Flannel and Frost
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Chapter 3
Afternoon sunlight streamed through the library’s high windows, cutting warm, angled stripes across the checkout counter. A lazy hum of quiet activity drifted through the space—pages turning, chairs shifting, the occasional cough from the history section. It was one of those slow Willow Creek afternoons where time stretched itself thin and comfortable.
Evelyn was shelving a stack of returned books, sliding each into its place with practiced ease, when she sensed—more than heard—someone approaching with purpose.
“Auntie Ev,” Tori Daniels announced in a hushed-but-not-hushed voice that already earned a stern glance from a retired teacher in the genealogy section. “We need to talk.”
Evelyn didn’t look up. “If this is about the patron you accidentally locked in the reading lounge again—”
“That was one time,” Tori whispered loudly. “And he was meditating. He enjoyed it.”
Evelyn sighed, tucking a book on local wildflowers into its gap. “What is it then?”
Tori leaned an elbow on the cart beside her aunt, her dark curls bouncing as she waggled her brows conspiratorially. “So. I heard a thing.”
“Congratulations,” Evelyn murmured. “You hear many things. It’s part of your charm. Unfortunately.”
“Don’t deflect.” Tori slid a little closer. “Word on the street is that you shut down the new guy. Dramatically. Brutally. Possibly while wielding a dictionary.”
Evelyn froze mid-shelve. “What?”
Tori nodded, dead serious. “Oh yeah. The grapevine’s spicy today.” She ticked off fingers. “According to what I heard from Mrs. Dunhill—who got it from her grandson—who heard it from a teenager who probably wasn’t supposed to talk about it—”
“Oh dear Lord.”
“—you gave him the classic McAllister Freeze. The full frostbite treatment. The man was shaking, Ev.”
Evelyn turned away, placing another book a little too firmly on the shelf. “That is wildly exaggerated.”
“So, you didn’t shut him down?” Tori pressed.
“I didn’t—well—” Evelyn’s jaw tightened. “He made a comment.”
“Ooooh, a comment.” Tori clasped her hands dramatically under her chin. “Was it misogynistic? Counterfactual? Is he a secret Flat Earther? Please tell me he’s a secret Flat Earther.”
“He said something about ‘small-town simplicity.’” Evelyn clipped the words, though her cheeks flushed with embarrassment rather than anger.
Tori blinked. “That’s it?”
“It sounded condescending.”
“It probably wasn’t.”
“I know,” Evelyn snapped, then immediately sighed, lowering her voice. “I know. It was ... the way he said it. Or maybe the way I heard it. I don’t know.”
Tori’s grin softened into something gentler. She nudged her aunt’s arm. “Ev. You’ve lived here your whole life. You’re protective. That doesn’t make you wrong—just ... quick on the trigger.”
Evelyn frowned at the carpet. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that.”
“Look, the poor man apparently spends all day holed up in that tiny apartment above the barber shop. He probably thinks ‘simplicity’ is a compliment. Like praising oxygen.”
Evelyn didn’t laugh, but her mouth twitched.
“And,” Tori added, leaning even closer, “he’s cute.”
“Tori.”
“What?” she whispered innocently. “He is. Like a sad, handsome raccoon who hasn’t slept since the Bush administration.”
Evelyn pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting a smile. “You are impossible.”
“Thank you.”
From across the room, the retired teacher shushed them again. Tori winced.
Evelyn paused, then said quietly, “I don’t think he meant anything wrong. But I was rude.”
Tori bumped her shoulder. “So, apologize sometime. Or don’t. But maybe don’t freeze the man to death before he even gets a chance to open his store.”
“I didn’t freeze him.”
“Ev,” Tori said solemnly, “icicles formed.”
Evelyn groaned under her breath, burying her face in a book cart.
Tori only grinned wider.
“Point is,” she murmured, “people are talking. But not in a bad way. Mostly just curious. And maybe—just maybe—you’re curious too.”
Evelyn didn’t answer.
But her silence wasn’t denial—and Tori caught that immediately, smirking like a cat that had found a bowl of cream.
