons out. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a first edition or two.”

It wasn’t that far-fetched. We’d found treasures before in odder places, including a Les Paul guitar in a barn and a Marklin model train in a pack rat’s home. Our stock came from a variety of places: yard sales, flea markets, people looking to downsize. I’d once rescued a table from a ditch by the side of the road. I was also a regular customer of a couple of trash pickers. I’d already let one of those pickers—Teresa Reynard—go through the leftovers from the first storage unit we’d cleared out and I’d promised her the chance to go through the remains of this unit as well.

We strapped the toboggan Liam had discovered and a vintage wooden sled next to the casket in the trailer and filled the SUV with boxes. By the time we were ready to leave, the unit looked a lot emptier. By my estimate the contents of the first storage space would recoup more than what I paid for both, which meant the second one would be all profit.

Charlotte and I—along with Elvis—headed back to Second Chance in the SUV. Liam followed in his truck, which we’d also filled with a snow blower, a wheelbarrow and a collection of wire racks and rods that I was fairly certain was a closet organizing system, and several boxes of vintage canning jars.

I was very glad to have Liam’s help. Normally Mac, my second in command, would have been with us. Mac Mackenzie was the proverbial jack-of-all-trades. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t fix or reconfigure as far as I’d seen. He was all lean, strong muscle with light brown skin, dark eyes and close-cropped black hair.

Mac had given up his life as a financial adviser in Boston to come to Maine and sail every chance he got. Eventually he wanted to build his own wooden boat. He’d come to work with me when the shop first opened because, he’d said, he liked working with his hands. Second Chance was my store, but Mac was more partner than employee. Most important, he was my friend. Beyond that, I wasn’t sure.

I missed him like crazy. Mac had been back in Boston for the last month, spending time with his former wife who was in a rehabilitation center after a carbon monoxide leak had left her in a permanent coma. Two weeks after he’d left, his wife, Leila, had died. Liz, Rose, Rose’s gentleman friend, Alfred Peterson, and I had driven down for the memorial service. We hadn’t seen Mac since. He had stayed in Boston to wrap up Leila’s affairs. He and I often talked on the phone late at night, and more and more I found myself looking forward to those conversations and to the texts we’d sometimes exchange during the day. He’d texted me that morning.

Having a healthy breakfast?

I’d laughed at the words. Mac knew that what I most needed first thing in the morning was coffee and lots of it.

A bacon sandwich and coffee , I’d texted back.

His response made me laugh. Elvis craned his head toward my phone on the counter almost as though he were trying to see what was so funny. The four main food groups: sugar, salt, fat, caffeine.

There’s tomato in the sandwich. That’s a vegetable.

Elvis fixed his green eyes on my face and tipped his head to one side. It was the same pose he used on customers in the shop. I should have been immune, but he was cute, especially with the scar that cut across his nose. I fished a bit of bacon out of my sandwich and held it out to him.

The phone signaled another message.

Tomatoes are technically a fruit.

I smiled at the phone, wishing we were having the conversation in person. So I’m having a fruit and a vegetab le.

That got me a single right bracket—Mac’s version of a smile emoji.

• • •

“Do you mind if I put my window down a little?” Charlotte asked as we headed back to the shop.

“Go ahead,” I said. It was a gorgeous September day, sunny and warm, and the slight breeze brought a hint of the ocean in through the SUV’s window.

North Harbor is located on the mid-coast of Maine. “Where the hills touch the sea” is the way the town has been described for more than two hundred and fifty years. It stretches from the Swift Hills in the north to the Atlantic Ocean in the south and is located north of Camden and Rockport, closer to Canada, which means we see lots of tourists from there. The full-time population is just over thirteen thousand, but that number triples in the summertime with summer residents and tourists. North Harbor is a lovely small town, full of beautiful old buildings, award-winning restaurants and quirky little shops. I’d never been sorry I’d decided to stay.

It didn’t take us long to unload everything once we got back to Second Chance. The boxes all went into the workroom behind the store and everything else went into the old garage at the end of the parking lot that Mac and Liam had converted to work space.

My brother was a building contractor who spent most of his time these days refurbishing older houses and sharing his expertise on other restoration projects. His specialty was passive solar technology and he was working on a plan to add solar panels to the garage work space in the spring. Liam had been back and forth to North Harbor several times since he’d started consulting on the harbor front project. He was staying with Charlotte’s son Nick.

“Where do you want the tea box?” Liam asked after everything else had been unloaded.

“Garage,” I said.

“Workroom,” Rose countered. She’d come out to see what we’d brought back. She was a good six inches shorter than me, with soft white hair and a warm smile. She fixed her gray eyes on me. “Sarah, dear, we need to unload all the tea and the blankets.” Charlotte had told her about our find. “It’ll be a lot easier to do that inside.” She ran a hand along the smooth wood of the top. “I think this is yellow birch,” she said approvingly. “An excellent choice.” She tipped her head to one side and looked at me. “Did you know shipbuilders in colonial times used yellow birch because the resin in the wood makes it more resistant to rot?”

“I didn’t,” I said, shaking my head. Rose was a former middle school teacher. She knew more about the history of the state than most of the texts in the library.

“I knew that,” Liam said, trying and failing not to look smug.

“Of course you did,” Rose said approvingly. “You were always good at history.” She reached over and patted his cheek. “You must be as dry as a covered bridge. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

She started for the shop and Liam gave up on trying to restrain his cat-that-swallowed-the-canary grin. “And no one likes a smartass, Liam,” she added without breaking stride or turning around.

I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t laugh until Rose was inside. Then I grinned at Liam. “She’s got your number,” I said.

He grinned back. “I swear Rose has eyes in the back of her head or maybe some kind of ESP.” He studied the wooden casket. “Do you think the two of us can get this thing inside?”