Eager to take in every detail of the place, Winnie glanced through the open doors of the coffee house, then across the outdoor cafe. The tables were crowded with students and professors, some eating, some reading or studying, others drinking from ceramic cups of all sizes as they chatted amongst themselves. Forks clinked against plates, and smells of coffee brewing and fresh pastry floated between the tables. A murmur of voices came from inside, giving the place a relaxed air, as if one was welcome to sit down and unwind.
“Thanks for finding time to meet with me.” She said, settling into her chair, shyly glancing up at him as he scooted her in.
He returned to his seat. “Not a problem. I hope you don’t mind sitting outside,” he motioned toward the doorway. “They’re reading poetry inside but I want to talk.”
Poetry? What did poetry have to do with coffee? “Oh, I see.” She said with another glance toward the open French doors. Then, wanting to appear to intelligent and unconcerned about the unconventional meeting place, she shifted the conversation. “You said you don’t agree with Professor Flannigan on space travel?”
He lifted his tiny coffee cup and his lips twitched to hide a smile. “I hope you didn’t agree to have coffee with me, so we could discuss the professor.”
She blushed. “Not exactly.”
“That’s a relief.” He took a sip from his cup, then returned it to the saucer and motioned for the waiter. “I like the professor, but I’m far more interested in you.”
She was momentarily astounded by his aggressive tactics. Then again, he’d brazenly invited her out the first time they had spoken. She had to get with it -- this was life at a university in the city, not Smithville.
He leaned back and rested one ankle lazily across the other knee, surveying her across the table. “Where did you come from, Wynona?”
Winnie thrilled at his perusal, enjoying the quiver of sexual tension between them. He had removed his sport coat and loosened his tie, giving him an educated, yet rakish, appeal. He was so horribly handsome and suave that it took a moment for her to realize that he’d asked her a question. “Came from this morning, or—”
He chuckled. “No, no, your hometown.”
She turned to hang her bag on the back of her seat. “Oh, you don’t want to know about that, really, it’s not interesting.”
His foot fell to the sidewalk and he leaned forward, his expression serious. “Oh, but I do. I’ve been watching you, and you’re not from around here.”
She blanched, her eyes falling to her hands as they smoothed her skirt. “Watching me?” She muttered. So, she apparently didn’t fit in. Her confidence dropped.
“You obviously have no idea how attractive you are.” He said, his voice smooth and confident.
A frizzier of excitement raced down her spine at his compliment, and her eyes came up to meet his. A spark of attitude lit her expression. The man was so brash! He had a way of arresting her attention and catching her off guard. She made a concerted effort not to squirm in her chair as he shamelessly inspected her.
Did she like being treated in such a manner? She was used to shy boys with country ways and slow-moving courting rituals. What did one do with such a direct approach?”
The waiter arrived, interrupting the flow of emotion between them, and giving her a moment to collect her wits.
“What would you like to drink, Wynona?” Thomas asked.
Her poise faltered. Now she really was lost. Didn’t one drink coffee at a coffee house? “Coffee, please.” She answered, hoping she sounded confident.
“Dark roast, light roast, latte, espresso, black, cream, sugar, decaf?” The waiter ticked off, giving her a flustered look.
“That would be fine.” She said, tossing a nervous glance toward Thomas.
Thomas hid a grin behind his coffee cup.
The waiter pulled a face, then turned to Thomas, hoping for clarity.
“Light roast with cream and sugar for my friend, please.”
The waiter scribbled on his pad. “Would you like another espresso?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Thomas assured, and the waiter hurried away between the crowded tables.
Espresso? What was that? Weren’t they drinking coffee? And did everyone drink whatever-it-was in tiny cups like Thomas did? Her father slurped his coffee boiling hot, from a saucer, but her mother said that was old fashioned and impolite, so she drank hers from a china tea cup. Winnie had tasted it once but thought it bitter. Back home, coffee was a breakfast staple for adults, along with home-bottled fruit and fried hominy. Personally, she preferred a biscuit or flapjacks to hominy or grits, but her parents were set in their ways.
