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“Probably. Yes,” I said slowly, wondering if I should blame the concussion…or accept that I’d stumbled into one of those stereotypical small towns full of nosy people.
“Excellent.” She beamed like that was what she wanted to hear. “Now come, come. Sit down.” Hattie shepherded me into a pink floral–upholstered armchair and handed the fresh mug of steaming coffee to me, a drink that required a spoon for all the sugar dissolving at the bottom.
Caffeine was caffeine, though, so I gulped it down, trying not to wince as my molars screamed.
Hattie leaned in, her eyes sparkling behind her oversized cat-eye glasses. “Let me show you everything we offer. You’ll be staying at least a week, right?”
I blinked. “I—what? A week? No. Absolutely not. I’m just here until my car gets fixed. Which will be…soon. Very soon. Like, tomorrow soon.”
Of course, I had absolutely no idea if that was true, considering the last time I’d seen my Prius, it hadn’t exactly been thriving. But it felt wise to send out positive vibes, just in case.
“Pish posh,” she said, waving a hand. “You can’t drive with a concussion. Everyone knows that. Doctor’s orders. Well, not an actual doctor, but a woman on the news said it once, and she seemed very confident.”
A tight, familiar panic curled in my chest at the thought of staying here…of anyone expecting me to stay longer than I planned.
“I really can’t stay—” I began, which sounded suspiciously like the opening line to a Christmas song where the woman absolutely does not leave.
“You must. The town insists. This is the most exciting thing to happen since the mayor’s wife got caught skinny-dipping in Holter Lake with the ice cream delivery guy.’”
“Wow, um…”
“Right? She told everyone she was trying to find herself, but everyone else said it was grounds for divorce. The mayor took her back, though—the man’s only got three hairs left on his head, he couldn’t risk the stress. Anyway! How’s the head? Do you have a headache? Can you walk in a straight line?”
“Yes,” I said flatly, realizing Hattie was intensely committed to both hospitality and bullet-point assessments.
“To all?”
“I think so.”
She disappeared behind the front desk and returned with an overflowing basket of brochures. Actual glossy brochures. Folded in thirds, color-coded, and professionally printed.
She slapped them down one by one on the coffee table in front of me. “This one’s for the glow-in-the-dark gemstone cave about twenty minutes up the ridge,” she said. “It’s not technically open year-round, but if you flirt with the guy at the ranger station, he’ll let you in.”
“Because illegal spelunking is exactly what my concussion needs,” I said seriously.
“Exactly!” Hattie beamed, clearly missing the sarcasm. “A little danger clears the sinuses. You’ll love it.”
I briefly contemplated faking another head injury just to get out of this conversation.
Hattie plucked another brochure from the basket and waved it like a prize. “Here’s our algae foot soak spa, which conveniently doubles as a bait shop on Sundays. It’s very good for the skin.”
“Why is the spa also a bait—”
“Blackwood believes in versatility,” she said, grabbing another. “We’re known for our unique tour stops. Isn’t that why you came here on your way to…wherever?”
I might have been, if I hadn’t been fighting for my life in a thunderstorm. I stared at the pile of glossy paper in front of me, not wanting to be rude. “This is a big decision for so early in the morning. Is there, like, a normal coffee shop or anything I can check out first?”
Hattie looked down at my cup, her lemon-yellow earrings swaying. “Do you need more, darlin’? I can whip up another if it wasn’t sweet enough.”
Not sweet enough?
If that thing had been any sweeter, Wilford Brimley would’ve appeared from the ether to warn me about diabetes.
I lifted my eyebrows innocently. “No, no, I’m good. I was just curious.”
“Oh, then yes! There’s The Grumpy Goat on Pine Street. They do a lavender chai that makes your insides feel like you’re being hugged by a witch.”
I didn’t know what that meant. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
