I glanced at him in alarm and hoped he wouldn’t shoot any unsuspecting walkers with their dogs.
Sam held a finger to his lips. “Ssh. I shouldn’t talk like this around the punkins. That’s why I don’t let Dottie near ’em. She’s got bad energy. It stresses them out.”
We turned and strolled back toward the house. “Sometimes I play music for them,” he said. “Brahms mostly, but the romantic tunes, not his melancholy stuff.”
“So the pumpkins like music?”
A seed of an idea was sprouting in my brain.
He nodded vigorously. “I know it helps them grow. I can almost see the leaves move.”
“Sam, have you ever heard Tony Zappata sing?”
• • •
On Wednesday morning, before I opened the store, I trudged up to the salvage yard. It had been raining, and I probably should have taken the car, but I was still on my kick of trying to save every penny I could. I picked my way around deep puddles along the muddy road, past green wooden shutters with crackled paint, and Victorian iron gates and fencing. There was a new stack of rusty radiators near the trailer and a gap where the carnival wheel used to be.
Cyril looked glum as he met me at the door, once he saw that I’d come without coffee from the diner. I followed him inside and he made a big production of filling the teakettle and banging it onto the stove. The phone rang and he glared at it.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?”
He shook his head and sighed deeply. “Ah know it’s Martha. She’s called three times this mornin’. Ah can’t even splash my boots wi’out her asking me what I’m doing.”
I winced, and pressed a finger to the corner of my eye, which was beginning to twitch. “Maybe some quality time alone with you will help her relax.”
Or maybe he needed a vacation from Martha.
He still looked unconvinced. “Here’s tha spare key.”
I stowed it carefully in my bag.
“His Nibs won’t stay inside, but don’t worry about it. He’s used to roaming around at night, but he comes back in t’morning. Just put food and water down and he’ll be all right.”
The cat was as eccentric as its owner, and had an unnerving habit of hiding in strange places and then suddenly flying across the room like some feline ninja.
Cyril set out two mugs and sighed again. “Hopefully we’ll be straight in, straight out, just like the Special Forces.”
I bit my lip. I knew Martha would be heartbroken if things didn’t work out. I wondered if I should say anything to her about backing off a bit and giving him some space. Or maybe I should just mind my own beeswax.
There was no question they were a strange match. As far as I knew, she’d never even set foot in this rusty place of his, but they really did care for each other. Hopefully some time away would do them both a world of good.
“What do you think o’ this?” He brought out the weather vane I’d seen outside last time. It was beautifully polished now and the copper horse and brass directional arms gleamed in the sunlight. “Thought ah might give it to her for a Christmas present.”
He wouldn’t meet my eyes, but I smiled at him anyway, and breathed a sigh of relief.
“I think she’d love it.”
If he was already planning ahead to Christmas, that was a good sign. The ornate weather vane was a bit over-the-top, but then so was Martha, and so was her huge Victorian house, with its elaborate gingerbread in various shades of pink, rose, and cream.