“Do you like espresso?” Thomas asked, taking in every detail of her response.
She felt as if she were on trial. He had to know she’d never heard of espresso. His gaze felt so— penetrating. “I don’t know,” she shrugged off the question. “Never tried it.”
“Ah,” he acknowledged, “I see.”
Feeling almost naked under his scrutiny, Winnie examined him right back. He didn’t sound disappointed, as a matter of fact, he seemed pleased with her lack of knowledge. Did it make him feel superior to surround himself with uneducated people? Because she may not know much about coffee or the city life, for that matter, but she was no shrinking violet. She’d held her own back home, and she had no notion of changing now. “What is espresso?” she asked, raising her chin a notch.
Her response appeared to please him. He grinned and relaxed back into his chair. His smile seemed to say well done, almost as if she’d risen in his opinion. So, he wasn’t a complete jerk. Arrogant maybe, and definitely brash, but not a jerk.
“Espresso is strong Italian coffee, very trendy at the moment.” He explained.
“I’m not a big coffee drinker, to be honest.” She admitted in relief.
“Academic life will change that,” he assured with a scoff. “You’ll need it to stay awake after long nights of study, or poetry reading, or enjoying— other trendy beverages.”
Winnie laughed. “I can imagine. Claudia, my roommate, has been raving about the wide variety of alcoholic drinks available for consumption.”
The waiter arrived with her coffee, interrupting the flow of the conversation. Winnie looked at her cup and wondered again why her coffee was in a big mug, and Thomas’s was in such a tiny cup. She kept her questions to herself, though, not wanting to appear stupid. “So,” she began, eager to learn more about Thomas. “Where else do your philosophies differ from Professor Green?”
His cup lowered and he scoffed. “It would be easier to ask where we agree.”
“How so?” she asked, taking a sip of her scalding coffee. The roof of her mouth and her tongue burned, but she managed to swallow the scorching liquid with only a flinch.
He pretended not to notice. “Let’s just say, I find the professor’s mindset stuck in the past. Way back in the past.”
She stifled the reflex to bring her hand to her mouth. Unable to speak, she didn’t ask Thomas to elaborate, just gave him an expectant gaze as she felt around the inside of her mouth with her tongue, assessing the damage.
“Well,” he continued, “it takes decades, sometimes longer, for new philosophies to become mainstream. What people consider new on campus today, actually began to catch on back in the ’50s.”
“Really,” she said, glancing at the table next to them. How could these people drink the burning stuff? Did they have no feeling left in their mouth? Then she saw one student carefully tipping her mug to test the brew before drinking. Finding it too hot, she lowered her cup back to the saucer. Winnie made a mental note to never drink coffee again without testing the temperature first.
“You know, the concepts of modern philosophy,” Thomas continued, feeling her attention roam and wanting it back. “Metaphysical philosophy dealing with abstract concepts. The stuff we are into today is nothing new.”
Her eyes came back to his, her expression blank. “Metaphysical? What ab
stract concepts are you referring to?”
“Let’s see,” he listed, ticking off topics on his fingers. “Being, knowing, substance, cause, identity, time, space. The unquantifiable stuff.”
Winnie’s head spun. Obviously, she was outdated more so than just her dress length and hair style. She had no idea what he was talking about. “Start with being…” she said, leaning back and clasping her hands in her lap, eager to learn.
He grinned, knowing he’d drawn her back in. “Oh, being is my favorite.”
She arched an eyebrow.
“It refers to the soul being separate from the physical body.”
Still lost, she didn’t say anything. Did he mean the soul, like in church? Where the soul could burn in hell forever?
He reached across the table for her hand, and she responded without hesitation, placing her hand in his. His thumb brushed across her palm, sending goosebumps up her arm and across her scalp. He smiled, his eyes sparking. “This is what I mean. Did you respond to my touch simply because the nerve endings in your skin were stimulated, or for another reason, deeper than the physical body?”
