I’d walked down Main Street of Trillium Bay hundreds, if not thousands, of times. Today, it looked just as it always had. A thoroughfare of Victorian hotels and storefronts, fudge and taffy shoppes with ornately carved signs, and T-shirt shops designed to look like old fur-trading posts. During the summer months, the wooden sidewalks and the street would be jam-packed with tourists, but as autumn arrived, the crowds dwindled to just a few weather-resistant visitors, construction workers there for winter projects, and a handful of locals. Even so, the ever-present clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the jangling of harnesses added to the nostalgia factor. Outsiders thought this town was quaint, but to me it was just home. And although today it looked the same as yesterday, something was different. I guess I was different, because now I was the mayor.
Just two days ago Harry Blackwell had dropped those keys into my hand, and yesterday I’d stood before Judge Brian Murphy at the Trillium Bay Courthouse to be officially sworn in to my new job. My old job as teacher was being divided between my two previous coworkers until a replacement could be found. The search had begun the day after the election, and a long-term substitute was scheduled to arrive by the end of the week. Everything seemed to be happening in double time, but the pieces were falling into place, and now here I was on my way to my first official meeting.
“Good afternoon, Brooke. Where are you off to all dressed up today?” Mr. O’Doul waved a knobby-knuckled hand from the front steps of his grocery store, clutching a well-worn broom in his other fist. At eighty-nine, he looked every bit his age, and his mind was about as sharp as a crayon, but he was much loved around here, and a bit of a celebrity because his grocery store was (allegedly) the oldest of its kind in the entire United States, although I’m not sure who bothers keeping track of such things. Actually, the source of this information was old Mr. O’Doul himself, so the truth of it was anybody’s guess. “Never trust anything you hear from an old Irishman,” my grandmother Gigi always said, and she should know because she’d married and buried three of them.
I stopped in front of him. “Good afternoon, Mr. O’Doul. I’m on my way to the city council meeting.”
“Oh, are you now?” His wave turned into a not-very-threatening finger point nearly touching me on the left breast. I’d give him the benefit of the doubt for that and blame his poor eyesight.
“Hey,” he said, “when you see that Harry Blackwell, you tell him that the missus and me don’t like those striped awnings that the Tasty Pastries Bakery just put up. A real eyesore, those awnings.”
I had to wonder if old Mr. O’Doul could even see that far, as the pastry shop was a dozen storefronts away from his, but maybe he and his wife passed by them on their way to Sunday morning church, or Wednesday evening square dancing. “Harry Blackwell isn’t in charge of that anymore. He has resigned and now I’m the new mayor.”
His sudden squint of confusion added to the multitude of lines on his already craggy face. “You’re the new mayor? Aren’t you still in school?”
“I was a teacher. Now I’m the mayor.”
“Did I vote for you?”
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
He pondered this for a moment before his bony shoulders offered up a dismissive shrug. “Well, I probably voted for you, so please get rid of those ugly awnings. My wife doesn’t like them, and when the missus is unhappy, she stops feeling romantic, if you know what I mean.” His rheumy eyes gave off a feeble sparkle even as his finger hovered ever closer to my boob. While there was a bit of a gray area regarding just where my obligation to serve the people of Trillium Bay began and ended, I was not about to claim responsibility for the success or failure of Mr. and Mrs. O’Doul’s geriatric sex life. Or anyone else’s sex life for that matter. I didn’t have one of my own to worry about, so theirs was nowhere on my radar.
I patted (swatted) his hand away. “I’ll do my best, Mr. O’Doul. Have a nice day now.” I continued on my way before he could further engage me in some other pointless commentary. I was already running late and needed to stop by the post office before the meeting. I’d left my house in plenty of time but had foolishly allowed my sister to talk me into wearing not only her navy-blue business suit, which was too tight in the ass, but also her stupidly high-heeled shoes.
“I don’t need to wear a business suit, Emily. No one dresses up for these meetings,” I’d said to her that morning when she’d stopped over at my place for coffee.
“This is technically your first day as the mayor, Brooke. You have to set the tone. You want them to take you seriously, right? You can’t go in there in old jeans and a ratty old sweatshirt.”
“I wasn’t going to wear old jeans and an old sweatshirt.” Probably.
“What were you going to wear?” She’d crossed her arms and looked at me in the same cross-examining way she looked at her daughter when her daughter wasn’t being completely honest, and the flush on my face had given me away.
