Ryder's Bride (Brides Bay Book 1) Page 12

  According to Claire, it was the best spot in Spy Hill for coffee, as well as baked goods made fresh by the owners, Bella and Bertie Crump, names that sounded to Ry like something out of a comic strip. The place served ice cream and homemade fudge in a couple of dozen flavors, and often featured long line-ups of locals and tourists that snaked out the front door. Ry had sometimes been tempted to drop in when he’d passed by, but he’d driven on each time, not wanting to wade into a crowd.

  “Let’s go, Stan.” He opened the truck’s passenger door and grabbed the dog’s leash. He’d put the pooch in the back of the club cab when he loaded him up, but Stanley had, as usual, leaped over the console and installed himself in the passenger seat. Capitulating, Ry had rolled down the window a few inches so the headstrong mutt could stick his muzzle out and suck in some fresh sea air. From then on, Stanley had been happy as a clam and excited as a four-year-old on Christmas morning.

  Stanley jumped down onto the sidewalk and trotted ahead at the end of the six-foot leash, more or less towing Ry across Water Street toward the coffee shop’s patio. That wasn’t exactly surprising, since the smells drifting out of the constantly opening and closing door were seriously tempting both to dog and man.

  Claire had said meeting at the Brew and Fudgery would be a good opportunity to see how the dog reacted to people, and how he responded to voice commands and tugs on the leash.

  When his phone chimed, Ry checked the text message. Claire had just managed to get off the phone with her mother and would be at the Brew in a couple of minutes. Since Ry was already five minutes late, her timing was going to be pretty much perfect. He’d go inside and order their coffees, and she’d probably be there before the barista had her drink ready.

  Probably because it was a blustery day, the only person on the shop’s patio was a twenty-something woman who gnawed on her lower lip as she stared at her phone. Not far from her, someone had tied a little dog to the base of one of the small, round metal tables that dotted the patio. The little guy gave Stanley a couple of friendly-sounding barks, but the smells from inside were clearly far too interesting for the Newf to pay attention to some pint-sized yapper.

  “Stanley! Hold on, buddy.” Ry tugged the dog back from the door as it opened. A man dressed in a checked flannel jacket and work boots strode out, a coffee cup in his left hand and a scone clutched in his right. The guy gave him a funny look before taking a bite of the scone and walking on.

  Glancing around, Ry decided to tie the leash to one of the patio’s empty tables, like the other dog owner had done. Then he managed to get Stanley to slide slowly into the down position, giving him the stay command before he headed into the shop.

  With only one person ahead of him in line, it didn’t take much more than a minute to order Claire’s skinny latte and his Americano. Five other people were hanging around the barista, a young guy with a hipster beard and a black T-shirt bearing the Brew and Fudgery logo. After getting a few curious glances from the other customers, Ry pulled out his phone and pretended to be absorbed by it as he settled in for what looked like a few minutes’ wait.

  “Excuse me, sir. You are Ryder Griffin, yes?”

  Ry looked up at an attractive, dark-haired woman with her elbow propped on the barista counter. He was about to reply but she pressed on.

  “Ah, finally we see you in the flesh, so to speak.” The woman looked him up and down. “And I must say it is very nice flesh, bien sur.”

  Her companion, another young woman, put her hand to her mouth and giggled.

  He recognized the distinctive Quebec accent from his many hockey trips to Montreal. “Actually, I’m just a look-alike. A lot of people make that mistake.”

  “Ha, ha—you pull my leg. You cannot fool me, Ry Griffin. I watched you play at the Bell Centre in Montreal many times—me and my girlfriends. No mistake is possible.” She came over and stuck out her hand. “I am Sylvie St. Germain. I own Marché Spy Hill restaurant. This is my friend, Angel Leblanc.”

  Ry quickly shook Sylvie’s hand, trying manfully not to stare at her impressive rack, showcased by her tight Lobster Festival T-shirt. He shook Angel’s hand too, and then returned his gaze to Sylvie. “Right. I’ve passed by your restaurant a few—”

  A loud bang outside stopped him. Sylvie let out a little yelp at the same time as the barista jerked his hand and spilled the drink he was working on. Ry knew right away that it was just a car backfiring, probably the ancient Ford pickup that was now rolling past the shop.

