Chapter Text
Karen found that the lights were on inside the library when she walked in, droplets of water slipping off the tip of her nose, caught in her eyelashes onto the herringbone floors.
She was wary at first, hearing some shuffling and movement up ahead as she walked through the foyer, but then she heard a friendly female voice call out from further in the building.
“Sorry, we’re closed!” But then in a softer voice, Karen also heard,“I thought you locked the door?”
“I did,” a male voice replied, before Karen saw two people peek out form behind some of the stacks main floor stacks. A middle aged woman, beautiful green eyes and dark brown curls clipped back into a bun on her head, a bright red-lipstick smile on her round face, a vintage dress on her thick curves.
The man was older, maybe in his fifties— lean, tall, and neatly dressed in an argyle sweater and slack combo. He was holding a small stack of books. His hair was a mess of brunette locks with small streaks of silver, with glasses over bright blue eyes.
The two whispered to each other before the woman stepped out.
“Oh my god, are you Karen?”
Karen smiled. “That’s me,” she said for what felt like the millionth time that week.
“I’m Josie!” The woman said, a sudden burst of energy as she walked over to her. “This is Andrew,” she said, gesturing back to the man. “We work here,” she added.
“Right, I remember your names,” Karen smiled, feeling some genuine butterflies in her stomach at meeting her staff. “It’s so great to meet you, Mayor Rowland had only nice things to say,” she said.
“Isn’t she just great?” Josie beamed.
“Absolutely,” Karen agreed, still self-conscious of the box in her arms, anxious to put it somewhere out of sight.
“Looks like you got into the office alright,” Andrew said, his voice was all business, but not unfriendly.
“I did,” Karen said. “I haven’t gotten rid of anything yet, just organizing. I didn’t know how many people had had a chance to go through things and make sure that anything meaningful got to the right people,” she said carefully, imagining finding the room in disarray might have been upsetting.
Andrew pushed his glasses up his nose.“Winnie’s family didn’t even come to the funeral. Hartford was her family,” he said.
Karen saw Josie give Andrew a sympathetic look. “Maybe we should take another look, Drew?” She offered kindly. “Help Miss Page make sure everything goes where it should?”
“Please do,” Karen offered again, gesturing to the office and walking that way. “It seems to be mostly yarn and vintage erotica, besides lots of papers.”
“Yes, Winnie was a free spirit,” Andrew said.
“A messy spirit,” Josie mused, following Karen into the office, taking inventory of the ripped apart and barely scratched space. “I mean I have four kids and this still gives me stress.”
“Oh, Winnie,” Andrew sighed, shaking his head as he took in the scene. “She loved this place, practically lived here most days. Unless she was out with Beanie,” he said affectionately.
“From the coffee shop?” Karen asked.
“Yes,” Andrew nodded as he moved around the room, glancing at a thorny pile of knitting needles. “They both liked the lowbrow literature,” he said a quick glance at a particularly risqué cover of something that claimed to be about a duke.
Karen found herself smiling a little, remembering how Frank had told her how Winnie had tried suggesting “graphic” reads to him.
“What is the collection like?” Karen asked curiously. “I mean, on the floor.”
Josie let our a bark of a laugh. “Not great,” she said. “A lot of them should have been pulled from circulation for lack of interest years ago, but the city gives us a garbage budget, we’d have some empty shelves if we really went through and purged.”
Karen bit her lower lip, she had told herself to have low expectations but this was sounding worse than she imagined.
“Want some help sorting?” Josie offered. “We might be able to tell you what just needs pitched.”
Karen accepted the help gratefully once she had secured her box under the desk, under the layers of her coat, umbrella, and bag, praying it didn’t get knocked over. The trio of them quickly settled into a nice organizing rhythm, the two of them asking Karen questions here and there—so where are you from? What brought you to Hartford? Karen was grateful for their more familiar judgement as they sifted through piles of Winnie’s things. She felt comforted knowing that someone who cared about Winnie was able to help make some final decisions on her belongings.
