“I’m impressed,” I said, and I was. Sure, it was just eggs and toast, but I’d punched the guy not too long ago, yet here he was, making me dinner. Nice guy.

I had no idea what to do with a nice guy. I’d never dated a clean-cut, Backstreet Boy type; I’d always stayed in the heavy metal/alternative, dirty, tattooed-boy section. I could appreciate what a Nick Lachey had to offer, sure, but my type was always going to be a Dave Navarro, a Chris Cornell.

A nice guy? Hmmm.

Shaking off the feeling, I sipped my wine. “So, tell me about yourself, Clark.”

“Me? What’s there to know?”

“Oh, I bet plenty. Tell me about the man, the myth, the legend.”

He raised an eyebrow at me, then nodded at the wine. “Pour me another glass and you’ll get all three.”

Yeah, I poured. He talked. Born and raised in Mendocino, he’d gone away to college at Pepperdine, history major, minor in library sciences. His family had always been heavily involved in the area’s historical society, preserving old homes, churches, restoring and repurposing older buildings. He confirmed what Caroline had already told me, that much of the town of Mendocino was in fact a historical site. Most of those efforts were privately funded, although he worked with homeowners to apply for and receive federal grants, like the one my aunt had received. The library was his main job, although hours had been cut steadily over the last few years and there was now a pretty small staff that assisted him.

“No one does pure research anymore, not without the Internet of course. Sure, we’ve adapted pretty well, but for the most part, the library here exists for a pleasure reader. Although with Kindles and iPads, we’re even starting to see those readers begin to slip away. Plates?” he asked, bringing the pan with the scrambled eggs to the table. I helped him butter the toast, and we settled ourselves around the kitchen table. There was still a rake stuck in the chandelier in the dining room and it was raining too hard to go out to the barn for the ladder so, yeah, that was out for tonight.

“Well, I’ll be down for my library card just as soon as I can.” I forked up a mouthful. “Mmm, these are great, Clark. You want some hot sauce?” I asked, sprinkling Tabasco over everything on my plate.

“I’ll pass. Do you read a lot?”

“I’ve been known to, sure,” I said, hoping my face wasn’t as pink as it felt.

“Last book you read that changed how you felt about something,” he said.

 I thought quickly. Not sure I could tell him about Loins, and how it changed the way I now saw baguettes. “Um, let’s see. Black Holes and Baby Universes.”

“Wow, impressive. Hawking. How did you think it compared to A Brief History of—” The kitchen was suddenly plunged into darkness. “I wondered when that was going to happen,” he said.

“What happened?” I asked, looking around in the dark. I had a flashlight in here somewhere.

“Power goes out in town when there’s a bad storm. They usually have it back on within a few hours, though, not to worry.”

“I’m not worried.” I fumbled in the drawer until I found it. “Ah, there we go!” I said, turning on the flashlight.

“What wattage is that thing?” he asked, holding up his hands.

It was a bit bright.

“No dimmer on this thing, sorry,” I said, trying to cover it up a bit. “Wait, I know!” I hurried into the other room, dodging the rake, and grabbed the candles. Striking a match, I lit them quickly, then set them down on the kitchen table. “See? Even breakfast for dinner can have ambience.”

I looked across the table at him, hair rumpled from the bat fight, mud on his T-shirt from being under the porch, and an intense-looking smile. And the bandage, God bless it. I smiled back at him, then took a bite of toast.

“So, Clark, does your family still live here in town?”

“Oh no, now it’s my turn to ask the questions.” He grinned, slapping another coat of strawberry jelly on his toast. He licked each finger; jellying toast by candlelight was a messy business. “So where are you from, exactly? I’ve been trying to place your accent all week.”

Damn. Had it really only been a week? “My accent?”

“Yes, it’s very specific. Not just generic back east, although I’m fairly certain it’s in that general area.”

“It’s in that general area, yes.” I nodded, enjoying where this was going. Philadelphia natives did have a very specific accent, although most couldn’t place it.

“It’s not New York.”

“State or city?” I asked.

“It’s neither. And it’s not Boston. It’s not New Jersey, although I admit my knowledge of that accent is limited by my addiction to The Sopranos,” he said with a half grin.

“You’re close. Philadelphia. Specifically, a little town just outside the city.”

“Philadelphia. So tell me, what do you do back there in Philadelphia?”

“Well, until recently I owned my own software company.”

He dropped his toast. “You owned your own—what?”

“Yep. I’m a software engineer by trade, got lucky with a program after college and went out on my own.”

“So what did you specialize in?”

“In a nutshell? I write programs that do data mining. You know, look for needles in a cyber haystack? Just sold a new program a few months ago.”