“Mm-hmm,” she sang quietly, pushing off the cart. “Didn’t think so.”
And then she flitted away down the aisle, humming, leaving Evelyn staring after her with a mix of annoyance, embarrassment, and—if she was honest—a reluctant tug of intrigue she didn’t want to examine too closely.
The clang of tools and the dusty smell of old wood filled the interior of Ryan’s future hardware store. Morning light filtered through the paper-covered windows, diffusing into a muted glow that softened the rough edges of the gutted space. Piles of lumber leaned against the far wall. A portable radio Caleb had brought sat on the counter, tuned to a classic rock station.
Caleb Royce stood in the center of the chaos, arms folded across his broad chest, taking stock of Ryan’s inadequate inventory with the thoughtful squint of a man who built half the town with his own two hands. His flannel shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing dust-coated forearms. At his feet lay a tool belt that looked older than Ryan himself.
“You got ambition,” Caleb said at last, stepping around a stack of plywood. “I’ll give you that.”
Ryan rubbed the back of his neck. “Is that the polite way of saying I’m in over my head?”
Caleb grinned beneath his salt-and-pepper beard. “If you were in over your head, son, you’d be swinging from the rafters callin’ for your mama. Right now I’d say you’re just ... wading.”
Ryan exhaled, half relieved, half mortified. “That’s encouraging. Sort of.”
Caleb chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder with a hand that could probably split logs bare. “Relax. Nobody starts out knowing what the hell they’re doing. You showed up, you bought the place, you’re asking for help—that’s the stuff folks around here notice.”
He moved toward the shelves Ryan had begun sanding, running a finger along the edge. “Truth is,” he added, “in Willow Creek, people don’t trust you until they see what kind of help you show up with.”
Ryan frowned. “Help I show up with? But I’m the outsider.”
“Yep,” Caleb said, unbothered. “And that means you gotta go first.”
He grabbed a pencil and began marking measurements on a plank. Ryan watched him move—quick, competent, comfortable. Caleb worked like someone who belonged here. Ryan tried to imagine himself ever feeling that grounded. The image seemed ... distant.
Caleb measured again, then paused mid-mark and smirked. “By the way, I heard you made an impression at the library.”
Ryan stiffened. “Oh God.”
“Oh, it ain’t that bad.” Caleb leaned against the counter, arms crossed again. “I was grabbing coffee at The Hollow Bean this morning, and a couple folks were talkin’ about it. Word is you stepped on Miss McAllister’s toes.”
Ryan shut his eyes. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
“I didn’t mean to,” he muttered. “I said something stupid. About small-town simplicity.”
Caleb huffed a laugh. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”
Ryan sank onto an overturned milk crate, heat creeping into his cheeks. “I wasn’t being condescending. I was trying to say things were less chaotic here than in Boston. It just ... didn’t come out right.”
“Well, that’s Evelyn for you,” Caleb said, scratching his beard. “Heart like a warm stove, but she don’t let just anyone stand near it. You catch her wrong, she’ll freeze your eyebrows off.”
Ryan groaned. “And now everyone thinks I’m arrogant.”
Caleb shrugged. “Not everyone. Just the folks who heard it third-hand.”
“That’s not reassuring,” Ryan muttered.
Caleb laughed again—a deep, warm sound that filled the bare room. “Look, man. People talk. It’s a hobby around here. You being the new guy makes you interesting. You bein’ good-lookin’, quiet, and mysterious makes you downright thrilling.”
Ryan stared at the floor. “I’m not trying to be mysterious.”
“Buddy,” Caleb said, shaking his head with a smile, “you live above the barber shop with the lights barely on. People are already making up their own stories.”
Ryan swallowed. Something tightened in his chest—not anger, not quite shame. More like the familiar impulse to retreat, to fold inward until he was invisible again. To hide.
Caleb seemed to read it on him. He tapped the wood plank with his pencil. “Don’t worry so much. You’ll get your footing. Just don’t let one awkward moment send you packin’. Folks here are slow to warm up, but once they do, they stick.”
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