“I’ll take the knick-knacks and mugs and more dubious books to the thrift store if you want,” Josie offered as she hefted a basket of yarn up onto the desk.
Karen nodded from her place on the floor where she was going through a stack of magazines, almost walled in by piles of newspapers that Andrew was going through with precision speed. “That’d be great,” Karen said.
While they all worked Karen got to know Josie and Andrew a little better—though Andrew was a hard one to draw details out of. Josie lived with her husband, Keith, and their four kids—two boys, two girls and they were clearly the loves of her life beyond books and she mentioned dog fostering. Andrew lived with his partner, Greg, though he was very private and not especially forthcoming with details. Though, when Josie gushed that Greg and Andrew threw lovely dinner parties, and that Greg used to be a concert pianist Andrew couldn’t help but beam with a little pride. “He’s very special,” he said.
“So,” Josie said as she found another basket to sift through. “Is it just you here, or any kids or partners?” She asked.
“Just me,” Karen said, and not without a little bitterness in her chest, though she hid it well. Originally the move from New York was something she hesitated on, because of someone. Things had moved pretty quickly once she realized they weren’t interested in taking their fresh relationship long distance Now it was just something she did her best not to think about very much. And most of the time it was working.
Josie paused for a moment, and Karen could see Josie and Andrew glancing at each other then back at her.
“You were expecting something else?” She asked, uncertain.
“No, it’s just…Well…” Josie sighed, hesitating for a moment before continuing. “It’s just that new people in Hartford are rare and consequently buzzy and then we went to Beanies’ on the way here today and they said you already knew someone here and she made us promise to ask.”
Karen’s brow furrowed. “I’d spoken to Nora a few times,” she said. “But I don’t know anyone from Hartford.”
Andrew raised a brow, gossip clearly bringing out a more curious side of him. “Really?” He asked doubtfully.
Karen laughed. “Yes, really? Who did they say I knew?”
Another conspiratorial glance.
“Only Hartford’s resident mystery man, Frank Castiglione,” Andrew said conspiratorially. “We heard you were talking in Beanie’s and then right before you walked in I got a text from Cora Phillips that you were in his truck.”
Karen barked a laugh. “What?”
Josie nodded. “We heard you were… Friendly.”
Karen’s jaw actually dropped. “He’s working on my car. Or, I thought he was, but he wasn’t, but now he is,” Karen said, then added. “The auto shop name thing is really, really insane, by the way.”
“Oh, don’t get me started,” Andrew said, momentarily distracted, the zeal of a long held bone to pick gleaming in his eyes. “I have petitioned with the chamber of commerce three times, with property documents going back to 1978 but will they listen? No.”
“Which one was actually here first?” Karen asked.
“Oh definitely Hartford Auto Repair,” Josie said as though it weren’t a question.
“Frank’s shop?” She clarified.
“Oh, just Frank, is it?” Andrew asked, peering at her over his glasses.
“We don’t really know each other,” Karen insisted. “He’s working on my car, offered me a ride because it’s raining.”
Josie and Andrew looked back at each other, Andrew raising a skeptical brow.
“Really, that’s it?” Josie wasn’t buying it.
“Yes, really,” Karen laughed. “I don’t know him beyond him looking at my car.”
“Well,” Andrew sighed. “Too bad, having info on Frank is a nice bargaining chip in Hartford, lots of curious parties.”
“No one has just… Asked him about himself?” Karen was shocked.
“Oh, they’ve asked,” Josie assured her. “He is jut incredible at dodging. Even Beanie who has next to no shame can’t get much out of him.”
“And beyond that,” Andrew chimed in. “He doesn’t leave the auto shop much besides for coffee, some food, walking his dog. Beanie will corral him into helping with town events she claims to be too fragile to do—like helping her with the stages for the children’s theatre.”