  But what happened next had him racing out the door.

  * * *

  Already late, Claire had to hurry her mother off the phone after promising to check in later. Mom called her almost every morning, a habit formed when Claire rented her apartment six months after abandoning school in New York and moving back home. Her mom was often a bit lonely, even though she’d die before admitting it. She worried about her daughter, knowing how hard it had been for her to recover from the accident. Almost everybody else seemed to think Claire had gotten over the tragedy just fine, but not Mom.

  Her mother had always been able to read her like an open book.

  After racing down the narrow old stairs and through the front door, Claire heard a familiar backfire. Emil Conklin’s old beater of a truck was passing the coffee shop after having just made yet another of its horrendously familiar noises. Angel’s anxious little Pomeranian, Tipper, tied to one of the Brew’s outdoor tables, was barking at the truck like the vehicle was a demon risen from the Hellmouth.

  Then Claire’s heart went into her throat when she saw a panicked Stanley tearing down Water Street, dragging a metal table behind him. The massive Newfoundland pulled the heavy thing in his wake as if it were made of cardboard and duct tape.

  She took off after him. “Stanley, come! Stanley! Come here, boy!”

  Just a few yards in front of her, Ry barreled out the coffee shop door and started after the dog. Stanley was already at least ten yards ahead of him, and was smack in the middle of the street heading east at a fast clip. A blue minivan slammed on its brakes just as the dog swerved to avoid being hit. Unfortunately, while Stanley had managed to dodge the vehicle, the table hadn’t. Even over the shrill din of still-crazed Tipper, Claire caught the unmistakable sound of metal shrieking against metal as the corner of the table scraped down the side of the van. Shouting out a few choice curses, Becky Kitchen threw open her door and got out. Her jaw dropped at the sight of the long scrape on the side of her vehicle.

  “Stanley! Stop!” Ry yelled, flashing past Becky. “It’s okay, buddy! You’re okay! Just stop!”

  Her heart in her throat, Claire put on a burst of speed. Stanley was still running hard, even though the drag of the table now seemed to be slowing him down a little. She could only pray that the poor dog wouldn’t swerve in front of a car or truck before Ry managed to catch him. He was only a few yards behind now and was closing with steady, ground-eating strides. But like hers, his shouts were having no effect whatsoever on the dog. She wasn’t even sure that Stanley could hear them over the cacophony of the table scraping and clattering over the asphalt.

  “Stop!” She shrieked when she saw a farm truck swing out from a side street without stopping. It was directly in Stanley’s path. Fortunately, the driver had his window open and apparently heard her. He screeched to a stop as Stanley nimbly cut to his right and dashed around.

  Finally, the Newf hung a hard turn between parked cars, careening into the waterfront park not far from the spot where Derek and Jane’s wedding tent had taken place. Kids and moms alike stared open-mouthed as the dog and his table zoomed by the play structure. Inexplicably, instead of heading even deeper into the park, Stanley abruptly changed course again and made a beeline toward the side street, Bottlenose Avenue, aiming for the line of luxury vehicles parked there. The Promise Island moms—Claire recognized some of them—started yelling as they realized the dog was on a collision course with their fancy cars.

  “Jesus, no!” shouted one
of the young women. “Not my Mercedes! Get away from there, you stupid mutt!” She and another woman took off toward their prized wheels.

  Stanley was indeed heading straight for a small gap between a white Mercedes SUV and a black BMW sedan.

  Somehow, Ry found another gear in his chase and closed to within an arm’s length of the dragging table. Just as Stanley neared the edge of the park, the dog suddenly tacked to his right and cut between a pair of wooden picnic tables. While he was able to pass easily through the gap, the table couldn’t. With a loud crack, one side slammed into a bench seat, sending splinters of wood flying. The impact jerked Stanley off his feet as the leash hit its full extension.

  Ry flung himself to his knees beside the dog. Claire skidded up and grabbed onto the dog’s collar as Stanley struggled upright and gave a big shake.

