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young as she used to be, and Noel is older.
“We’ll stay in a hotel near the airport tonight and go pay for the car in the morning, and then we’ll be in Waterfield around lunchtime.”
“OK,” I said.
“I’ll give Miss McGillicutty a call and tell her to expect us tomorrow instead of today.”
“Do you want me to tell her?” I offered. I wouldn’t mind an excuse to knock on the door and try to find out what was going on.
“That’s OK, darling,” Mom said, “I’ll do it myself. I’ll give you a call when we get in tonight, just so you know we got there all right.”
I told her that would be great and hung up, worrying my lower lip.
“What?” Derek said. “Something wrong?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. There was just something weird in the way she talked about spending the night in Boston and picking up the car tomorrow morning instead. Something—I don’t know—clandestine, almost. Or secretive.”
“Maybe they’re looking forward to some hanky-panky in a nice hotel room?” Derek suggested, hiding a smile. “They haven’t been married very long, have they?”
“Oh.” I flushed. Duh. “Yeah, maybe so.”
“You hungry?”
I considered. “I could eat. You?”
“Always.”
“You want to go grab some lunch?”
“Actually,” Derek said, “I was hoping that you would go grab some lunch and bring it back here. I have a lot of work to do, since we spent most of the morning driving to Portland and back.”
“What do you want? Lobster roll?”
Derek nodded. “And a Moxie.”
“No problem.” I made a face. Moxie soda is the official state beverage of Maine, and it is an acquired taste. Something like what you’d get if you added bitters to root beer or Campari to Coke. It’s made from—among other things—wintergreen and gentian root. Incidentally, it was one of the first carbonated soft drinks mass-produced in the United States, all the way back in 1884.
He leaned in for a kiss. “See you later, Tink.”
He swatted my butt and sent me on my way.

    From Kate’s B&B to the little hole-in-the-wall deli that makes the best lobster rolls in Maine, I had to go down Main Street, the main drag in Waterfield. It runs from the harbor to the top of the hill, through the historic district, and from there north to Augusta. The street is lined with Victorian commercial buildings, with storefronts and offices on the first floor and storage or lofts above. Derek’s apartment is above the hardware store, and Waterfield Realty, where Melissa James, his ex, is top producer, is just down the street. The annual Victorian Christmas Celebration was due to take place in another week and a half, and many of the merchants were getting their storefronts ready. As I passed Nickerson’s Antiques, the owner, John, knocked on the glass and spread his hands to show me his display.
I had met John a couple of months earlier, when Derek and I were renovating the ranch on Becklea Drive. John’s store focuses mainly on what’s called midcentury modern: 1950s, ’60s, and ’70s stuff. Teak furniture upholstered with Naugahyde, shaggy wall hangings of giraffes and zebras, pictures of big-eyed children in rags clutching kittens and puppies, lava lamps, and bucket chairs. He’d gone with Elvis’s “Blue Christmas” as a theme for the window: There was an old-fashioned turntable on a teak stand, a white tulip chair, an aluminum Christmas tree with blue balls and white lights sitting on a fake sheepskin rug, gifts wrapped in blue and white paper, and a stack of old LPs, while a 1950s ball gown, with an impossibly tiny waist, hung from a wall screen.
The display looked great, even if there was absolutely nothing Victorian about it. I gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up and got a grin in return before I continued down the sidewalk, thinking about the pale blue gown. It was strapless, with a satin bodice embroidered in swirls and a plain satin underskirt with a couple of layers of blue tulle over the top. All it needed was a huge, black flower pinned at the waist, with some seriously sexy, strappy