I walked into town, enjoying the sunshine. Now that the rain had passed it was a beautiful morning. The trees glistened as if polished by the rain and the pavement sparkled. I stopped to inhale the scent of freshly mown wet grass in the Lindisfarnes’ yard and Cherry Lindisfarne came out onto her porch to ask if it were true that Brock Olsen had fallen from my roof. I told her it was and that he was recuperating at his family’s farm. Evangeline Sprague came out when she heard us talking and asked after Brock as well. We all chatted for a few minutes about what a nice family the Olsens were and how their farm always donated food to Meals-on-Wheels and the homeless shelter in Kingston. “Good neighbors,” Evangeline said. “We need more like them, especially when the town is so full of strangers. Did you hear there was a break-in down at the motor court?”

I left Evangeline and Cherry talking about the break-in and walked into town. Main Street was indeed bustling with tourists and fishermen shopping at Trask’s Outdoor Outfitters and filling the outdoor tables at Fair Grounds and the red vinyl booths at the Village Diner. I might not have gotten a booth if the waitress Darla didn’t happen to be the mother of one of my students.

As she seated me at a booth behind one that was full to overflowing with three large men in identical plaid flannel shirts, she whispered, “I always try to make room for a local, even when we’re bursting with out-of-towners. I’ve never seen a more popular fishing season!”

“I’ve never seen the Undine run so full,” one of the men in plaid commented, having overheard Darla’s throaty whisper. “It’s like they’re trying to get out of town!” His comment was greeted by guffaws from the two other men in the booth. I smiled at them, realizing I’d seen them around town before. All three men had the same bee-stung lips and full round faces. In their identical flannel shirts and Orvis baseball caps, they looked like an illustration of the same man at different stages of his life: young, middle-aged, and old. Son, father and grandfather, I presumed.

I was studying the menu when Jen Davies walked in. Dressed in tight black leggings, a tank top, and her dark hair coiled in a long braid, she turned quite a few heads as she sauntered down the aisle, including all three of the men in plaid flannel. I heard the youngest one whisper to his father, “She must be one of those New York models!”

“You’re looking fit,” Jen said, leaning over the table to kiss me on both cheeks and then sitting down across from me. Her keen eyes narrowed at me. “Quite fit. I wouldn’t have pegged you as one of those witches who uses Aelvesgold to make themselves look younger.”