  “Are you all right, buddy?” Ry wrapped an arm around the dog’s shoulders. “Man, you scared the hell out of me.”

  Though Stanley was panting heavily, he tried to lick both their faces.

  As Ry untied the leash from the table, Claire carefully ran her hands over the dog’s flanks and under his chest to check for injuries. Ry was barely breathing hard while she was practically gasping for air.

  “I think he’s fine, thank heavens,” she said. “The table and Becky’s van seem to be the only casualties of this little escapade.”

  “We’re damn lucky he didn’t get hit by a car or inadvertently whack a kid with that table,” Ry said, getting to his feet. He was looking a little pale under his tan. “I think his new name is going to be Stanley the Destroyer. That was too close for comfort.”

  She glanced up to see a couple of the moms staring daggers at them. The kids had run up to the scene, probably hoping to pet the dog, but the moms were holding onto them with death grips, as if Stanley might turn into a slavering, rabid wolf and start attacking them. The fact that his tail was wagging a mile a minute should have told them that nothing of the kind was going to happen.

  “Jesus, another ten feet and that stupid thing would have trashed my car,” a woman snapped, pointing to the BMW. “Can’t you people control your dog?”

  Claire gave her a placating smile. “There was no damage done, ma’am. And as for training, we’re definitely working on it.”

  “Well, it’s obvious you need to work a lot harder.”

  Ry bristled. “Hey, look—”

  “We will, don’t worry,” Claire interrupted, still hugging Stanley. Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Let it go, Ry. I know that woman, and she’s a total biyatch. It’s so not worth it to get into an argument.” She rose and began brushing the dirt off her jeans with her free hand as the women finally turned and dragged their kids away.

  “The one with the Mercedes lives just down the road from me,” Ry said, glaring at the retreating backs. “She falls into the same category, from what I hear.”

  “All I know is that her husband’s a big TV producer. People say he’s pretty friendly, but she’s …you know.”

  “ A New Yorker?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  “That’ll do it.” Claire rubbed Stanley’s head. “Well, Stanley, you certainly overreacted, but I bet you’ve never heard an awful backfire like that before.” She looked at Ry. “You can’t really blame him. Let’s just be thankful there were no human or canine injuries.”

  “I’ll take care of the repairs to that woman’s van.” Ry looked down at the damaged picnic table. “I could fix this myself, if the town would be okay with that.”

  “I’m sure the mayor would appreciate it,” Claire said, astonished that a guy with his kind of money would think about fixing a picnic table himself instead of just forking over a check.

  “Like you said, at least there was no real harm done—except maybe for lopping a few years off my life expectancy.”

  “Mine too, dude,” Claire said wryly. “This was not exactly the leisurely morning coffee we’d planned, was it?”

  “Dogs,” he muttered, though his relief that Stanley was okay after his big adventure was evident. “Stan, some serious obedience training is about to begin.”

  “As soon as we all fully recover from the mayhem,” she said.

  “A caffeine injection would be a good start.” Ry handed her the leash and picked up the Brew’s table, cradling it against his hip. The edges were all dented and scuffed. “I’ll buy the them a new table,” he added. “This one is pretty trashed.”

  “That’s kind of you. I know Bertie though, and he’ll probably feel the damage was worth the entertainment value, once he learns that everything turned out all right.”

  “Well, let’s go face the music. Right now I feel like I should have a bag over my head in this town.”

  Claire laughed. “Me too.”

  He flashed her a warm smile. “Nah. Babe, you’re the town sweetheart.”

  Babe? Claire practically fell over, but Ry didn’t seem to notice.

  As they strolled back down Water Street, she gave the leash a series of gentle tugs while using her voice to encourage Stanley to heel. The dog clearly wanted to please her, since he trotted quite nicely at her side, continually glancing up at her with adoring eyes. He was a total darling, despite his occasional bad behavior.

  “Well, that was a fine morning’s entertainment,” Dulcie Fogerty said, grinning as she set down a blue bucket. She’d been cleaning the front windows of her florist shop. On the other side of the street, the owners of one of the town’s B & Bs smiled and quietly applauded, obviously appreciating the free street show that had unfolded in front of their gorgeous old Victorian.

