Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,33

attention.

The picture featured two figures, both with ponytails, holding hands and wearing dresses. There was a table and two chairs off to one side, two cups on top along with a plate of heart-shaped . . . cookies? The colors of the girls’ clothing and the table were bright, and she’d drawn a sun in the sky, but the background she’d filled in was dark.

Hmm.

Too bad he wasn’t a psychologist. There was probably a deep meaning here that someone like Laura Wilson could ferret out.

He’d have to rely on his niece’s input for clues.

“That’s a pretty picture.” He smiled at Molly. “Will you tell me about it?”

She considered him, then sidled closer to the drawing. “This is me.” She indicated the figure on the left with the reddish-yellow ponytail. “And this is my friend.” She touched the other girl, who had darker hair. “We’re having a tea party.” She traced the table with her finger. “Those are cookies.”

“I like this.” Except for that dark sky. Keeping his inflection casual, he pointed to the background. “Is it nighttime?”

Her brow puckered. “No. The sun is out. See?” She showed him.

“Now I do.”

He wasn’t going to get an answer about the sky.

But maybe he didn’t need to.

Maybe he just needed to keep loving her until it turned blue.

“Can we go?” She picked up her drawing.

“Yep. I’m all set. Let me help you with your jacket.” While yesterday’s rain had passed, coolness lingered in the late-afternoon air.

Eight minutes later, as they approached Hope Harbor, the traffic on 101 picked up—and it got heavier after he exited the highway.

Surely there wasn’t an end-of-week rush hour in a town this size.

Yet something was going on.

They joined the line of bumper-to-bumper cars crawling toward the wharf—and once he reached Dockside Drive he discovered the reason for the jam.

One block of the two-block-long frontage road had been closed to traffic, and booths had been set up.

Must be some sort of festival.

He squinted at the banner in the distance.

No. Not a festival. A farmer’s market.

And it was opening day for the season.

No wonder the place was packed.

“Is this a party?” Molly stretched her neck to see as Toby let out excited yips and hopped around on the back seat.

“Kind of.” Savory aromas drifted in his window, along with the sound of laughter and lively music. “Want to go?” He didn’t have anything else on his Friday evening agenda—except searching for more daycare options.

An unappealing prospect if ever there was one.

“’Kay.”

Her standard, pithy answer.

“Let’s see if I can find a parking place.” He followed the line of cars down a side street.

Three blocks later, when he spotted a guy circling the hood of a car toward the driver’s side, he mashed down the brake and flicked on his blinker.

Based on the horn blast from behind him, the driver on his tail hadn’t appreciated his abrupt stop.

But with parking at a premium, he wasn’t giving up this spot.

The man took his sweet time pulling out—but once he did, Logan executed a fast and flawless parallel parking maneuver . . . a skill acquired during his tenure in San Francisco.

He slid out of the car and opened the back door. Molly held tight to her picture as he unhooked her restraints, helped her out, and snagged Toby’s leash.

“Let’s go to the taco stand first and see if Charley’s open for business.”

Five minutes later, he had his answer. Charley was cooking—but the line stretched down the sidewalk.

It was going to be a long wait—and patience wasn’t a five-year-old’s strong suit.

Ten minutes in, when Molly began to fidget, Logan expelled a breath. His heart—and stomach—were set on Charley’s fare, but he might have to can the taco dinner and buy some food at one of the booths in the market.

While he debated his options, two seagulls waddled toward them.

Uh-oh.

Logan tightened his grip on Toby’s leash. The beagle was always up for a new adventure.

For some reason, though, the dog didn’t go berserk as the birds approached. Instead, he plopped onto his haunches and watched them in silence.

Weird.

“Is that Floyd and Gladys?” Molly studied the gulls.

“Could be.” All the birds looked alike to him, but if it made her happy to think these were Charley’s friends, why not play along?

Wherever the gulls had come from, they kept Molly entertained with their antics, making the long line more palatable.

“Welcome back.” Charley flashed his megawatt smile as they at last stepped up to the window. “I’m always happy to see repeat customers.” He leaned down, resting his