“I was going to wear new jeans and a new sweatshirt.” I vaguely recalled resisting the urge to stick my tongue out at her. Or maybe I did stick my tongue out. Either way, I’d lost that battle, and now I was teetering along the sidewalk like a drunk on stilts. How Emily managed to get around on these wobbly chopsticks was a mystery, but she’d insisted that the red-soled pumps made the outfit, and maybe they did, but this pair was a size too big and pitched me forward at such an awkward tilt that I was shuffling more than walking. Three times in the past ten minutes, I’d taken a step forward only to have a shoe stay behind. Let that be the first lesson learned from my new job: don’t pretend to be someone I’m not.
I continued on, past the Espresso Yo’self Coffee Bar and the Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch Bakery with the flowered sign in the window that said WE’VE GOT BIG BUNS, AND WE CANNOT LIE. Then, as if to spite me, the spindly heel of one borrowed shoe plunged into a crevice of the sidewalk and stuck. My foot popped out and I launched forward, nearly face-planting onto the sidewalk. I caught an arm on the railing just in time and righted myself before looking around to see if anyone had witnessed my gazellelike gracefulness. A few tourists glanced my way, but seeing that I was okay, they continued on with their day. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along. I turned my eyes back to the shoe, glared at it, and at the sidewalk in general. Did we have money in the town budget to repair sidewalk crevices? I certainly hoped so, but first I had to get to the damn meeting. I hopped gingerly back a step and nudged the stuck shoe with my toe. It was wedged in there tighter than me in the Spanx Emily had also insisted I wear. (I hate her, by the way.) I kicked at the shoe with a little more oomph. And then again, with too much oomph that time, because the cursed thing dislodged from the sidewalk, soared through the air like an Olympic javelin, and landed with a wet, squishy squelch, stiletto heel piercing right into the center of a generous pile of horse manure. Naturally. Horse manure. No cars, remember? Bikes and horses. Pooping horses.
Well, crap.
Literally.
Old Vic and his team of street sweepers were very efficient at keeping the roads in town clean, but sticky equine refuse was a common thing, especially on a damp day like today, and it’s not that unusual to get some on your shoes if you don’t watch where you’re going. This was a new twist, though. And quite the dilemma. I pondered my next move while posing flamingo-like on the sidewalk and gazing at the errant shoe perched precariously atop the pounds of poo. It looked like the tackiest decoration on the world’s least appetizing wedding cake.
“Nice going there, Cinderella. Need some help?” A masculine voice floated over my shoulder just as a stranger moved into my peripheral vision. He stepped into the street and plucked the red-soled bane of my existence from the mound of horsey excrement. A brown leather jacket strained across his back as he bent over, and when he turned around to face me, I gripped the railing more tightly and momentarily considered swooning. He was tall. Quite tall, and undeniably handsome, all dark-haired and angular-jawed and chivalrous-like, rescuing me in my moment of need. He smiled a Prince Charming smile as if to show me that even his teeth were handsome. Yes, swooning was definitely an option, but sadly, I’m not the type. Though currently in a spot of distress, I’m no damsel. Not even a little bit. I’m Brooke Callaghan, a reasonable, sensible, practical woman, not some fluffy-headed girl prone to whimsical bouts of dramatic emotion. No swooning for me, even if he was hot-damn handsome. I offered back what I hoped was a dignified smile. As dignified as it could be, considering the fact he’d just pulled my shoe from a pile of horseshit.
“Thanks,” I said. “That was very nice of you.”
“You’re welcome. Looks like no harm was done.” He tapped my shoe against the edge of the sidewalk, effectively removing any organic matter, then set it next to my foot before straightening up. He was tall enough that I had to tilt my head back to look at his face. Broad, too, with muscular . . . everything. I reconsidered the whole swooning thing, but instead said the first thing that popped into my head.
“Would you like some hand sanitizer?” Really, Brooke? I reached into my bag without waiting for his answer, mostly so I could look down and hide abruptly burning cheeks. Hand sanitizer?
I heard his soft chuckle as he said, “Um, sure.”
Thirteen years as a teacher had taught me that hand sanitizer is always a good thing to carry around, and this just proved it. I was a problem-solver. I shouldn’t be embarrassed. I was prepared for anything. I was going to be a phenomenal mayor. My accidental prince held out a hand, and I squirted enough goop into his palm to sterilize a six-person hazmat team infected with Ebola while cleaning up a nuclear power plant explosion. I was a little enthusiastic with my squeeze.
