The Second Chance Café (A Hope Springs Novel Book 1) Page 4

  “Anyway, we had turkey and all the trimmings, but also homemade rolls the size of softballs. Winton would wind up like a pitcher and toss them to us. I think as many landed on the floor as we caught, and Cindy was horrified every time she missed one. Tears started streaming from her eyes, but she never made a sound. May finally realized what was happening. I guess she knew about Cindy’s home life, that she was afraid she’d be whipped for wasting good food, and for the mess.”

  “And you?”

  “I’d lived in some heinous conditions, so food on the floor was nothing. It was May trying to make Cindy feel better that nearly did me in.” Kaylie turned around, curled her palms over the lip of the windowsill, and sat. “May had baked pies. Like dozens of pies. Pumpkin, cherry, chocolate, lemon, apple…imagine a pie and it was there. Most would go to friends over that weekend, but she made sure we knew we could have whatever we wanted.”

  “Cindy cried without making any noise, and all May could think to do was feed her. So there were all these slices of pie, and the smells were crazy amazing, spicy and sweet and hot sugar, and Cindy just sat there, like a statue, rivers running down her face. May’s eyes puffed up and she started crying, feeling helpless, I guess, or guilty for traumatizing a girl who’d been through so much, and I couldn’t stand it. I started shaking, then sobbing.”

  “The five of us, me, Cindy, Tim, and the Wises ended up on the dining-room floor, all of us crying, then laughing. Cindy was the first one to pick up a roll and throw it back at Winton. It was a free-for-all after that. The biggest food fight you can imagine. The floors, the walls. Our clothes. Our hair. We were rolling in mashed potatoes, dripping with gravy. May ground an entire coconut cream pie in Winton’s face. And finally, finally Cindy stopped crying.”

  A shoulder still propped on the wall by the window, Ten—who had turned out to be a very good listener—waited until he was sure she was done, then grinned. It was the kind of grin that took over a face, and it hit her like a hot roll to the head that Jessa Breeze had been right. Separate from the way he made her itch, he was really nice to look at, and even more so when he smiled. His hair had started to dry and was falling over his ears and forehead and almost into his eyes. And his eyes were sharp and attentive and that beautiful shade of honey brown.

  “Sorry about all of that,” Kaylie said, because never in a million years would she have told that story to a stranger, and she couldn’t figure out what it was about Ten Keller that had her sharing it with him. “It’s just this house. It…takes me back.”

  “I’m guessing you’ve got hundreds of memories to go with every room in the place.”

  “At the very least.” But it was time to get down to business and leave him with just the one. “Okay, the way I’m picturing the café, I need to be able to set up tables of different sizes to fit different sizes of groups. I’m thinking friends will come for lunch while the kids are in school. Maybe some will have book club meetings, birthday celebrations. Things like that.”

  “And you want walls knocked out to make this room larger?”

  She breathed in, out, smoothed the hair bound into a tail at her nape. Back on track. This was good. He was her contractor, not a confidant, and why things felt otherwise…“I don’t see how else I’ll manage the seating.”

  “Hmm. What if…” Ten left the question incomplete, and stepped from the dining room into the hallway that ran down the center of the house.

  Kaylie followed him as far as the dining-room door, then waited as he walked into the adjoining parlor before reversing course and checking out what had been Winton’s den. The next door opened into a large bedroom May had used for sewing. Ten spent a couple of minutes in all of them, the rap of his knuckles on the walls echoing like woodpeckers hammering at the chinaberry trees.

  Her hands stacked on the door facing behind her, Kaylie leaned back, wondering what he saw, what the sound of his knocking told him about the walls. Was he figuring out which ones bore weight and had to stay? Or deciding they’d been here so long, done their job well, and all deserved a pardon?

  She got his respect for the century-old workmanship, understood he wouldn’t be who he was if he didn’t weigh the integrity of the structure against the client’s demands. But this was her house, and she had specific plans, ones she’d spent months fine-tuning. If she had to go through the hassle of interviewing multiple contractors, instead of using the one the locals swore was the best, she would.