  “Glad you enjoyed it, Dulcie,” Claire said. “Next time we may charge money for the performance.”

  “Ha ha, Claire. Everybody’s okay, right? Even that very bad doggie?”

  “Even him. His name is Stanley, by the way. You’ll probably be seeing a lot of him around town.”

  Ry shot Claire a look as she waved a farewell to Dulcie.

  “I hope nobody took any pictures,” she said as they continued toward the Brew. “If they did, we’ll be in the Brides Bay Advocate this week for sure.”

  “At least we gave the folks a laugh. Everybody except that poor woman in the van.”

  Becky had pulled her van over to the curb and was watching them steely-eyed as they neared her. “Ry, I don’t want to criticize, but I can’t help wondering why you to tied Stanley to that table. A little Pomeranian is one thing, but a Newfoundland?”

  “My mind was somewhere else.” He shook his head, looking disgusted with himself. “It was a really dumb mistake.”

  She didn’t try to make excuses for his gaffe, and she liked that he didn’t either.

  “All I can think about was how Stan might have been killed right under my nose,” he went on. “Or caused an accident that hurt someone. I don’t think I’m going to be able to forget that for a good while.”

  “At least it happened in sleepy old Spy Hill, where there’s not much traffic and people drive carefully. Can you even imagine what would have happened in New York?” Her mind took a sharp turn back to the streets of Brooklyn and Manhattan that she’d navigated every day for years. She felt a brief wave of nausea as a series of images flashed through her mind.

  He shrugged. “It’s a lesson that I need to be more careful, that’s for sure. But yeah, this place seems safe. So safe it could put you in a coma.”

  She jabbed him on his rock-hard bicep. “Cute, but isn’t it comforting to know you can make mistakes here and still be safe?”

  He didn’t answer right away. “Bad things can happen anywhere, Claire.”

  That wasn’t the answer she’d wanted to hear. “Sure, but you have to admit the odds are better in a place like Brides Bay.”

  Ry shot her a questioning look but didn’t say anything more.

  Chapter 11

  Ry’s efforts at getting coffee worked out better the second time. After offering to buy Bertie Crump a new table—a gesture Bertie had waved
off, saying he was just glad that everyone was okay—he’d ordered new drinks and then rejoined Claire, who was waiting outside with Stanley. For the next twenty minutes, they’d walked the dog around Spy Hill’s little commercial district, getting him used to maneuvering along crowded sidewalks. Claire had kept the Newf on a tight leash the whole time, working on basic heeling. Stanley had obviously enjoyed her attention, since he kept looking at her like she was the best thing that ever was.

  Ry had to admit she looked pretty damn good to him too.

  He’d parked his truck near her apartment so it was easy to retrieve his guitar on the way back from their walk. He wasn’t sure he’d be much of a teacher, even though he’d taken lessons from several gifted guitarists over the past decade. It was one thing to be on the receiving end of instructions and another to be giving them.

  “Wasn’t it just our luck that Beth Brocklebank would be in Dulcie’s shop this morning?” Claire said over her shoulder as she led the way up the narrow staircase to her apartment. Ry reluctantly pulled his attention away from her ass to pay attention to the question.

  Brocklebank, the editor of the weekly newspaper, had rushed up to them a couple of minutes ago after Dulcie spilled the beans to her about Stanley’s escapade. He and Claire had politely refused to add anything to what Brockelbank already knew.

  “Somebody would have filled her in later,” he said. “Stanley’s little break for freedom was probably the most exciting thing to happen in this town in months. Maybe years.”

  Claire laughed as she unlocked the bright yellow door. It was covered in whimsical, Celtic-looking designs in various blue and pink shades that she had probably painted herself. “Well, you wanted to get away from all that frantic big city life, didn’t you?”

  Not so much the life as the scrutiny. “Yeah, well, Spy Hill is still trying to figure out what century it’s in. Nice door, by the way. Very, uh, colorful.”