I mentally crossed my eyes—doing my income taxes was second only to dental checkups on my Least Favorite Things To Do list—and went around the corner and into an alcove that led to the restroom. When I came out, I paused just inside the alcove, keeping myself out of view of the three men but within earshot of their conversation, because why not take advantage of the opportunity offered?

“Drew,” one of the men said, “all these plans for economic development are interesting, but how do they help our budget in the short term?”

“And the rest of the city council will want to know the same thing,” said the other man.

“I’m glad you asked,” Drew said, in a very different voice from the one he’d used with Tabitha and me. He’d been calm and very patient with the slightly daffy old lady and her helpful niece. Now, he was talking fast and bright, almost as if he was trying to sell something.

“When you hired me,” he said, “I promised to get the city’s finances out of the red and into the black inside of two years. I’m closing in on that deadline, but let me tell you about what I’m implementing and how soon we can expect to get our budget balanced.”

Eavesdropping, I decided, was not all I’d hoped it would be. I’d thought I might hear stories about Brown, who had been a longtime city employee. Or even Ariella, a recently fired city employee. Instead, I was overhearing conversations that sounded a lot like what I heard at library board meetings.

I headed back to the table and slid into my chair, where the conversation had shifted to predictions about the upcoming winter, a favorite topic for Up North folks. Rafe squeezed my hand again, and I squeezed back.

But instead of joining in to guess average temperatures and total seasonal snowfall, I was instead thinking about Ariella. And Brown. And Bob.

And bicycles.

*   *   *

My bike-ward thoughts didn’t distract me for long, because our food came soon and Kristen’s choice of cider-glazed pork tenderloin with garlic mashed potatoes accompanied by roasted Brussels sprouts drizzled with maple glaze diverted me—and my dinner companions—totally and completely and we ate as if we weren’t likely to get another meal for months.

When I said as much out loud, Aunt Frances looked up from her plate. “In some ways that’s true. It’s the end of September. Kristen isn’t going to stay open more than two or three weeks.”

“Sooner,” Rafe said, “if we get early snow. If she sees any little snowflake images on her phone’s weather app, I bet she starts packing her bags.”