“Oh, and the town hall,” Josie said. “He shows up to deal with the noise complaints, but he just scares the shit out of everybody by silently sitting there sipping coffee and glaring at Marcie Olsen until someone pretends they ran out of time and adjourns the meeting before they can deal with it.”
“Marcie Olsen?” Karen couldn’t keep up with the names.
“Oh, she is the one who complains about the music. She owns the floral shop next door to him,” Andrew clarified. “And is the most miserable woman in town.”
“Drew, be nice,” Josie said, glancing back at Karen.
“Well!” Andrew threw back. “You know she said my puff pastry was dense at the last Hartford History Association meeting?” He added.
“I remember,” Josie assured Andrew, then looked to Karen. “The HHA is really where a lot of the drama happens, besides town halls,” she said.
“That and the PTA,” Andrew said, glancing at Josie.
Josie sighed. “Ugh, don’t get me started. Votes for bake sale director are next week and the campaign is heating up. Francine Wallace brought in coffee at the last meeting—personalized orders from Beanie’s. She must have dropped a hundred bucks.”
Andrew shook his head. “Money can’t buy competence, and you have that in spades. You’re the best fit for the role,” he said, with a warmth that came from genuine admiration, and a touched smile broke out across Josie’s face.
“You know,” Andrew said, quickly changing the topic, seeming uncomfortable in his sentimentality after a few moments. “Despite being married, Mrs. Wallace made several passes at Frank at a Fourth of July event this year, in front of God and everybody. He was helping Beanie get her car to restart and she sauntered over, blue Smirnoff in hand.”
“He’s not my friend,” Karen re-iterated carefully as she unearthed some more bodice-ripper paperbacks from behind a pile of empty picture frames.
“And a week later,” Andrew continued. “Marg Wentworth said that he came back from a ‘fishing trip’ and she saw him sneak up into the apartment when she was picking up her Volvo and he had a black eye.”
“He’s obviously a criminal,” Josie said sarcastically.
Andrew looked to Karen, ignoring Josie. “There’s a reason a man that looks like that walks into town and doesn’t talk to a single one of the women—or men—who suddenly and desperately needed their oil changed,” he said. “Frank Castiglione was dodging casseroles, cakes, cookies, and many a desperate spectacle for the first month he was here. These small town women are like starving piranhas—a little fresh meat that doesn’t wear oil slick fishing sunglasses and they lose their minds.”
Karen looked to Josie, who shrugged. “It’s true. I haven’t seen the women in the PTA so riled up except when W.A.P. played at a homecoming dance.”
Karen stifled a laugh, realizing just why a quick conversation in a coffee shop had started such a buzz, Frank had already been a subject of interest long before her arrival.
“Well, if he tells me anything especially juicy while he’s ringing up my invoice I’ll let you know,” she promised despite having no interest in trading in Frank-secrets, and also deciding not to share that he planned on being there at six to take her home.
“Oh, speaking of gossip!” Josie exclaimed suddenly. “I was so distracted by the Frank commotion, I forgot: they arrested someone here last night?” She said,
Andrew’s brow shot up. “They what!?” He exclaimed.
Karen was glad Josie had so quickly (and graciously) turned the topic from Frank. “Uh, yeah some guy was drunk out front. The Sheriff and a deputy happened by, picked him up.”
“Who!?” Andrew seemed put out about not already knowing the details of the commotion.
“Ah, his name was Holmes?” Karen tried to remember details. “Drunk, wanted in for some county records in the middle of the night?”
Josie perked up. “He’s not from here,” she said. “But his cousin Daniel Wilkes and their uncle are. Though, the uncle just passed, he lived on the outskirts of town, owned a big farm,” she explained.
“I heard there is a little property dispute coming up about that,” Andrew mused, distracted momentarily by a 2009 edition of the Hartford Gazette in his hands. “Well, Holmes was here the other day,” Josie said. “And he was after property records. I told him we weren’t open and he’d need to come back. Honestly, I wanted to help but I don’t even know where to start with the old county records. Winnie’s system was her own.”
