Just Killing Time (5 page)

I
pulled the door of the shop closed, turned, and stood on the porch, surveying the town. I looked over at the new bookstore and had to smile. What a great old building—one of the few in the valley that had survived the floods that ravaged the area until a few strategic dams were put in place. The building was also one of the originals in Orchard. Brick construction, which was not the norm in the day. Legend was the original owner had taken a load of bricks as payment for a debt and he used them here. High ceilings, sturdy post and beam construction. The building took a long time to build and had very special additions. Trapdoors, removable walls, hidden passages, custom-built cabinetry. It started life as a merchant's home, but was turned into a bank in the late 1800s and had stayed one ever since. Until now.

The Cog & Sprocket wasn't quite as grand, but it still had
a rich history. My great-grandfather either bought the building or took over the payments. Or won it in a poker game. That part of the family history was always a little hazy. It was a general store for years until the Clagan family moved in and made it a clock shop, the first in the Berkshires.

My grandfather may have inherited the building and the family business that went with it, but my grandmother made it an Orchard institution. She worked closely with her long-widowed father-in-law to make it more hospitable. She wrestled my grandfather away from the shop long enough to get him to add the two-story porch that ran all along the front. Then she added the rocking chairs and the flowers. I'd spent hours sitting in those chairs, reading, drawing, dreaming. I'd forgotten how wonderful that porch was. I was tempted to just sit, but I was in search of more coffee. And nothing got me moving like a caffeine quest.

Fall in New England was generally glorious, and today was no exception. The cloudless sky was sapphire blue, with the lazy autumn sun just making an appearance, giving just enough light to twinkle on the dew beading on multicolored leaves. A low-lying fog would burn off soon, but for now it gave Orchard an appearance of a ghost town rising from the past, with twinkling dew waking it up.

The fog suited the old Town Hall down the street. The gray siding, white trim, and black front door all melded together. The building was a story higher than any other building in town, but still, it didn't impose. Instead it just held back, serving and keeping watch over the citizens of Orchard. The building was a community center, after-school care venue, and occasional community theater. When I was growing up, the Saturday after Thanksgiving there was
always a town pancake breakfast, a benefit for the Winter Citizen Fund. Christmas trees were sold in the parking lot, and the Christmas craft fair was held inside.

“She is the town center, but not well respected,” my grandfather would always say. “She needs her works put back.”

By that he meant the clock tower, the gift that my great-great-grandfather made to the town almost a hundred years ago. During World War II the clock's workings were stripped and melted down for the war effort. After the war they were reinstalling some of the ironworks and there was a fire in the old clock tower. The tower burned but the rest of the building was saved.

The structure of the tower was rebuilt but the clock was not reinstalled since it had never been a priority for the Board of Selectmen. But rebuilding the clock tower in its entirety was a Clagan family obsession, passed down from my great-grandfather Harry to my grandfather. And from my grandfather to me, skipping a generation past my academic father.

The old clock tower hadn't been just a timepiece. It had been an art piece. Once a month, on the first Saturday at four o'clock, the clock would begin to chime and the show began both outside and in the main chamber of the Town Hall. Doors opened, figures spun, and music played. It lasted for five minutes.

There were still pictures, the initial drawings, and one shaky silent film, but the glorious history was just that, history. My grandfather had been one of the few people in town who still remembered. He'd always dreamed of rebuilding it. I'd stayed up late reading G.T.'s notes. According to them he was sketching out his ideas just weeks ago. In fact, from what I could see, he'd started to work on the project anew, at least on paper, a few months ago. I wasn't sure what had
fired up his imagination again, and somehow it felt very important to try and figure that out.

I shook myself out of my daydreams and memories. I needed more caffeine first, and breakfast. But I also needed some questions answered, and I hoped that Moira could take care of all three.

I
stepped off the porch and headed to my left. When I was growing up in Orchard, half the town thought the building next door was an eyesore while the other half rooted for the owners, the Parkers. They'd bought the lot and opened a small drugstore with a family apartment upstairs. When the children were a little older, Mr. Parker built an addition and Mrs. Parker opened a beauty shop. A couple of years later Mrs. Parker's brother—I think it was her brother, or maybe a cousin—someone opened a barbershop in a second addition in the back. The Parkers hadn't even tried to make all three spaces look alike. In fact, Mrs. Parker's family had been in construction, so everything was built with leftovers from renovations and new construction. Lots of sinks, but nothing matched. Different countertops. Cabinets that were
a little nicked or dinged. “A carpenter's castle” is what my grandfather called it.

I wondered what he'd thought of the renovation. It looked like everything matched, or at least as far as I could tell by looking at the two chairs in front of the shop. I took a step toward the front window, trying to look in. I was about to cup my hands against the window to see better when a dog barked. I turned just as a large gray, black, and white ball of fur came hurtling toward me. I expected him to jump up, but he stopped short and plunked himself down next to me, wagging his tail. And smiling. The dog was smiling at me.

I lowered my hand slowly and kept my voice steady. “Hello, sweetheart, it's nice to meet you more formally. My name is Ruth. We haven't been properly introduced.” I held out my hand and he answered by nuzzling it and flipping it over so I would pat his head. I gave in, setting my bag down as I scratched him with both hands. He stood up and leaned into my hands, trying hard to give me a kiss. I kept him at bay for a bit, but soon realized he was just a big sweetheart. I kissed the top of his head and he barked his thanks. I love dogs.

