Harmony House Read Online Free Page B

gate we left open.
    It takes me about ten minutes to walk into the town of Beach Haven—little more than tourist shops, a grocery store, a post office, an equestrian and hardware store, a library, a medical clinic, a dentist’s office, a gas station, and a restaurant called the Double R Diner. The entire town spans the equivalent of two or three city blocks.
    As of seven o’clock on a Wednesday night, the Double R Diner is the only establishment showing any signs of life. I walk there with my head down, doing my best to avoid my own darkened image in the reflection of a dull street lamp against the plate-glass windows. The engine of a large rusted pickup truck complains loudly as it drives slowly up the main road. A wiry, thin man with a reddish beard and hollowed-out features stares at me black-eyed and openmouthed.
    I don’t look away.
    I imagine the red-bearded man and the driver both falling dead and the truck running off the road—careening through the darkened window of the Beach Haven Pharmacy and Five & Dime.
    The sky is black and starless, with the pale fingernail of a moon obscured by racing clouds.
    The truck lumbers on up the road.
    The neon sign for the Double R Diner blinks red and orange—on and off, on and off. I have a little money saved up from my job last summer working at the bookstore in Johnstown, so I figure I’ll go in and get a coffee and maybe something to eat.
    The diner is relatively spacious with red vinyl booths set up along the walls, a few tables, a counter with built-in stools and a bright flashing jukebox in the corner playing twangy-sounding cowboy music. An elderly couple, both with skin like yellowed wax paper and heavy-lidded bloodshot eyes, turn to look up at me. So do the truck drivers at the counter and the old woman sitting by herself wearing a mass of thick sweaters and one of those long quilted barn coats. The gray-haired waitress behind the counter puts down her pot of coffee to look at me, too. No one smiles. I set my jaw tight. Iwish I were back home. I imagine the diner on fire, all of them running out screaming as flames spread from floor to ceiling.
    The cowboy song on the jukebox fades out. There is an interminable silence before the next song is queued up. I think about walking out. But I don’t. I go sit at the counter. The waitress comes over and offers me coffee from a deeply stained, chipped coffeepot.
    â€œThank you,” I tell her.
    â€œYou wanna see a menu?” she asks, her voice hoarse-sounding. “We have a meat loaf special.”
    I shake my head.
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    She pours the coffee. I add milk from the pitcher and two packs of sugar. It’s good coffee. Hot.
    The door behind me dings open.
    A girl, probably around my age, but with blond hair and a sickeningly cheery smile, comes bouncing over next to me.
    She gives the waitress a hug, leaning her long, slender body over the counter.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” the old woman asks her. “Did you eat yet?”
    The girl smiles even bigger.
    â€œI wanted to come see you. And Dad said you baked a huckleberry pie. There any left?”
    The waitress laughs.
    â€œThought that might be it.”
    â€œWell, I wanted to see you, too ,” the girl says.
    â€œI know,” the old woman tells her. “Come sit down. I put a piece aside for you. You want it hot? With vanilla ice cream?”
    â€œYes, please.”
    The girl sits down at the counter.
    Then she turns to me.
    â€œOh, hello,” she says. “What’s your name?”
    â€œUh, I’m Jen,” I say.
    â€œI’m Christy. Are you on vacation here?”
    I take a sip of ice water, feeling a little flushed for some reason.
    â€œUh, no,” I say. “I . . . I just moved here. My dad’s gonna be the caretaker of that old Harmony House place.”
    Christy gets even brighter and cheerier and her general positive whatever is kind of freaking me out,