“Those are all in the basement, right?” Karen asked.
“Yeah. It’s dry and tidy it’s just the way she filed it all,” Josie said. “We’re happy to help with that, too, of course. When the time comes.”
“I will add it to the list,” Karen nodded.
“Oh, while you have a list in the works,” Andrew said, looking up from the paper. “Town hall is next Wednesday after the budget meeting—bring popcorn, rumor is they’re going to be talking about the Thanksgiving food drive, proper leaf disposal, and businesses that aren’t participating in the festive decorations, which is absolutely directed at Frank as well— the town tyrant, William Hobbes runs the corner store, the HHA, and wants to run the town hall.”
“Marcie and William are always in fine form at the town hall. I bring movie theatre candy and Andrew brings cocoa. It’s great, you should sit with us!” Josie invited.
“I’d love to,” Karen said honestly.
“And we’re doing a booth at the Fall Festival on Saturday,” Andrew said. “I bought a ton of candy and Josie has made bookmarks to give out.”
“I will be there,” Karen assured him “Anything I can bring?”
“We have the decorations and Keith built us a stand a couple years back,” Josie said. “So it would just be nice to have you there— it’s a great chance to meet people. Though, be prepared to feel like you’re in a fishbowl if you don’t already.”
Karen ironed out some details with Josie and Andrew about what needed to happen before their re-opening Saturday morning—they had been re-shelving any drop box returns, keeping the building clean. The main thing needed to re-open was making sure that they were all on the same page about scheduling, payroll, getting Karen up to date on their computer system. It would be just the three of them and then a small rotation of volunteers from the high school. Apparently if things were light the town hall would notify everyone and ask for some help and someone eventually meandered in and helped get things going.
Karen’s office clean up and crash course went on until nearly five. Karen was a quick study and had always enjoyed grasping a new process, digging into a new place and getting to know the moving pieces. By the end of the day, she had a small sense of belonging with Josie and Andrew, nosiness and all
Karen hung back after they helped her close up and left so Frank picking her up wouldn’t become a public exhibit, pretending to need to file some paperwork.
Looks like I’m out a little early— I can walk if you’re still working, nbd.
She sent the text before gathering up her things, preparing to walk in the deluge, but Frank responded quickly.
Shop closes at five. I’ll be there in a few.
Ok.
Karen held her packing box close to her chest, after she locked ups standing under the overhang, ignoring a couple of people openly staring out their passenger windows in their cars as they drove by. Luckily it was dark so she could obscure herself in the shadows, though she was still pelted with wet leaves being pulled off the trees by the rainfall, thunder still rumbling off in the distance, thin streaks of lightening on the horizon line.
She saw the truck pulling up, a small bit of nerves twisting in her stomach. She thought about the warm, dark truck cab— the heavy scent to cologne and engine oil.
Frank parked the truck and she ran down the stairs quickly. Frank reached across the cab and opened the door for her. She ducked inside, the cab light on illuminating the high points and broad edges of Frank’s features, shadowed and sharp. He was in different clothes than earlier, a clean pair of jeans and a new jacket and hoodie combo. His hair was damp and she could smell what she guessed was shampoo or body wash—spiced, dark, warm. Something acoustic played gently on the radio.
“Hey,” she said, shaking her hair out a little while she balanced her box on her lap.
“Hey,” Frank smiled back. “Wasn’t sure you’d actually let me drive you.”
“You had some stiff competition,”Karen told him. “Josie offered me a ride in her mini van, with the promise of cold French fries and soccer gear in the seats.”
“And you didn’t take her up on that?” Frank laughed.
“You can’t accept rides from strangers, Frank,” Karen said with mock seriousness.
Frank was amused, putting the truck back into gear. “Speaking of, where do you live, exactly?”
