Broken Bird (The Last Picks Book 4), page 12
But it was hard to stay angry because they both looked so cute. Millie was dressed in a beanie and a long coat that appeared to be the same material (color, texture, etc.) as a teddy bear. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and she was beaming at me. And Keme, wonder of wonders, wasn’t dressed in board shorts, or joggers, or a hoodie, or slides. I didn’t see a single item of clothing from Quiksilver, Hurley, Ripcurl, etc. Instead, his hair was tucked up under a beanie (his was black; Millie’s was a dusty rose color), and he had on a pea coat over a hideous sweater that appeared to feature Santa dancing at a discotheque. He was wearing jeans. He was wearing real shoes—leather boots that looked like they’d keep his feet warm for once.
And I knew where those boots had come from, because I’d seen them before. In fact, as soon as I recognized the boots, I knew where it had all come from.
It only took me another second to understand the other thing I’d missed: they looked like they were on a date.
They weren’t, of course. Some gentle nosing around the issue, over the last few months, had clued me in to the fact that Millie thought of Keme as a younger brother—which, to be fair, he was a few years younger, and still technically a minor. None of that, apparently, had any stopping power with Keme, however. I could see it now in the way he looked at her. Maybe he sensed me watching him, because his eyes cut to me, and his expression shifted to a guarded embarrassment.
“You look on fleek,” I told him.
Embarrassment changed into a scowl.
“What?” I asked. “That’s what the kids say.”
“No,” Millie told me, “they don’t. Come on, we’re going to be late.”
“Late for what?”
“For the lights, silly. Come ON!”
I’m still not sure if I moved of my own volition or if the sound waves rocked me off the old chesterfield.
Since I wasn’t trying to impress a girl—or a boy, or anyone, or anything, apparently ever for the rest of my natural life, kind of like one of those monks who walled themselves up in a single room—I didn’t change. My hoodie showed two reindeer competing at Pong, and my jeans were clean, and my Mexico 66s were dry. Since Ophelia still had my jacket, I grabbed a bomber from the closet.
By the time I returned to the hall, though, my better judgment had asserted itself. It was a Saturday night. It was the weekend before Christmas. The town was going to be swarming with people. The thought of all those bodies pressed together, the jostling for space, the constant noise—I could feel myself about to start sweating.
“You know what?” I said. “I think I might stay home.”
Keme gave me a look of staggering disgust.
“No, no, no,” Millie said, clapping her hands and jumping for emphasis. “You can’t! Dash, it’s so pretty. It’s magical and beautiful and wonderful, and it’s CHRISTMAS! And it’s your first Christmas here, and this can be a tradition, and we HAVE to go. There’s caroling and there’s the tree and there are s’mores.” But maybe she saw something on my face, or maybe my distress was palpable, because her smile faded. In a softer voice, she said, “That’s okay. We don’t have to go. You know what we can do? We can make s’mores here! Keme makes the best ones because he knows how to do the marshmallows the best. And we can watch a MOVIE! We can watch a really old one like Elf!”
That…hurt, I’ll admit it. But what hurt even more was the disappointment they were both trying to hide.
“No,” I said, “you’re right. We should go.” I even managed a smile. “Like you said, this can be a tradition.”
Although Bobby—and the rest of the Last Picks—had strong opinions about my driving in general and, more specifically, about my parking (if you don’t want me to park there, you need to make it clear; don’t just paint the curb red or put up a sign or have the words NO PARKING—I’m not a mind reader), we agreed to ride in the Jeep, since the alternative was being crammed into Millie’s Mazda3. The drive into town was like the drive any other night: following the winding road through the forest of spruce and fir and pine, the hint of their fragrance filtering into the Jeep, the gauzy stretches of mist that thickened as we passed through the fog belt.
But when we left the forest and Hastings Rock came into view, I saw that the town had been transformed. I’d been to Hastings Rock at night before, of course. I’d been there a few times that week—going to the Otter Slide, or running late errands. But the town that curled around the bay looked completely different now, magicked into a winter wonderland. Holiday lights outlined the steep roofs of the old Victorian houses. More lights splashed against the walls of modernist homes. Beach cottages and bungalows were trimmed with glowing icicles. And there were enough glowing lawn ornaments to light an impromptu runway for Santa’s sleigh.
