Brass Buttons at Cinderwick

Late-August heat cooks Cinderwick’s harbor square hard enough to make the painted benches smell like hot pennies, and I’m hauling my last crate of hardware toward a boarded-up boardinghouse with a bad roof and worse opinions waiting inside it.

At thirty-nine, I ought to know buildings don’t have opinions. Towns do.

Cinderwick Boardinghouse slouches at the far end of the square, three stories of weathered clapboard and stubborn dignity. Its porch sags. Half its windows wear plywood. The brass letters on the front sign have gone green around the edges, but they still spell out a name somebody once believed in.

“Late,” says Nolan Saye.

He’s waiting on the porch with a ring of keys and the pleased look of a man who’s just acquired a new project to boss around. At fifty-eight, Nolan has the silver hair of a retired sea captain and the energy of a festival committee that’s had three pots of coffee.

“Road work,” I tell him.

“Excuses before paperwork? You’ll fit in fine.”

He unlocks the front door and hands me a battered leather book from beneath his arm. GUEST LEDGER is stamped across the cover in faded gold.

“This stays at the desk,” he says. “Every room you finish gets an entry. Every man who helps make this place livable writes his name.”

I flip it open. The pages carry decades of slanted handwriting: fishermen, traveling salesmen, couples with terrible penmanship, one man who complains at length about the oatmeal in 1974.

“Seems optimistic,” I say.

“It’s Maine. Optimism looks like keeping a spare tarp.”

Nolan points toward the ceiling, where a brown water stain sprawls across the plaster. “Dewey Pike comes by tomorrow. Firefighter, inspector, professional destroyer of unsafe dreams. Do what he says.”

“Do people usually introduce your building inspector like a threat?”

“Only the ones worth listening to.”

By noon, sweat has glued my shirt to my back and I need coffee badly enough to forgive almost anybody. Across the square, a blue awning reads RENAUD CAFÉ. I push inside.

Victor Renaud looks up from the espresso machine.

Well. Hell.

Eight years disappear in one ugly little blink. He’s older, obviously. So am I. His dark hair is shorter now, his shoulders broader beneath a pale yellow T-shirt, and he still has the same mouth made for delivering insults with decorative flair.

“You have nerve,” he says.

“Good afternoon to you too.”

“Don’t put polish on it, Hollis.”

Before I can order, he turns, pours a dark roast, adds two sugars and cinnamon, then sets the mug in front of me.

My old coffee order.

“You remember.”

“Unfortunately.” He wipes the counter with a towel. “Bad decisions have a way of sticking.”

A man in work boots enters behind me. Victor calls, “Dean, turkey club, extra pickles, and you still owe me six dollars.”

Dean grins like he’s been caught stealing church silver. “Put it on my tab.”

“Your tab has its own weather system.”

I look back at Victor. “I’m sorry I left.”

He gives me a flat look. “Great. Start there. Don’t finish there.”

“I was thirty-one and stupid.”

“You were thirty-one, scared, and very good at making charm sound like a plan.” He leans one hip against the counter. “Your old charm won’t buy you forgiveness, chéri. This town takes payment in actual behavior.”

Fair enough. Annoying, but fair enough.

“I’m here for the boardinghouse,” I say.

“I heard.” His eyes travel briefly toward the square. “Are you staying?”

“I’ve got a contract through the harvest festival.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

No, it isn’t.

By dinner, Nolan has apparently told every adult within a ten-mile radius that I exist. Cinderwick’s bar has a jukebox, scratched tables, and a crowd that goes quiet for half a second when I walk in.

Nolan waves me over. Dewey Pike sits across from him, broad-shouldered and calm, with a fire department patch on his dark blue shirt.

“Inspection at eight,” Dewey says.

“I’ll be ready.”

“Please be.”

Nolan takes a swallow of his beer. “You’ve split the town already.”

“That seems efficient.”

“Half think you’re here to save the boardinghouse. Half think you’ll patch it for photographs, sell it, and disappear before the apples turn.”

“And Victor?”

Nolan’s smile goes sharp. “People say Victor knows which kind you are.”

Dewey studies me for a moment. “Then stay long enough to prove them wrong.”