Winnie wasn’t sure what he was referring to exactly, but she did know that his touch certainly had a different effect on her than anyone else’s ever had. She felt alive, alert, eager, willing, every positive, ready-to-jump emotion she could think of. “I see—” her voice cracked and she blushed, trying again. “I see what you mean.”
Thomas let go of her hand and leaned back in his chair, seemingly enjoying their interaction every bit as much as she did.
“I can’t wait to hear more,” she said, lifting her mug to carefully test the temperature. But her eyes never left his. The coffee was still too hot, so she lowered the cup. “I’m so glad to hear you don’t agree with the professor. He seems so stodgy. Will you teach me?” Her words may have been straightforward given she was talking to a teacher, but she allowed plenty of innuendo to creep into her meaning.
“Indeed,” he grinned, as he lifted his cup for a toast. “To a future of space travel, dangerous spores, and unnatural yearnings.”
* * *
Tara pulled into the driveway of Winnie’s old house but didn’t have the energy to get out. How did one hire an Inn manager in a place the size of Smithville? She’d lucked out when she found Lizzie to manage the spa, but what were the chances of finding someone with hotel experience out here in the country? Would they want to live at the Inn? Would they be nosey?
But her biggest concern was how to let someone else take over her home. What would her role be?
She climbed from the car and plodded to the back door.
Winnie and Bella looked up from the kitchen island as Tara tromped in. “Momma!” Bella cried, clapping her hands. Flour poofed across the counter.
“Cutting out cookies?” Tara said with a grin. “I love cookie cutters.”
“Now, tend to your knitting,” Winnie chided, using an old adage her mother used to say, redirecting Bella’s attention back on the task at hand.
“Can I help?” Tara asked, hanging her purse on a hook by the door.
“Get an apron,” Winnie motioned toward a drawer. “Here, Bella. Want to make a doggie cookie?” She handed a cookie cutter to Bella, then inspected Tara over her glasses. “How are things at the Inn?”
“Doggie,” the little girl chanted, scrutinizing the cookie cutter.
“Okay, sweetheart, put it here and press,” Winnie instructed, holding Bella’s plump little hands in her own.
“About the same, I guess,” Tara said, ignoring Winnie’s directive to get an apron. Instead she sorted through the pile of cookie cutters. “Are we going to frost them too? With sprinkles?”
Winnie wiped her cheek with one shoulder. “Let’s see if I survive the cut-out part first, shall we?”
Tara couldn’t help but notice Winnie’s uncharacteristic weariness. “Has Bella been behaving?”
“Bella is always wonderful,” Winnie said, giving Tara a dirty look.
“Humph,” Tara said, selecting a giraffe cookie cutter. “Did I tell you that Lizzie wants to have her wedding in the barn theater?”
“No, you didn’t,” Winnie replied, watching Bella make pinch marks in the dough with her little fingers. “How will you manage that?”
“I don’t know,” Tara admitted, pressing out a giraffe cookie.”
“Dog!” Bella chanted, pointing at Tara’s cutout.
“No honey, that’s a giraffe,” Tara corrected. “Justin liked your idea about hiring a manager for the Inn,” she said, trying on the words for size as she watched for Winnie’s reaction. “I guess with a wedding coming up, I’ll have to find someone ASAP.”
“Do you know what kind of manager you want?” Winnie asked, brushing her hands together.
Tara plopped back onto a stool and frowned down at the cookie dough. “I don’t know, the whole thing makes me feel like a failure.”
“I can understand that,” Winnie said, “but you best get over feeling sorry for yourself, and just get on with it.”
“Right.” Tara agreed, not necessarily feeling sorry for herself per se but understanding that Winnie had no patience for her mood.
“I heard that Marge’s sister is recently widowed and may be looking for work. She has hotel experience.” Winnie offered.
Tara wrinkled her nose. “Marge’s sister? How old is she?”
Winnie’s expression darkened. “Does that matter?”
“No, I suppose not, as long as she has the energy to run the place.”
“A little age and experience can be an advantage, you know.” Winnie continued.
