No, but it isn’t open either. Please leave me and my pancakes in peace. Clark fought to keep the snark at bay. There was nothing he wanted less than company at the moment, especially when the entire town was afflicted with candy cane fever. He didn’t want any of that foolishness rubbing off on him. But it didn’t seem this guy was in the mood to take no for an answer.

“Go ahead.”

“Thanks.”

Balancing his array of half-finished plates across his forearms, he plopped into the seat, rattling the table. It took longer than a polite minute for the man to arrange his extensive breakfast, which only added to the heat flaring up the back of Clark’s neck. His lips flattened into a thin line of displeasure when Mel appeared with a piping hot plate and mug. He placed them on the table, and Clark pulled them close, grateful for the distraction. He couldn’t decide what the stranger across from him wanted, but if he thought he could convince him to change his mind about the festival, he’d be just as disappointed as Kate. Did these people have some sort of committee, dedicated to twisting the simplest of business decisions into a city-wide ordeal?

“One order of pancakes and bacon. And a black coffee. Syrup’s over there. Can I get you anything else?”

Clark started to say no, but was cut off.

“Can I get some more coffee, Mel? Oh, and one of those blueberry muffins.”

“They’re about two days old.”

“Can you pop it in the microwave for about thirty seconds, then?”

His easy intimacy with the diner owner put Clark’s transactional replies to shame. Without the protection of his newspaper, Clark had to actually interact with these people. His worst fears realized.

“You got it, kid.”

Mel departed. As Clark dug into his pancakes, he hoped the only frustration he’d have to deal with was the treacle-sweet music pouring out of the juke box, but his new guest proved him wrong.

“You’re that Woodward guy, aren’t you?” he asked through a mouth of biscuits dripping with gravy.

“Clark.”

“I’m Michael.” Clark nodded once, an acknowledgment that he’d heard the introduction, but his new companion took his silence as an invitation for more conversation. “Some people call me Buddy, but I’ll answer to anything, really.”

The urge to roll his eyes was unbearably strong. He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to be called Buddy when Michael was perfectly suitable. Buddy wasn’t a name for a man. It was a name for a puppy or a background character in a Flannery O’Connor novel.

“Small towns,” he muttered.

“Buddy was my grandfather’s callsign during the invasion of Normandy. He won a Medal of Valor.”