it as a compliment, but her words dug into him, turned the day sour. “The only adventure I’m after today is two slices of pepperoni.”
“Right,” Claire said and boxed up his lunch, put it in a bag. “By the way, the Blue Monkeys are playing at the VFW for Valentine’s Day. I hope you’ll come.”
“Absolutely,” Casper said. “Great to see you. Say hi to Jensen.”
The wind swirled in off the lake and grabbed at his collar as he stepped out of Pierre’s. He tucked his head down and headed back to the store, turning at the corner to stay out of the wind.
If anyone can help him fix the place up, it’s you.
See, that was his problem. He just kept meddling, thinking he could somehow show up and solve everything. The curse of the middle child, perhaps, this idea that he had to fix it, had to keep the peace.
In fact, the meddling could be a sort of adventure too. Sheesh, he should have seen that.
His meddling would die —right here, right now, today. From now on, Casper Christiansen minded his own business. Punched in at work, grabbed a hammer when asked . . . but no longer would he show up like some Oliver Twist, hands extended, practically begging for more of other people’s problems.
And he’d make a fantastic manager for the Wild Harbor Trading Post.
He was standing at the curb, about to jaywalk between two cars, when he saw someone emerge from the antique store on the corner. In fact, he’d thought the place closed, so the figure caught his attention.
He stilled. Backed up for a better view.
A powder-blue jacket, a pink scarf, white puffy earmuffs —itcould be any tourist bumming around town. But for the long black hair, braided down her back.
He ducked into the nearest alcove —that of the historical society —out of sight and peeked around the edge.
She’d stopped at the corner, looking both ways before crossing, and he got a good, perfect, breathtaking view of her face.
High cheekbones, a smattering of delicious freckles over her nose. Pensive amber eyes that could drill through him, make him forget his name, his destination.
He pulled his head back, tasting his thundering heart in his mouth.
Raina.
Back in Deep Haven?
He peered around the corner again and spied her headed down the street. Ready to run smack into him.
Please, Casper, leave me alone. Yeah, bumping into her would really scream moving on !
He ducked inside the historical society, moving away from the door.
“Casper Christiansen, what on earth are you doing?”
Running? But he turned at the voice and found Edith Draper standing in the foyer. A display of grainy black-and-white pictures under glass depicted a brief overview of the history of Deep Haven, and on the wall, brochures and maps showed the evolution of the area from the days of the early voyagers to the present.
Edith Draper might be the one person who’d lived through every era in Deep Haven. She wore a sweatshirt with the words Far north of ordinary , the Deep Haven logo underneath, and a pair of black pants, her white hair styled and neat. Glasses dangled from a chain around her neck.
“Hello, Mrs. Draper,” he said, watching out the window. “I . . . I was cold?”
“And now you’re just lying to me.” She stared out the window. When Raina walked by, Edith clearly saw how he turned his back to her, just in case.
“My, my, we have a situation, don’t we?” She raised an eyebrow. “And who is that young lady?”
“No one,” Casper said. His gaze fell on a box of books and clothing. “Is that a nautical compass?” He picked up the round brass object nestled in what looked like a genuine fur shopka . He opened it. A cord attached the lid to the body.
“It’s a sundial compass,” he said. “Wow, I’ve only seen a couple of these. In fact, Fitz, our dig director, had one.”
Edith came up to inspect it. “We didn’t know what it was. It had all these strange hash marks over each number —”
“See, it has an
“Right,” Claire said and boxed up his lunch, put it in a bag. “By the way, the Blue Monkeys are playing at the VFW for Valentine’s Day. I hope you’ll come.”
“Absolutely,” Casper said. “Great to see you. Say hi to Jensen.”
The wind swirled in off the lake and grabbed at his collar as he stepped out of Pierre’s. He tucked his head down and headed back to the store, turning at the corner to stay out of the wind.
If anyone can help him fix the place up, it’s you.
See, that was his problem. He just kept meddling, thinking he could somehow show up and solve everything. The curse of the middle child, perhaps, this idea that he had to fix it, had to keep the peace.
In fact, the meddling could be a sort of adventure too. Sheesh, he should have seen that.
His meddling would die —right here, right now, today. From now on, Casper Christiansen minded his own business. Punched in at work, grabbed a hammer when asked . . . but no longer would he show up like some Oliver Twist, hands extended, practically begging for more of other people’s problems.
And he’d make a fantastic manager for the Wild Harbor Trading Post.
He was standing at the curb, about to jaywalk between two cars, when he saw someone emerge from the antique store on the corner. In fact, he’d thought the place closed, so the figure caught his attention.
He stilled. Backed up for a better view.
A powder-blue jacket, a pink scarf, white puffy earmuffs —itcould be any tourist bumming around town. But for the long black hair, braided down her back.
He ducked into the nearest alcove —that of the historical society —out of sight and peeked around the edge.
She’d stopped at the corner, looking both ways before crossing, and he got a good, perfect, breathtaking view of her face.
High cheekbones, a smattering of delicious freckles over her nose. Pensive amber eyes that could drill through him, make him forget his name, his destination.
He pulled his head back, tasting his thundering heart in his mouth.
Raina.
Back in Deep Haven?
He peered around the corner again and spied her headed down the street. Ready to run smack into him.
Please, Casper, leave me alone. Yeah, bumping into her would really scream moving on !
He ducked inside the historical society, moving away from the door.
“Casper Christiansen, what on earth are you doing?”
Running? But he turned at the voice and found Edith Draper standing in the foyer. A display of grainy black-and-white pictures under glass depicted a brief overview of the history of Deep Haven, and on the wall, brochures and maps showed the evolution of the area from the days of the early voyagers to the present.
Edith Draper might be the one person who’d lived through every era in Deep Haven. She wore a sweatshirt with the words Far north of ordinary , the Deep Haven logo underneath, and a pair of black pants, her white hair styled and neat. Glasses dangled from a chain around her neck.
“Hello, Mrs. Draper,” he said, watching out the window. “I . . . I was cold?”
“And now you’re just lying to me.” She stared out the window. When Raina walked by, Edith clearly saw how he turned his back to her, just in case.
“My, my, we have a situation, don’t we?” She raised an eyebrow. “And who is that young lady?”
“No one,” Casper said. His gaze fell on a box of books and clothing. “Is that a nautical compass?” He picked up the round brass object nestled in what looked like a genuine fur shopka . He opened it. A cord attached the lid to the body.
“It’s a sundial compass,” he said. “Wow, I’ve only seen a couple of these. In fact, Fitz, our dig director, had one.”
Edith came up to inspect it. “We didn’t know what it was. It had all these strange hash marks over each number —”
“See, it has an
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