“22 Currant street,” Karen said. “Not far.” Frank started down the road, windshield wipers groaning rhythmically against the windshield while the rough voiced vocalist and guitar continued to drift from the radio. .
“So, first day went alright?” Frank asked.
Karen leaned back into the seat. “I think so. Made some headway on the office, got to know Josie and Andrew. Planning for the fall festival this weekend.”
Frank groaned. “Aw, fuck, I forgot about that.”
Karen laughed at his look of sheer dismay. “What festival hurt you?” She asked.
“Take your pick the town does one basically every month,” Frank said. “And Beanie always guilts me into helping with the set for her theatre thing.”
“Hey, she’s… Elderly.” Karen defended.
“That woman is strong as an ox, she’s just trying to socialize me like I’m a shelter dog.”
“Sounds like it’s well-intentioned?”
“It’s slightly invasive, wholly unnecessary, and very uncomfortable” Frank countered.
“Sounds like something a shelter dog would say,” Karen mused and Frank gave her some cutting but amused side eye.
Frank turned onto Currant Street and they came up on her house quickly, the street drenched in a haze of orange lights and glimmering rainfall, the cab of the truck once again feeling insular, warm, almost like it’s own little microcosm.
Frank pulled into her driveway after she pointed out he house, putting it in park up close to the garage.
Karen pushed her hair away from her face, adjusting the box in her lap.
“You want help bringing your stuff in?” Frank offered, glancing out at the rain, which had now gathered into deep puddles along the edge of her driveway, over some lower parts of the sidewalk.
Karen considered. How Not to Get Murdered 101 said absolutely not, but Frank had yet to make her nervous, even if she knew she lacked the foundation to make a clear call. Though, she did also have the added advantage of everyone likely recognizing Frank’s truck. Worst case scenario: he murdered her and someone witnessed his truck in her driveway—surely even Sheriff Elson could solve that crime. Best case: everyone who saw it would think she was already entertaining men in her house and she’d be labeled the new town harlot like it was the 1700s by morning. She decided either one was worth not making two trips.
“If you want,” she said, making sure to keep her grip on the box in her lap—grateful to be in the home stretch of dealing with the liability.
Frank grabbed up the other box, and followed her out of the truck, through the rain, and up to the door where she fumbled with her keys and got the door open beneath the overhang of the porch.
The moment Karen got inside she could feel that there wasn’t a significant shift in the air between outside—which was rapidly dropping into the thirties with the rain and wind— and in the house.
Karen sighed and Frank watched the faint ghost of her breathe hang, visible in the cold air.
“Fuck,” she muttered as she realized the heat wasn’t on.
“They haven’t turned on the heat yet?” Frank was skeptical.
“It was working this morning,” Karen assured him, quickly placing her box in a safe corner out of view before going over to the thermostat on the wall in the hallway that lead back to the kitchen and off to her bedroom—which was an old dial control.
“It’s set to 68,” she said, a shiver running over he arms.
Frank set down the other box. “Where’s the unit?”
“My heater?”
“Yeah, in the basement? A utility closet?”
“Uh…” Karen glanced as though it might materialize. Asking where her heater unit was hadn’t been a top priority for her during her rushed tour of the house. “I guess I don’t know. Probably the basement?”
“Want me to check the basement? Take a look?” Frank offered.
Karen ran a hand through her blonde, damp hair. “The basement is… Rustic,” she said. She had been shown a sneak preview from the top of the stairs and had vowed to never go down. It was a cellar more than a basement, from what the landlord had said.
Frank laughed, and she was caught off guard yet again by how magnetic the deep tones felt as they hung in the air. “I think I can handle whatever is down there.”
