“Those are homemade by a gal who lives in one of the old fishing cottages on Harbor Street,” Nancy said without looking up. “She makes all kinds. The dark chocolate butterscotch crunch is popular with the tourists.”
Who was I to argue with tourists? I placed a bar next to the cash register.
“Here you go. Put your initials here and sign at the bottom.” Nancy tapped her fingers impatiently on the counter while I scanned the form. The click-clack of her nails was distracting me from the finer points of what to do in the event of a fuel or oil spill.
“Nice nails, Nancy,” I said. “The navy-blue color matches your shirt perfectly. And I really like the tiny white anchors on each tip. Where do you get them done?”
Nancy stretched out her hands and admired the artwork. “I do them myself. It’s m