  “Are you married to the idea of one big dining area?” he asked as he exited May’s old sewing room and came back to where Kaylie waited.

  “Well…I’m married to the idea of not shunting people off to eat in small spaces. For romantic dinners, maybe, but that’s not what I’m planning to serve, and the acoustics would be terrible in cramped quarters. Not to mention navigating in and around the tables—”

  “That’s not what I was thinking.” He walked to the center of the dining room and stopped. “What if you got rid of the door from this room into the hallway, did the same to the ones on either side, and widened the entries to allow better access? Then instead of taking down the walls, cut similar openings between the rooms. The arches can be designed to match the ones on the porch, keeping your Queen Anne look.”

  “It would give you the space you want,” he said, walking toward her, his hands shoved in the pockets of his khakis, his shoulders hunched like a boy hoping to get his way. “But it would also keep my preservationist heart from breaking.”

  “A compromise.”

  “Something like that.”

  Winton’s den, where Kaylie had curled into the corner of his huge leather sofa and listened to him read Moby Dick and Gone with the Wind. May’s sewing room, where Kaylie had sat cross-legged on the tufted top of a pink storage ottoman and counted knitted-and-purled stitches. The dining room, where Kaylie had been filled to the brim with good food and good fun and been encouraged to throw hot rolls like softballs.

  She wasn’t concerned about Ten Keller’s preservationist heart, but his solution meant keeping most of each wall intact, and that made her happy. What made her even happier was the idea of using all three rooms, rooms where she’d emerged from the cocoon that had kept her from breaking, and grown into her own skin.

  Her smile came easily, as did her words. “Let’s do it.”

  When Kaylie was twelve years old, May Wise introduced her to brownies, starting her off with boxed mixes rather than batter made from scratch. Boxed mixes were nearly impossible to mess up, and even batches left in the oven too long were softened when topped with ice cream.

  Kaylie took to brownies like a butterfly to new wings, and she quickly worked up to May’s family recipes. Oh, the bounty she found in the collection of handwritten and creased sheets of stationery. Growing confident, she’d added chocolate frosting with pecans, then feeling adventurous, swirled in cream cheese and thick melted caramel and marshmallow crème. She’d even tried her hand at blondies, but always came back to her true love.

  She’d baked after school once a week, then handed out the goodies at school. The other kids made for perfect market research, willing to try anything and full of teenage opinions. She’d listened to the good, the bad, the worst, more interested in what her taste-testers had to say than in who was doing the saying—probably why she’d hadn’t remembered Carolyn Parker and Jessa Breeze. Or maybe leaving Hope Springs so soon after graduation was the culprit behind her faulty recall.

  On that day in June when she’d turned eighteen, she’d packed eight years of her life in cardboard boxes, tucked the memories that didn’t fit into the back of her mind, and left town. She didn’t want to miss what she no longer had. She didn’t want to depend too much on her old life to get her through her new one. She was on her own, a legal adult. The time had come to put away childish things.

  For the most part, she’d done a good job. The scene with her mother in the kitchen, or the one of Ernest handing her over to social services, rarely surfaced. She sent c
ards and gifts to Winton and May on the appropriate holidays, but May was the one to initiate most of their sharing-the-latest phone calls, to drop by for catching-up visits while in Austin.

  Kaylie loved seeing the older woman, but it took her hours to get over the calls, days to move beyond the visits. The state and her caseworker said she was all grown up, her connection to the Wises severed. The same state that had incarcerated her mother, that had no idea who, much less where, her father was.

  And though the state had provided her college tuition, her two bakery jobs had covered the rest of her expenses as well as funded her savings. One had her up at three a.m. making doughnuts, but it was the other that she’d loved. The other that had taken her from brownies to places even May Wise hadn’t tried. Tarts and tissue-thin phyllo and tiered cakes with fondant. Desserts that required hours to assemble, commanded high dollars, garnered the bakery the notice of Zagat.

  There Kaylie learned about royal icing and meringues, about candied nuts and custards and gold leaf. It took her six years to finish her business degree, but those same six years gave her a hands-on education that was even more valuable, and at twenty-four she opened the doors to the Sweet Spot.

