Viator (The Viator Chronicles Book 1) by Jane Ralston-Brooks Page B

from a back room. He glanced around but didn’t see the woman anywhere. What was it about her that had seemed so familiar? He started looking at guitars against the back wall. A man with wire-rimmed glasses and a thin gray ponytail walked down the stairs and asked a customer if he could help her.
    The piano music stopped and some muffled voices came from the back room. A door opened, and there she was coming out of the room, saying goodbye to a teenage girl. He recognized her—a petite woman with pale blue eyes and dark hair. She was the same woman they’d followed, and the same one who had spilled coffee on him on the ferry. His eyes widened; she was also the woman in his dreams—the one who’d watched while he and Gary Arthur had argued in the forest. She was the same one in the cavern with Bagley. She was a viator. He was sure of it.
    He turned away and studied the guitar in front of him while watching her out of the corners of his eyes until she finished talking to the girl and went back into the room by herself. The sound of melancholy piano music came through the door. What was it? Schubert? He listened for several minutes to the gentle melody before walking out of the store and up the street. The music ran through his thoughts. He’d been having dreams about Anacortes for months but hadn’t seen this woman in his dreams until recently. Seeing a viator during the day was unusual, yet he had been drawn here, right where this one lived. Why? He walked past a bakery and saw that it served espresso, so he turned around and went back.
    He pushed open the door and went inside where the aroma of fresh baked bread made him realize he’d missed lunch. Another customer completed her purchase, and Michael asked the man behind the counter for a latte and a loaf of Italian olive bread to take home.
    “Hannah,” the man called toward the back of the store. “Por favor, make a latte for this gentleman?”
    A tall blonde dressed in overalls and a T-shirt came out wiping her hands and smiled at him. “Hi,” she said. “What size?”
    “Grande, please,” he said. “Or do you just call it a medium?” He smiled. He’d seen her before too—she was the viator’s friend. He shook his head slightly, surprised at the coincidence that had brought him into her shop.
    “Grande, medium, they both work for me,” she said with a grin, and she brewed his espresso and steamed the milk. “Say, are you new in town? I’ve seen you around before, haven’t I?”
    “You may have,” Michael said, “but I am new.”
    “Welcome to Anacortes. What do you think so far?” she asked and handed him his drink.
    “I’m … intrigued.” Michael sipped his latte.
    She gave him a puzzled expression while she washed her hands and dried them on her apron. “Intrigued? With Anacortes? Why?”
    “It’s not what I expected.”
    She laughed. “Welcome anyway. My name’s Hannah, and this is my husband Carlos.” Carlos was on the other side of the room helping another customer, and he nodded his head toward them.
    “Nice to meet you. I’m Michael.”
    Hannah squinted at him. “Michael Woodward the author?”
    “Yes.”
    “It’s so nice to meet you. I’ve read all your books—they’re great—so suspenseful. My friend Aleesha is so excited you’ve moved here. I can’t wait to tell her I’ve already met you. She’ll be so jealous.”
    “I’m glad you like my work. Thank you,” he said, surprised and flattered. He hadn’t expected anyone to have heard of him here.
    “Oh, yes. Aleesha first told me about your books, and I’ve read them all. Aren’t you doing a book signing at Blue Heron soon? Aleesha said something about it.”
    “Yes, Saturday at two o’clock.” He wondered who Aleesha was, if she might be the viator.
    Three more customers came into the shop and looked at the display cases. Hannah glanced at them.
    “Are you and your husband planning to come?” Michael asked.
    “I will, but Carlos will be working.