Through the bar window, the boardinghouse waits across the square, all dark windows and crooked porch rails.

I tell myself it’s only wood, plaster, wiring, and a deadline.

Cinderwick clearly intends to make a liar out of me.

September arrives wet and bossy. Rain comes sideways off the harbor for three days, finds every gap in Cinderwick Boardinghouse, and proves the place has been standing mostly on stubbornness. Room Three drips through a split roof seam. The trim outside Room Six comes off in damp curls when I test it with an awl. One porch post has rot clear through its bottom foot.

I spend Thursday balanced on a ladder with water running off my cap, inventing rude names for previous owners.

Dewey comes by at seven with his clipboard tucked under one arm.

“Bad news?” I ask.

“Not all of it.”

“Do towns train inspectors in selective optimism?”

“Firefighters train to tell you which part burns first.”

“That’s adorable.”

“It’s accurate.” He points his pen at the porch. “Replace that post before someone leans on it. Flash the chimney properly. Then I’ll stop being charming.”

Rain keeps everybody indoors, which gives Cinderwick more time for gossip. At the hardware store, a man buying caulk asks whether I’m converting the boardinghouse into luxury rentals.

“Three guest rooms and a parlor?” I say. “Sure. I’ll charge extra for the crooked floors.”

At the café, Victor sets down my coffee and says, “Apparently, I know why you’re really here.”

“Great. Save me some trouble. Why am I here?”

He considers me over the rim of his own mug. “You’re either fleeing something or trying to seduce a town. Both explanations make you irritating.”

“Could be both.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, chéri.”

At two on Friday, I’m prying ruined baseboard from Room Six when Victor walks through the open front door carrying a paper bag and a thermos.

“You’re late for lunch,” he says.

“I didn’t schedule lunch.”

“I did. Obviously.”

He hands me the bag. Roasted vegetable sandwich, apple slices, and a wedge of sharp cheddar. The thermos holds tomato soup, still hot enough to sting my tongue.

“You are bossy,” I tell him.

“Yeah, and you look like you might mistake plaster dust for protein.”

“It’s a food group.”

“I know your old tricks, Hollis. You get busy, then tell everybody eating would slow you down.”

“Maybe it does.”

“Eat.”

I eat every bite because he stays planted in the doorway until I do, which is humiliatingly effective.

“You’re welcome,” he says when I finish.

“I haven’t thanked you.”

“You will.”

Saturday afternoon, my phone rings while I’m pricing replacement windows.

“Hollis,” Victor says. “My walk-in cooler is dying, and I have enough dairy back here to ruin my week.”

I cross the square fast enough to make Nolan call after me about tracking mud into public businesses.

The café’s back room is cramped, loud, and warmer than it ought to be. The cooler thermometer reads fifty-six. Victor has boxes of cream, cheese, and pastry fillings stacked near the door like evacuees.

“I don’t pretend to be a refrigeration tech,” I tell him, opening the condenser panel, “but I can see a loose fan connection from across the room.”

“I understand every third word.”

“That puts you ahead of the town’s rumor mill.”

The fan lead has worked free, and the coil looks like nobody’s cleaned it since the last century. I shut off the circuit, fix the connection, clear the mess from the coil, and restart it. The fan kicks on with a satisfying rattle. Ten minutes later, the temperature begins dropping.

Victor lets out a long breath. “You saved my week.”

“I saved your cheese.”

“Don’t cheapen it.”

“Don’t romanticize wiring.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I hear that sometimes.”

“Maybe it’s wrong.”

Out by the back door, rain ticks against the metal awning. Victor stands close enough that I can see rain caught in the dark ends of his hair.

“Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome.”

“You don’t have to turn every kindness into a job.”

“I don’t.”

“You came when I called.”

“Your food inventory was losing a fight.”

“That isn’t all.”

I lift my hand, stopping short of his cheek. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong.”

“You aren’t.”

“Is that a yes?”

His mouth curves. “Yes, you menace.”

I lean toward him slowly, giving him every chance to change his mind.

“Hollis!”

Nolan barrels through the gate with a stack of bright orange flyers clutched to his chest.

Victor steps back, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Excellent,” Nolan says. “You’re both here. Harvest festival volunteer sign-ups. Take some.”