  For the next four and a half years, the bakeshop had been Kaylie’s bread and butter, her creations in demand by event planners and brides-to-be and small eateries who offered her desserts off menu. Customers would find an extra brownie added to their order and become regulars, just as Kaylie had planned. And now she had new plans, ones designed to take the place of the old.

  Strange as it was, she trusted implicitly that Tennessee Keller would do right by her. His honesty was at the root of her trust; he hadn’t agreed to knock down her walls to land the job and an easy paycheck. He’d negotiated terms that worked better for them both and, more important, preserved the house’s integrity. She liked that. She liked it a lot. Plus, Magoo approved.

  But the curious fluttering in her belly when he was around…it bothered her. She hadn’t come here for this. She hadn’t expected it. She wasn’t sure what to do with the things he made her feel. But she was bothered even more by the desire she had to let him take over. A weekend into their working relationship, and she had a notepad full of his ideas—his, not hers—designed to streamline her project, giving her more time to spend on the personal reasons behind her return to Hope Springs.

  He was a professional. She knew nothing about tearing apart a house and putting it back together. She should be happy for the help. But leaning too heavily seemed a weakling’s way out, and she prided herself on her strength. She had to be here, up-to-her-neck involved, digging in the emotional muck waiting to take her down, because how else would she find her answers? That was what mattered, right?

  Learning why her degree, her independence, the success of the Sweet Spot had never given her what this house had. Finding out what had happened to bring her to the Wises in the first place. Discovering the truth of what she’d done to cause her mother to want to leave her. And most of all—what about her four-year-old self had driven her father away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  On Tuesday, Kaylie was up at first light to let Magoo outside. The dog had a schedule, and her job was to stick to it, but that didn’t mean she had to go with him while he did his thing. Her closest neighbor in the unzoned and most bucolic section of Hope Springs was a half mile down Second Street. The adjoining lot on Chances Avenue was undeveloped and overgrown. Magoo had quickly learned the boundaries of his yard. That left Kaylie free to brew her morning coffee and bolster herself to see Ten.

  Strange that she felt the need to do that. She shouldn’t feel the need to do that. She’d hired him to do a job, but their synergy on Saturday as they’d discussed her plans had left her rather weak in the knees. It wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling; not in the least. But her schedule didn’t have time for it; her life didn’t have room for it. Once the renovations were complete, he’d no longer be part of her day-to-day life. As long as they stuck strictly to business, she wouldn’t be left to deal with the complications that came with even temporary emotional bonds.

  Coffee poured, creamed, and sweetened, she crossed to the kitchen window to check on Magoo, bringing her mug to her mouth and seeing as she did that she had company. The woman standing at the end of Kaylie’s driveway could only be described as exotic. Her hair was waist length, as straight as a needle, as black as onyx. A headband pulled it away from her face, and Kaylie couldn’t even imagine the weight of it against the woman’s back.

  Along with skinny jeans and a coral linen tee, she wore a colorful scarf looped like a necklace of fringe. Rather than continuing the T-shirt’s color scheme, however, it served as an accent, the colors of indigo and ocean green and deep violet woven like an undersea current. And she wore the most gorgeous pair of suede boots in the same purple shade.

  Magoo, the friendliest guard dog on the planet, having introduced himself and received a nose rub in return, now led her toward the back door. Kaylie pushed it open to meet them.

  “Hi,” the woman said, her voice no more accented than Kaylie’s, which came as a surprise. “I’m Luna. I’m looking for Kaylie Flynn.”

  “You’ve found her. What can I do—” Kaylie took in the colors in the scarf, the pattern, the story they told. She’d fondled a similar one in an Austin boutique that carried the Patchwork Moon collection, the label’s design including the artist’s signature, but decided she couldn’t justify such an extravagant purchase when she wore chef whites all day and pajamas all night. “You’re not Luna Meadows, are you?”

  Luna nodded, her smile momentarily stiff before softening. “I am, though most people don’t know me from Eve.”

  And Kaylie, drawn to the other woman’s honesty the way she’d been drawn to Ten’s, could tell she liked it that way. “Then mum’s the word, and I’ll make sure Magoo there keeps quiet, too.”