“I know.”
“Cat!” Bella shouted, pointing toward a cookie cutter.
Winnie handed the cookie cutter to Bella but remained silent.
“Are you okay?” Tara asked, her head tilted to one side.
Winnie only sniffed in reply.
Tara frowned. Winnie was definitely upset, and if Bella wasn’t the problem, what could it be? How could she broach the subject without upsetting Winnie all over again?
As she rifled through the cookie cutters, remembering cutting out cookies with Winnie as a child, her thoughts shifted through upcoming events that might be cause for Winnie’s distress. Then it hit her -- Homecoming was next month! That could be it! Winnie got a letter from an old friend, and it had something to do with Homecoming.
Smithville was a rural place, and as with most small towns, Homecoming was a big deal. It meant football games, town picnics, and formal dances for the kids, but it also meant reunions and remembering your own high school days. Winnie had mentioned going off to college the day before -- that had to be it!
“Are you making apple pies for Homecoming next month?” she asked, watching Winnie from the corner of her eye.
Winnie helped Bella down from her chair and led her to the sink to wash. “I always do,” she said with a grunt as she hefted the little girl up onto the counter.
“Let me do that,” Tara said, shouldering past Winnie to tuck Bella expertly under one arm. She turned on the tap and proceeded to wash the baby’s arms, hands, and face over the sink. “How many pies will you make?” Maybe she could fool Winnie into thinking she was interested in cooking rather than her moodiness.
“Help! Nana!” Hollered the little girl. “Nana!” she squirmed and cried, but her mother held her firm. When she was clean, Tara put Bella down on the floor and used a dish towel to dry her face and hands.
Winnie shook her head, disapproving of Tara’s technique. “I have a wash cloth.”
Bella ran to Winnie and clung to her leg for protection.
Tara leaned against the counter, ignoring Winnie, and continued with her line of thought. “Why do you always make apple pies anyway?”
Winnie eyed her suspiciously, then collected the cookie cutters. “Why are you so interested in pies?”
Tara shrugged. “Just thinking about Homecoming.”
Winnie bustled to the sink to depos
it the cookie mess and turned to Tara. “What do you want to know?”
Caught in her own trap, Tara blushed. “I don’t know, are you planning anything, you know, special, this year?”
Bella tugged on Winnie’s skirt hem. “Sam-ich, Nana” she insisted.
“Just a minute, darling,” Winnie told the child.
Tara headed to the fridge to get the jam for Bella’s lunch. Hidden by the refrigerator door, she took a more direct tack. “Are you going to the class reunion?” She shut the door and was surprised at the look on the old woman’s face.
“What business is that of yours?” Winnie demanded.
“Well, I—” Tara stuttered. “I was just curious—”
“Look,” Winnie said, taking a loaf of bread from the bread box on the counter. “I know you’re picking up on my irritability, but there’s nothing you can do, so let it go.”
Tara put the jam on the island counter and plopped onto a stool. Winnie was always there to help her through any crisis. There had to be something she could do or say.
Winnie put together a sandwich, then trimmed off the crust.
Tara pulled a face. “You’re spoiling her, you know.”
“I do,” Winnie admitted without remorse.
Letting the subject of caring for Bella drop, Tara pushed on. “Tell me more about when you were young. You mentioned college...”
Winnie put the sandwich on a plate and lifted Bella into her chair. “What do you want to know?”
Uncertain where to start, Tara considered her words. “Like, what did you do for fun, who were your friends?” She didn’t dare to meet Winnie’s eye, sure the old woman would know she was digging for information, so she headed across the room to return the jam to the fridge.
Winnie’s demeanor showed resignation as she scooped Bella’s unbaked cookies onto a baking pan, as if she knew Tara would be relentless and she’d given up. “Claudia was my best friend,” she finally said. “We grew up together here and then went off to Pittsburgh.”
Tara’s head popped around the fridge door, her eyes wide. “Claudia?”
“She was something else back then,” Winnie said wistfully.
Hometown Series Box Set Page 125