My prediction had been right: the entire town was overrun with people celebrating the season. We ended up having to park in one of the visitor (aka tourist) lots on the outskirts—and that was after Keme made me move the Jeep twice for totally bogus reasons like “That’s a fire hydrant” and “That spot is only for an ambulance.” Then we walked to Main Street and followed it toward the waterfront.
The thing about Hastings Rock is that it’s beautiful any time of year. The motley architecture—everything from Cape Cods to, for example, Hemlock House—and the quaint shops and the natural beauty of the Sitka spruce forests and the sea cliffs and the blue-gray expanse of the Pacific. But tonight, it was…special. The town really had been transformed; that was the only word I could come up with. Lights were strung everywhere, of course. Red ribbons too. Mistletoe hung from the old-fashioned streetlights. The shops and studios that lined Main Street (and which were one of the big draws for the tourists) had gotten into the spirit as well. Window wonderlands celebrated not only Christmas but Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and even Yule. And then I saw the snow.
It’s not that snow was impossible on the coast—Millie had once told me every memory she had of snow. (To answer your question, I was trapped and couldn’t escape.) It wasn’t common, though, mostly because it rarely got cold enough for the snow to stick. But as we moved toward the heart of Hastings Rock, I started to see it everywhere: dusting the tops of the streetlights, sprinkled on the roofs of shops and studios, even blown into neat little piles in the corners of doorways and windows. It reminded me, in the best possible way, of Christmas in Providence, and I’d never expected that.
“It’s fake,” Millie said, and she laughed at the expression on my face. “And it’s totally safe. It’s not plastic or anything! They make it from potatoes. The next time it rains, it’ll all dissolve.”
There were probably a few steps, I imagined, from potato to snowflake, but I honestly didn’t care. It wasn’t plastic. It wasn’t toxic. It was…magical.
Everything was magical, in fact. A group of carolers stood at the next intersection, dressed in (mostly) Victorian costumes. Bliss Wilson, going against the Dickensian current—and, for that matter, the weather—had chosen a steampunk-style corset, and she was belting out a solo of “Good King Wenceslas” that defied description. Althea Wilson, with her white hair down to her back, gave me an impish wink. Across from the carolers, Chipper (by day, Hasting Rocks’ only coffee shop, and also, no coincidence, where Millie worked) had fire pits and chairs on the sidewalk, and families were gathered around them: warming their hands, toasting s’mores (Keme could have taught some of the young’uns a thing or two), and drinking cider, hot chocolate, and in some cases, adult beverages. At the next cross street, families were lined up outside the library to see Santa, and I had a moment of goggling disbelief when I realized Mrs. Shufflebottom was playing the part of Mrs. Claus. As I watched, she bent down to whisper in the ear of a little girl who was visibly nervous. A smile burst out on the girl’s face, and a moment later, she let Mrs. Shufflebottom help her up onto Santa’s lap. For one magical night, it seemed, even librarians couldn’t be evil.
The real masterpiece, though, was the town square, where an enormous tree rose against the backdrop of city hall. The Fraser fir was strung with everything from strands of popcorn to ribbon to ornaments that I dearly hoped were shatterproof. More of the fake snow had been used liberally here. On one side of the square, Seely had apparently left the Otter Slide in other hands to tend a pop-up bar, where the drink of choice seemed to be either a mulled whiskey sour or something called pumpkin-pie-in-the-sky, which honestly sounded so good that I think I would have floated over there and gotten one except Millie chose that moment to proclaim: “HORSES!”
(The horses, by the way, did not seem to appreciate it; there was lots of whickering.)
Sure enough, lined up on the other side of the square were several horse-drawn carriages. The passengers appeared to be primarily couples, of course. It seemed like a couple thing to do.
Maybe that was why it was so disorienting when I turned and saw Bobby.
