The Stroke of Winter(43)

“Hey, neighbor,” he chirped. “You’re up early.” He reached down and patted Storm’s head.

Tess managed a smile. “No rest for the wicked,” she said.

Jim chuckled. “That’s what they say. Need anything? I’m just about to open the store.”

Tess pushed herself up from the bench with a groan.

“Actually, yes,” she said, perking up a bit. “I could use some coffee beans. And I don’t suppose you’ve got any fresh croissants?”

Jim smiled, pointing to a delivery truck that was pulling into the alley behind the store. “Rene is right on time,” he said. “They might even still be warm.”

That was all Tess needed to hear. They walked to the store together, Storm at their heels, and she waited as Jim opened the front door and disabled the alarm. Jim met his baker, Rene, at the back door, flipping on the lights as he went. He emerged from the back room carrying a big box—croissants, muffins, and bagels—that he always offered fresh, every day from the French Canadian–run bakery that was down the shoreline a few miles.

“One plain, one almond, please,” Tess said with a grin. “Can you put it on my tab? And not tell anyone I’m going to eat two of these?”

“You got it,” Jim said, double bagging the pastries. “Your secret is safe with me. Hurry home before they get cold.”



After a hot shower, Tess settled into her warm kitchen with a cup of freshly brewed coffee and the plain croissant, which she buttered decadently. One bite sent her into culinary nirvana. That alone was a reason to wake up early in Wharton. She wondered if she should start making croissants, but then thought better of it. She couldn’t compete with this baker. She’d just buy them from him, when the time came.

She turned on the morning shows, waiting for a decent time of day to call Wyatt. After the news, a cooking segment (she made a note to try an interesting rub for steaks), and a celebrity promoting a new movie Tess had no desire to see, she figured he would be awake.

“Hey,” she said.

“Good morning,” Wyatt said. “How was your night?”

“Long,” Tess said. “I didn’t sleep much. I took Storm for a walk early this morning, and as a bonus, I ran into Jim just as his baker was arriving with the croissants.”

“Rene makes the best this side of Quebec,” Wyatt said.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that I have eaten two this morning.”

“Now you’re just bragging.”

Tess chuckled. This man was easy to talk to. “Are you still up for a visit with your grandpa today?”

“Absolutely,” Wyatt said. “But I just want you to go in knowing that . . . well, he has some memory issues. Not Alzheimer’s, exactly, but he’s got some mild dementia for sure.”

“That’s okay,” Tess said. “I’m not expecting much. But he was living in Wharton at the time Sebastian was here. They were contemporaries and certainly knew each other in such a small town. He might have a perspective, a view of that time that my dad doesn’t.”

“I know you’re wondering about the woman, too. The one in the portrait.”

The words caught in Tess’s throat, not wanting to be said aloud. But she forced it. “Your grandfather would know if anyone went missing or died in Wharton back then. Any woman. I mean, I could research this online, but without having a specific year or name or . . .”

“I get it,” Wyatt said. “A firsthand memory would be the place to start.”

That’s right, Tess thought. But why was her stomach in knots? Why didn’t she want to know what Wyatt’s grandfather might tell her?





CHAPTER NINETEEN



The ride to Salmon Bay was uneventful compared to Tess’s last drive on that road. Plows had cleared the snow, and the salt they sprayed to melt the ice had done its job. The car was rolling on dry pavement.

The Salmon Bayview complex was adjacent to the hospital and included apartments for active seniors who needed no help, those who needed some help throughout the day with things like medicines and bathing, and those who needed more help than that, including round-the-clock care. The idea was to allow seniors to stay in their apartments for the duration and let the care come to them as they needed it. A great concept, Tess thought, wondering if her own parents would benefit from such a setup someday soon.

It was just before eleven thirty when Wyatt pulled his truck into the parking lot. They thought taking his grandfather to lunch in one of the three restaurants in the complex would be a relaxed setting for their conversation.

Before they got out of the car, Wyatt turned to Tess. “I just want to make sure you’re not expecting too much,” he said. “I told you he has dementia. It’s really not too bad yet. But sometimes, he gets mixed up about things.”

“I understand that,” she said, reaching over and taking Wyatt’s hand. “I’m just grateful you were willing to do this. If he doesn’t have any insights or information for us, that’s okay. We’ll have had a nice lunch together.”

Wyatt eyed her. “It depends on your definition of nice. Be warned that you’re not going to get the best lunch you have ever had. Do not, I repeat, do not get the tuna sandwich. I’m not sure if there’s any actual tuna in it, or if it’s just tuna-flavored mayo on bread.”