The idea of going home made her teeth ache with claustrophobia. To postpone it, she took Nell for a walk to see how much of the town had changed since she’d last been here.

The harbor town was small and slightly run-down in a quaint, coastal way that pleased the eye and attracted tourists in the summer months. Flower boxes offset fading paint and missing shingles, and the few boutiques open for business this early in the season carried the usual tourist fare. Emilia passed several seaside restaurants, the main wharf, a small lobster dock, and the town’s only hotel, which was little more than a large bed and breakfast.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee caught her attention, and she saw a small shop she didn’t remember from her youth: Storm’s-a-Brewin’ Coffeehouse and Brewery.

Another microbrewery. Just what the world needs, she thought, but the Pets Welcome sign took the edge off her cynicism. Keeping Nell in heel, she pushed through the glass door and into the warmth of the coffee shop.

“Good morning,” said a short woman with thick black curls, bright red lipstick, and an infectious smile from behind the counter.

Emilia blinked at her, then looked around. A wooden bar wrapped around one corner of the café, and a chalkboard advertised local beers on tap while another boasted various gourmet coffee beans. Exposed brick walls complemented the potted succulents and air plants that hung from the beams. She didn’t need to look to know that the case of artisanal products by the checkout was outside her budget. Tables occupied the floor space, although most of them were empty, and a small raised platform suggested the shop held live performances. The effect was too hip for Seal Cove, but the coffee smelled delicious.

“Good morning,” she said. “Just a cup of your dark roast.”

“For here or to go?”

Emilia considered her options. She could kill some time and think about painting, or she could get to work on the boat or the house. “For here.”

“And for your pup? Puppaccino?”

I’m a vet, so no, she almost said, her mind filled with images of obese dogs downing whipped cream. She settled for a “no thank you.”

“Dog biscuit?” The woman’s smile spread faster than the parvovirus in a puppy mill. Emilia felt her lips twitch in response.

“Sure. What do you say, Nell?”

The greyhound sat and swiveled her ears forward, her impossibly long snout waiting expectantly for praise.

“Well, aren’t you a perfect angel,” said the barista. Her nametag identified her as Stormy. Great, she thought darkly, recalling the name of the café. I just love puns.

“She certainly thinks she is.”

“Did you adopt her from the tracks? I heard they closed a bunch last year.”

“I did. Not last year, but a few years ago.”

“You speedy snoot of a doggo,” Stormy said as she handed Nell the biscuit. Snoot of a doggo? Nell, however, didn’t mind the gibberish and took the biscuit delicately. “Any treats for you?”