He was on the far side of the square, and he was in uniform, down on one knee as he helped a little boy—who had clearly been crying—put on a mitten. His dark hair was in its perfect part, and whatever product he’d used gave it a little shine under the streetlights. His face was fixed in its familiar earnestness. For Bobby, helping a child on with a mitten would get all of his attention and focus, in the same way that saving the neck of a snooping mystery writer would, or anything else he turned his mind to. Even—and the thought made me smile—writing a parking ticket. As I watched, Bobby said something to the boy, who beamed at him, his earlier tears now forgotten. The boy rushed to catch up with a woman who was waiting and turned to offer Bobby a wave. Bobby waved back. (As if there were any doubt.)
Maybe I should go say hi, I thought. Or maybe that was a stupid idea. Maybe Bobby was enjoying his night, without having me underfoot all the time. Maybe that’s why he spent so much time out of the house these days. Maybe he was just waiting for a chance to get his own place, to have some time and space away from me. Maybe he’d realized—as a fair number of people had—how frustrating it could be to live with someone as quirky as I was (to put it politely).
But a part of me kept thinking about how he’d made up a pallet in the hall, and how he’d poured the hot chocolate for me, and how he’d wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, and how his hands had felt around mine. A part of me kept thinking that the air smelled like cinnamon and fir trees and the clean winter sharpness of the ocean, and that Bliss and Althea Wilson and their company of carolers had switched to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” and it was Christmas, and there was even, somehow, snow. And a part of me that absolutely refused to give up and die kept…hoping.
I found myself taking an automatic step; my body had apparently decided, before my brain could finish waffling, that we were going to talk to Bobby. Before I could take another, Bobby stood, and a man moved out from behind the giant Fraser fir, holding two steaming cups of something, one of which he passed to Bobby. Bobby took the drink—it couldn’t be alcohol, not while he was on duty—and the man touched his arm and said something. Instead of shifting his stance or pulling away or (my favorite option) throwing the steaming-hot beverage in the guy’s face, Bobby laughed, and the man moved in, closing the distance between them until nobody who looked at them could have any doubt what was going on.
“Dash, we brought you—” Millie said. “Oh my God, are they going to KISS?”
Keme made a gagging sound, which, to be fair, was probably at the general idea of anyone over twenty-five kissing anyone ever.
I was barely aware of Keme shoving a paper cup at me. It was warm in my hand and full of something decidedly tasty smelling—one of the mulled whiskey sours, my brain suggested. But all of that happened at a distance. All I could see was how close this guy was standing to Bobby, all up in Bobby’s space, and how Bobby was still smiling.
And then Keme poked me. Right in the tummy, too.
“Ow! What—”
Keme pointed at Bobby.
“Yeah, I know, thanks—” Before I could finish, Keme stabbed his finger at the two men again, and I forgot what I’d been about to say. Because the second man was Hayes. He looked even more handsome tonight, if possible: a gray cardigan, green gingham shirt, red bowtie, dark jeans. He said something to Bobby, leaning in to whisper, and this time Bobby’s expression changed. I recognized the politely fixed features, the public smile, the appropriately firm shake of his head. And I couldn’t help the surge of vicious glee.
Hayes said something else, to which Bobby offered another of those public-use-only smiles. Hayes touched his arm again, his hand lingering this time before finally, with a whispered comment, he turned away. Bobby didn’t watch him go; he moved into the crowd, nodding to Cyd Wofford. The town’s designated Marxist (or at least the most vocal one) had shown up for the festivities wearing a sign on a string around his neck; it said SANTA IS THE OPIATE OF THE MASSES. But he didn’t seem to remember he was wearing it. He was too busy running the toy drive barrel, and he was apparently doing a fantastic job—I saw two of the people he talked to dart into Tidepool Toys (open for business, of course, for last-minute holiday shopping) and return with carefully wrapped presents to place in the donation barrel.
Hayes, unlike Bobby, did look back. Several times. And if you could eat somebody up with your eyes, Bobby would have been missing several large chunks of himself by the time Hayes reached the edge of the square. A thought worked its way to the surface of my mind. Once he was out of sight, I’d have lost him—and I had no idea how to find him again. I needed to go after him. No, I should tell Bobby. Only Bobby already knew—that was the whole problem. I should call the sheriff. No, I should—
That was when my feet lurched into motion again, and I started after Hayes.