  “He’s a beautiful dog.”

  “Thanks, I think so.” She gestured toward the kitchen, curious as to why Luna Meadows would be looking for her. “Would you like to come in? I only have bar stools to sit on, and nothing to offer you but coffee or water.”

  “Water is fine, and I’d love to see the place. I understand you’re doing some renovations.”

  So word was getting around. “I am, yes, with plans to open a café.”

  “The café is actually why I’m here.” The screen door bounced closed behind both women and the dog. Luna perched on the stool Kaylie offered. “I was at a craft show in Gruene over the weekend. That’s where I heard the news. I used to work there at the Gristmill Restaurant, and if it’s true that you’re interviewing for a cook…”

  “Oh, definitely,” Kaylie said, handing Luna a bottle of water, amazed that not only was word spreading, it was leaving Hope Springs—even if Gruene was only a few miles east.

  “Good. I know someone who might be perfect.”

  “Would it happen to be Dolly Breeze? Because her daughter-in-law sang me her praises last week.”

  “Dolly would be an excellent choice, but no. This is someone else.”

  Topping off her coffee, Kaylie glanced toward the other woman. “Why don’t you have her, or him, come by and talk to me?”

  “I will, but could I ask first about your plans? Your hours, your menu.” Luna toyed with a nick in the bottle’s label. “I hate to be pushy, but I don’t want to waste your time or his if things don’t sound like a good fit.”

  “Sure.” That made sense. “I’ll be open for weekday lunches only. At least to start. If there’s a demand, I may add weekends and dinners down the road.” She took a sip of her coffee, then took the bar stool across from Luna’s at the island. “As far as the menu goes, each day there’ll be a single entrée, along with salad and bread. For dessert, brownies. I’ll handle those. And I have a wonderful recipe for hot rolls the size of your head,” she said, and thought of the Thanksgiving story she’d told Ten. “Those I’d prefer not to handle, though I can.”

  Luna
nodded, her expression thoughtful. “What about your main dishes? You said there’ll just be one?”

  “For now,” Kaylie replied. “The café service will be set up buffet style, so I’ll have to see how it’s all received. The entrées will be…hearty and nurturing, as well as nourishing. I’m competing with fast-food burgers and fries and taco trucks and buckets of chicken with potatoes and gravy. I’ll never win over the Lean Cuisine crowd, but that’s the beauty of self-serve and bushels of salad.”

  “Let your conscience fill your plate.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And your entrées?”

  “Casseroles, primarily. Lasagna. Baked ziti. King Ranch Chicken. Stacked spinach enchiladas.” Kaylie found herself smiling, her stomach rumbling. She needed breakfast before she skipped it and went straight for lunch. “Things that aren’t all Italian or Tex-Mex, which is why I need the cook, because that’s where my mind wants to go.”

  A dimple in her cheek, Luna lifted a brow. “Are you sure it’s your mind in charge?”

  “When it comes to food? Never.”

  For the next half hour, and much to Kaylie’s surprised delight, the two women talked about everything under the sun. After explaining the workings of Two Owls, Kaylie learned her guest had grown up in the area and still lived on her parents’ farm. It was there, at Meadows Land, on the far edge of Hope Springs, where her father raised the sheep that produced the wool her mother spun and dyed, and Luna then wove into scarves.

  “Why scarves? Why not shawls, or rugs?”

  “Because I have a short attention span? A need for instant gratification?” Luna laughed. “A scarf can be done fairly quickly, as long as I have inspiration and the right yarn. And not a lot of other things going on. Like shopping. Or sleeping. Or tubing down the Guadalupe. A shawl would probably take me the rest of my life.”

  Kaylie shared the other woman’s love of shopping and sleeping, though she had never done so much as dip a toe into the Guadalupe or the Comal. She’d been busy with school, then busy with work, and without close girlfriends—or guy friends—she’d been on her own. Luna made her promise to join her for a rafting trip, and without giving it a second thought, Kaylie agreed, hungry for the society this new relationship offered, though she did extract a return promise from Luna to show her the workings of a loom.