Karen relented, gesturing for him to follow her down the hall. The hallway led back to the kitchen—which served as a sort of small hub in the house. It held a breakfast nook to the left with a formica top table and mismatched chairs. There was a door out to the backyard on the back wall, and the door to the basement on the right wall next to where the fridge and stove were positioned. Much like the rest of the house, it was a mismatch of old and new. Refinished wood floors, retro wallpaper, an eclectic mix of furniture and fixtures. Some of the appliances were vintage—a pale green stove, an old blue stand mixer, the wall was decorated in yellow floral wallpaper from the 70s, the floors hardwood. A small island stood, covered in unpacked boxes, a smattering of leaf garlands and pumpkins piled up on the countertop.
Karen had to yank hard on the antique door to the basement, warped a little by time so it didn’t fit quite right in the doorway anymore. She pulled on the rusted pull chain light switch and illuminated the descent down on dusty, spiderweb draped stairs.
“You, uh, coming down?” Frank asked, glancing past her, appearing unbothered by the horror movie stairwell.
Karen gave him a pointed look. “Am I going to follow a man I met yesterday down into a dark, dreary, soundproof basement where my body would go undiscovered for weeks? No.”
A smile broke out onto Frank’s face. “Atta girl,” he nodded, then turned, pulling the flashlight hanging on the wall inside the door. He clicked on the bright beam. “I’ll be back,” he said, before descending without any hesitation into the dark space.
Karen stood for a few moments until Frank went out of view. Another shiver pulled at her body. She turned and found her kettle that was underneath some kitchen towels in a box and filled it with water, throwing it on the stove for some tea—craving the feeling of some warm stoneware between her cold hands.
While she waited, she quickly tried to tidy up the messy kitchen space—god, she really needed to just finish unpacking once and for all. She was considering running back to change out of her damp clothes when she heard a loud clatter down in the basement, followed by some rough curses.
She moved back over to the basement doorway. “Frank?” She called, to no response, only more clattering sounds she figured she couldn’t be heard over.
She turned on the flashlight on her phone and moved carefully down the stairwell, which landed on rough concrete floors.
The space was crowded with old bins, toolboxes, some dusty Christmas lawn decorations, and other unlabeled cardboard boxes. Karen’s landlord had vaguely warned her that there was a small accumulation of things from herself and previous tenants from over the years. The lights hanging overhead that Frank had turned on where old, yellowed bulbs that barely cast any light.
She looked around to see Frank in the corner, boxed in by several totes and a couple of Santa blow-molds. He had the flashlight held between his shoulder and jaw as he used both of his hands to re-fit and screw a panel back into the side of a large utility unit she assumed was her heater.
“You alright?” Karen asked. “I heard… something.”
Frank looked over at her as he continued to try and hold up the panel, the flashlight, and screw in another corner. “I think I broke your, uh…” he gestured down. “Whatever that was,” he said before finishing up the last two screws easily.
Karen moved forward until she saw a cheap, threadbare wire and tinsel lawn reindeer crushed by Frank’s boots.
“That was my grandmas,” Karen said, hoping she put on a properly distraught face.
“Fuck, are you serious?”
“Vintage.”
“Shit.”
“Handmade in Italy by luxury craftsman, obviously, you can tell by the signature dust-encrusted K-Mart tag,” Karen continued, unable to hold her face together any longer and
Frank’s expression quickly looked unamused, but he had a wry smile on his face.
“Heater’s working,” he said, stepping away from it, unable to avoid stepping on the reindeer again as he maneuvered around some more boxes. “It was a filter, there was a spare one against the stairs so they probably just forgot to get it done before you moved in,” he said, walking back towards her—knocking over a couple of small boxes as he did.
“Probably couldn’t get back here very well,” he mused.
“There’s so much shit in here,” Karen mused, though she couldn’t help her curiosity, and leafed through the tops of one of the boxes near her—old clothing patterns, a doll, and then a sudden quick movement on the floor—
Karen startled, dropping her phone, crying out as she scrambled back and away from the mouse that darted across the floor by her feet, and crashed directly into Frank.
