Page 29 of The Hitman’s Final Job

The Bookshelf Café sits at the corner of Main and Cedar. Its outdoor tables are already half-occupied, but there’s a spot for us on Main. In a few weeks, it’ll be too cold to sit outside.

Silas scans the specials menu fixed on the inside of the window. “What’s good here?”

“Everything? It’s all locally sourced, and David’s husband, Mark, is a really good cook.”

“Locally—from your farm?”

“Technically it’s Clayton’s operation,” I say, “but the land is mine, so, effectively, yes.”

“This is great. Most of the times when I eat somewhere it says ‘locally sourced ingredients’ you don’t know how local they are, especially when you’re in the middle of a city.”

David makes his way to our table. He and his husband are around my age and two of the few people I know here who didn’t grow up in Pine Ridge. I hadn’t realized it at first, but Pine Ridge is a little LGBTQ+ hub, one that David and Mark moved to around thirteen years ago.

“Vaughn,” David says. “You’re having lunch today?”

“I am. David, this is Silas. He’s visiting for a few weeks. Silas, this is the café’s co-owner, David.”

He extends his hand. “Welcome to Pine Ridge. First time?”

“It is.”

“Hope you enjoy it here.” He produces two small menus from under his arm and sets them on the table. “The special today is butternut squash soup, made with Clay’s squashes, so it doesn’t get more local than that.”

“That sounds really good. I’ll have that, please,” Silas says.

“The soup also comes with a slice of sourdough from the Sunrise Bakery,” David says. “Maria baked this morning, so it’s fresh.”

“Perfect.”

David turns his attention to me. “Vaughn?”

“Salad,” I say. “Whatever’s in today.”

“Roasted beet, goat cheese, candied walnut, and arugula with a lemon vinaigrette.”

“I’ll have that.”

David collects the menus and takes our drink orders before heading back inside. We settle into our chairs and relax. For a moment, it’s simply pleasant: the warmth of the late summer weather, the sound of the town going about its business. I don’t do this often enough, so it’s nice having Silas as an excuse to break the routine.

“Still taking it all in?” I ask him.

“It’s too cute. Do they have their own police department?”

Before I can answer, I hear my name and turn in that direction. Teresa Navarro from the hardware store is crossing the street toward us.

“Teresa,” I say, standing to greet her. “How are you?”

“Wonderful, wonderful.” She stops at the edge of our table and assesses Silas with warm, undisguised interest. “And who’s this?”

“Silas,” I say. “He’s visiting for a few weeks.”

“Lovely.” She beams at him. “Welcome. Are you coming to the festival?”

“I sure am.”

“Good. Make sure you get this one to come too. People will start thinking he’s a hermit,” she says.

“I am a hermit.”