“Uh, Dash?” Millie said, trotting to catch up. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. I don’t know.” That wasn’t super helpful, but my brain was still telling me how stupid I was—and calling me all sorts of names you can’t say at a town Christmas party. “I’m just going to see where he goes.” I jinked around Mr. Del Real (Swift Lift Towing), who patted me on the shoulder and called a “Merry Christmas” after me. “You guys stay here.”
By that point, Keme was loping easily at my side, his face a thundercloud.
“I don’t want to ruin your night,” I said. “Go have fun.”
“Are we TAILING him?” Millie asked. “Like SPIES?”
Not, I thought, unless some ingenious spy had pioneered the megaphone approach to following a suspect.
But the sound of the holiday festivities must have swallowed Millie’s words, because Hayes didn’t glance back. He didn’t seem to have any fear of being followed. Or, I decided, of approaching law enforcement. He had approached Bobby, after all—and that wasn’t the behavior of someone who was trying to stay out of the sheriff’s reach. All of which raised the question: why was Hayes still here? (Aside from his obvious interest in a certain deputy.)
We followed Hayes along Main Street. For the first hundred yards, I kept my head down, I scurried from lamppost to lamppost, and I ignored warm holiday wishes from Mr. Li (who had set up a kiosk and was doing caricatures), Dawn Skidmore (who was grimly handing out fun-sized candy canes and making sure no child tried to cheat her by getting two), and Oscar Ratcliff (who must have sensed some grade-A gossip because his nose was practically twitching as he watched us). In other words, I did some first-class skulking.
But after that stretch, I realized Hayes wasn’t looking back, wasn’t checking to see if he was being followed, wasn’t exhibiting any signs of conniving or skullduggery. He also wasn’t stopping to look at anything, and that struck me as strange as well. We passed the farmer’s market, which had been changed into a holiday market, where Indira had a line twenty deep of people waiting to buy her cakes and cookies (the trifles were already sold out). Fox was there too; they were dressed as a steampunk Santa, which apparently required a red top hat, a red tailcoat, and about a million watch chains and gears, plus goggles with Christmas-green lenses. They were doing some sort of candy ornament station, and as we passed the market, I heard them shouting, “Not up your nose, Tristan!” But Hayes moved past all of it, seemingly without any interest, which made me wonder—again—what he was doing, and why he was here.
“Oh my God,” Millie said with a longing look at the holiday market. “We’re missing Fox’s craft!”
My own resolve faltered when I saw the food trucks. Let’s Taco Bout Tacos had a huge sign advertising their Christmas tacos (pear and pomegranate!). Through the truck’s service window, I could see LaLeesha (who had added red and green glitter strands to her hair), and Sergey (who was dressed as the world’s butchest reindeer-slash-short order cook).
I managed to dig up some willpower. No tacos. Tacos were a reward for successful sneakery. As well as for making it to Fridays, or finishing a good writing session, or because it was Tuesday. Or anytime you were sad. Or if you weren’t sad, but a taco just sounded really, really good.
No, I told myself more sternly. Absolutely not.
“Go,” I said to Millie. “I’ll be fine.”
Keme gave me a look that suggested, in true teenage fashion, I was the stupidest person he’d ever met. Millie shook her head sadly and said, “No, we can’t abandon you in the middle of a mission. Besides, what if we have to FIGHT HIM?”
The question was accompanied by a vicious chopping motion (presumably inspired by some martial arts movie Keme had forced her to watch). It caught an inflatable, off-brand Frosty the Snowman right in the carrot nose, and it flipped him, uh, hoop over garters. That might not be a saying, but it was hard to focus. I mean, the tacos were right. there.
(Frosty was fine, by the way. Some of the kids even cheered, and Millie blushed like crazy and looked enormously pleased with herself. I’m pretty sure Keme fell in love all over again.)
I was about to suggest no more chopping, but before I could, Hayes gave a wary glance from side to side—the first sign I’d seen that he might be checking that he wasn’t being observed. As he started to turn back (where he couldn’t fail to see us), I grabbed Keme and Millie and forced them toward a living manger, where Mr. Cheek, owner of Fog Belt Ladies Wear, had cast himself as Baby Jesus. Instead of a manger, they were apparently using a waterbed.