My ex-husband did not like dogs. Or cats. Or, as it turns out, me. He obviously had bad taste.

“Blue, leave her alone!” A tall blond man ran across the street. The guy I'd almost hit when I drove into town. He was hard to forget.

“You know, they have crosswalks here for a reason,” I said, continuing to pet the dog.

“What?” He smiled at me while he leaned over and put a leash on Blue.

“We almost met yesterday when I wasn't paying attention
and almost hit you.” He took off his glasses and squinted at me. I was right, his eyes were blue.

“Actually, you told me I almost hit this guy. Which would have been terrible. Wouldn't it, sweetheart?”

“Blue has a lot of energy. And gets into a lot of trouble. We're still trying to figure out this whole ‘living in town' thing.” Mr. Scruffy looked at me, or rather looked at my hair. A mop of auburn curls that I'd piled on top of my head. “You here for a cut? Or a shampoo?”

I raised my hand to my head and tried to pat down my flyaway curls. “No, just looking.” Mr. Scruffy looked very disappointed. “Is this your shop?”

“Yes. Just opened it last summer.”

“I grew up here. My grandmother used to take me to see Mrs. Parker. It was a little different back then.”

“Hopefully a lot different. I moved in last December. It took me a long time to renovate.”

“You bought it?”

“Sort of. My uncle Phil owned the drugstore and offered me the barbershop. My aunt Flo was Mrs. Parker. She ran the beauty shop for years, but decided to retire and travel the world, so I combined the two. Want to take a tour? We don't open for another hour, but I'd be happy to show you around.”

“I make it a habit not to tour barbershops with strangers.”

“It isn't a barbershop. It's a hair salon. A friend found the barber pole in Brimfield and gave it to me as a housewarming. Or salon-warming? Anyway, let us not be strangers. I'm Ben Clover. And you're?” He held out his hand and I took it.

“Ruth Clagan.”

“Clagan? Thom's granddaughter?” He put his other hand
on top of mine and held it for a second longer. “I'm so, so sorry. Thom was a great guy.”

“How did you know who I was?”

“I didn't until Caroline told me you'd be taking over the shop. Folks around here play it pretty close to the vest. Especially when you aren't from here.”

“Yes, they do,” I said. Cranky Yankees, as my grandmother called us. Even if you were related to folks, you weren't from here. And being from here mattered.

“If Aunt Flo had been here to introduce me to the town, give me her stamp of approval, that may have helped things. But she and Uncle Phil had a huge blowout and she took off in her RV. That left Uncle Phil to make the introductions, which didn't help things much. He wasn't too popular, but maybe you knew that? Thought maybe the town frost would melt after he died last March, and business would pick up after I renovated, but no such luck.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't know he'd passed on.”

“Thank you. He was quite a character, and I miss him. But he didn't take to the role of town elder, not like your grandfather. Not sure Phil put much back into Orchard. But Thom Clagan sure did.”

The silence that followed should have been awkward, but it wasn't. I was thinking about G.T. and how much he loved Orchard. Of course it helped that I was staring into the stunning blue eyes of Mr. Ben Clover. I finally broke the silence.

“Ben, I'd love to see the shop, but I'm in desperate need of some caffeine. Maybe on my way back?”

“Going to the Latte? How about if I walk you?”

I hesitated, but only for a moment. “Sure, that would be great.”

Blue actually walked us, pulling on his leash, chasing some unseen foe. Ben bent over to tie Blue to a post outside the Sleeping Latte, but Blue wasn't having it, despite the dog-friendly parking space, complete with a bowl of water and tin of dog biscuits left by the front door.

“He needs to walk a bit more,” Ben said.

“Seems so. He has a lot of energy, doesn't he? He's an Australian shepherd, right?” I bent over and rubbed Blue's ears, returning his smile of contentment.

“Not certain, since I adopted him from the pound, but I think so. Wonderful breed, but they need lots of attention and exercise, otherwise they get into trouble.”

“Is it true that owners take on the characteristics of their pets?”

“It is indeed, Ruth. We can discuss the specifics another time, after you and Bezel have gotten to know each other a little better. Don't look so surprised. Bezel loves me. And she's pretty fond of Blue, though she likes to play hard to get.” Ben started to smile, then stopped. “Listen, I'm really, really sorry about Thom. He was a good friend to me these past few months. He promised me he'd show me how to repair an old cuckoo clock I found in the shop. Wish I'd taken him up on that.” Blue tugged on the leash and Ben gently pulled him back a bit. “I know that Thom didn't want a service, but Caroline said she wanted to talk to you before she made a decision. I'd love to have a chance to honor Thom in some way, so keep me posted on any plans.”

“Thank you, I will.”

“Let me know if I can be of any help with anything.
Anything at all. I'm right next door, except when I'm walking the beast. Okay, Blue, I'm coming. Are you staying at the shop?”

“For a few days at least. Until I figure out what I'm doing.”

“I'll see you around, then.” We stared at each other for a second too long, then he turned and walked away. My heart did a little leap, and I couldn't help but smile. I watched Ben and Blue walk away for another minute before going into the Sleeping Latte.