He steadied her quickly, though a little harshly, large hands on her waist and arm…
“Whoa, whoa, you alright?” Frank’s voice was more confused than alarmed.
“It was— It was just a mouse,” Karen managed through her startled breathlessness, which was giving way to laughter, a hand over her heart which was racing.
Frank gently let her go, and she turned to face him, having to tilt her head up a little to see his dark eyes. Even in the dark, cold basement she could smell the spiced scent on his skin.
“You alright” he asked again, and she could feel his low voice at this distance, the heavy timber echoing against her chest.
Karen nodded up at him. “Yeah,” she whispered.
Because of the harsh flashlight and the dim bulbs his face was deeply shadowed making him look hollowed like a skull, besides the lines of his lips that just looked heavy and full and..
Frank reached out slowly, and Karen swore her heart stopped functioning, her brain shutting off.
“You’ve got…” Frank glanced at her mouth, then looked back at her hair. “Spiderwebs,” he said, then gently pushing the near-invisible silken strands out of her hair.
Karen knew a blush filled her cheeks and she prayed the shadows hid it. She went to say something, but jumped again as the tea kettle upstairs started to whistle loudly. Frank smirked a little when she startled into him, fingers wrapping into the fabric of his jacket.
“Sorry,” Karen practically ripped her hands back off of him. What the hell was wrong with her? “Uh, tea?” She offered, her voice coming out small and strangled, still feeling a tingle on her scalp where his fingertips had been.
Frank looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Yeah.”
Karen turned quickly and led the way, scooping up her phone as she went--somehow, despite her string of misfortunes the screen wasn't cracked. Her entire body was humming and her lips ached in a way she told herself she just needed some air. God knew what kind of mold was down
there. Yes, mold, this unhinged response to a man she had seen maybe three times was the product of mold exposure.
Once she reached the kitchen she quickly pulled the kettle off the burner, and grabbed two mugs—one shaped like a ghost, the other one a black cat. She dropped tea bags into each and poured the water while Frank checked the heating vents in the kitchen.
“It’s working,” he confirmed as she slid the cat mug across to him on the counter. She leaned up against it, turning the mug around in her hands.
“So, car mechanic, stage builder, furnace repair man… What can’t Frank Castiglione do?” Karen asked.
Frank shrugged. “I’m shit with computers,” he said. “Not great at baking. Can’t knit a sweater.”
“You tried knitting?”
“Exactly once.”
“No baked goods, no clothing hand-knit with love—Christmas must be rough for you.”
“The techs have gotten used to gift cards.”
Karen took a drink of tea, the warmth flushing comfortingly through her throat and chest. “So, you’ll be at the festival on Saturday, then?” She asked.
Frank met her her gaze, dark wine eyes holding her in place for just a few moments before he looked back at his tea. “Yeah, bright and early.”
“Same,” Karen nodded. “We are doing a booth. Josie made bookmarks, Andrew bought Halloween candy. Should be fun.”
“Maybe I’ll… See you there, then?” Frank said, and Karen couldn’t fight the smile on her lips.
“You will if you want to,” she said.
“I want to,” Frank said simply.
Karen knew a rose tint was creeping up her neck and cheeks, she pushed her hair behind her ears. “Okay, then you will.”
Frank gave her a small smile, then looked out the window. “Guess I should get back, then,” he said.
Karen straightened, clearing her throat. “Right, yeah. It’s getting late,” she said, glancing at the clock to see it was seven, the sky outside completely black.
“Hey if it takes a minute on the car—which it might, ordering parts here is a bitch—just let me know if you need a ride, okay?”
“Thanks—for everything.”
“It’s really no problem,” Frank promised, then slid his mug back over to her. “Night, Karen.” Her name sounded so strangely soft in his deep, rough voice.
“Night,” she managed.
He nodded to her before he left the kitchen, his footsteps and exit quiet down the hall.