“Thanks. That ought to do it.” He rubbed some in and shook off the excess. He might have chuckled again, but I wasn’t entirely sure because the cannon at historic Fort Beaumont boomed just then, making me jump like a timid little bunny rabbit, which was ridiculous because I’d heard that damn cannon go off three times a day, every single day of my life. I was normally immune to it, but not today apparently. The cursed shoes had thrown me off-kilter both physically and emotionally.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I think that’s just the cannon at the old fort. It seems to go off pretty regularly.”
The irony of a tourist telling me about the island made me smile, and this guy was most certainly a tourist because I’d never seen him before. I would have remembered! And, if I were the type to make split-second assumptions (which I am), I’d bet a year’s salary he was on the island to get married. Trillium Bay hosted dozens of weddings each year, and this guy had that utterly well-groomed . . . groomy look to him. His jeans fit just right and weren’t the big, baggy dad pants with all the pockets, and his shirt underneath his jacket was snug against his torso, but not too snug. It was black, with a tiny, indistinguishable logo, instead of something broadcasting his love for some college sports team or a cape-wearing superhero. Yep, a groom. Most certainly.
“Yes, they fire the cannon at noon, two, and four. Have you been on the island long?” I slipped my foot into the shoe and tried to regain my composure while at the same time preparing to make a hasty-as-possible exit. Normally I would have chatted up a visitor. I would have mentioned a few touristy things he should be sure to do during his visit, and maybe mentioned that I lived here, but telling someone you lived on the island always prompted a myriad of questions. How did we manage in the winter? What was it like growing up in such a small community? How on earth did we function without cars? And as much as I might enjoy five extra minutes with this sentient Ken doll, I had somewhere important to be, and important governmenty things to do, like . . . well, I wasn’t entirely sure yet because my tenure as mayor was literally days old. Nonetheless, there were things. I needed to go attend to the things.
“I’ve been here a few days,” he said. “How about you?”
My smile widened, and I swallowed down a chuckle. “I’ve been here awhile. Thanks again for your help. Someone will be along any minute to clean that up.” I pointed a thumb at the horse poo, not wanting him to think our streets weren’t well tended to. “Have a wonderful stay on the island.”
He nodded, hesitation flickering across his face until his smile tilted upward again. “I will, thanks, but I have to ask you . . . by complete coincidence, I’ve been following you for about ten minutes, and this is the third time you’ve lost a shoe. I find that peculiar.”
My cheeks sizzled again, and it had nothing to do with the weak autumn sun, or even his nearby hotness. My face was heating up because, really, what he meant was what kind of a klutz can’t walk and keep her shoes on at the same time? Which was a very legitimate question. Unfortunately, my answer was the kind of klutz who lets her sister talk her into things. In my defense, Emily is ten times more stylish than I am. She’s taller, and slender, with gorgeous strawberry-blonde hair. The kind of hair that always makes men look twice, if not three times. Especially men like the one standing before me, eyeing me with curiosity but not a hint of attraction because my hair is curly and brown and solidly average. Basically, on a scale of one to ten, Emily’s an eight. Our younger sister, Lilly, is a twelve, and I hover somewhere around a six, unless it’s really humid and then I plummet to a scary, witchy-haired four. Growing up I was often referred to as the smart one, and I was never sure if that was a compliment or a concession. Either way, I’d long ago come to terms with that, and hopefully, with my new role in the community, I could prove to everyone that yes, I am the smart one. However, this was not an auspicious beginning.
I looked down at my feet. “Um, they’re not actually my shoes. They’re my sister’s and they don’t fit. Obviously.” Nervous laughter rose from my throat unexpectedly—because it had just hit me. In this prince-rescues-the-damsel scenario, I wasn’t Cinderella. I was the aesthetically challenged stepsister. I was Drizella. Awesome. “Anyway, I’m on my way to a meeting, so thanks again.”
I turned with a little wave and peered down the street to estimate how many steps were between me and the post office. Too many. I’d never make it without another foot-popping mishap, especially with that soon-to-be-somebody’s-husband watching me. Choosing the lesser of two embarrassing evils, I kicked off both shoes, hooked them with two fingers, and headed off down the sidewalk to the echo of him chuckling. Again.