“That would be great,” Angie said. “Does that mean you think he’s sticking around Hope’s Crossing?”
Oh, she hoped not. The very idea made her stomach cramp. “I doubt it. Jack isn’t a big fan of our little neck of the woods. Not to mention that he also hates his father.”
“Not a big shocker there,” Mary Ella muttered. She had a long-standing feud with Harry Lange, the wealthiest man in town, who seemed to think he owned everyone and everything in town—not just the ski resort he had developed, but everybody in Hope’s Crossing who owed a living to the tourists he had brought in to enjoy it.
“Is there anything you need from us?” Claire asked.
A little spiked cider would be a good start. “I’d like to get back to the party. You have all found time in your holiday-crazed lives for this, and I don’t want to ruin everything with more drama. Can we just forget about Jackson Lange for now?”
Everybody seemed to agree, to her great relief. Katherine Thorne asked Janie a question about one of her children who had broken an arm sledding off the hill at Miner’s Park, and the conversation turned.
She loved these women. Sometimes their idiosyncrasies and their smothering concern drove her crazy, but she didn’t know how she would have survived these past months without them. She had a feeling she would be leaning on them more than ever with this new twist on her life’s journey.
* * *
HER HOUSE WAS QUIET when she returned after the party finally wrapped up. She’d become used to it over the past few months since Sage had returned to Boulder and school. After she opened the door and found only the whoosh of the furnace, she finally admitted to herself that some part of her had been looking forward to Sage’s return to fill the empty space with sound—her endless chatter about grades and her classes and current events, the television set she always had on, usually to HGTV, her local friends who went to other schools or had stuck around town to work and who always seemed to find excuses to drop in when Sage was in town.
She was destined for another quiet night, she realized.
“Sage? Honey?” she called, but received no answer. Maura knew she was home. Her purse was hanging on the hook by the door, and her cell phone was on the console table. She walked through the house to Sage’s bedroom. The door was ajar and she rapped on it a few times softly, then pushed it open.
Sage was curled up in her bed with only her face sticking out of the cocoon of blankets. The lights of one of the little individual Christmas trees Maura had always set up in her girls’ bedrooms twinkled and glowed, sending brightly colored reflections over Sage’s face.
She rubbed a hand over her chest at the sudden ache there. She loved her daughter fiercely, had from the very first moment she’d realized she was pregnant. Yes, she had been afraid. What seventeen-year-old girl wouldn’t have been? But she had also been eager for this unexpected adventure.
Those weeks and months of her pregnancy seemed so fresh and vivid in her mind. In her head she had known that giving up the baby for adoption to a settled, established couple who loved each other deeply would have been the best thing for Sage, but she had been selfish, she supposed. She couldn’t even bear the idea of losing this part of Jack that she already loved so much.
She could also admit to herself now that, at the time, she had been so angry at her father for leaving and at Jack for repeating the pattern that she had managed to convince herself her baby didn’t need a father in her life, except to donate half the DNA. She could certainly raise this baby by herself without help from anyone.
Yeah, it had been immature and shortsighted—but then she had only been seventeen. Younger than her daughter was now.
Sage had always been a restless sleeper, even as a baby, but her exhaustion over finals must have tired her out. She didn’t move when Maura stepped forward to click off the lights on the little tree or when Maura smoothed the blankets and tucked them more securely, then walked quietly from the room.
She paused outside the next bedroom and almost didn’t go inside but finally forced herself to move. She switched on the little tree beside the empty bed and watched the colors reflected on the pale lavender walls, cheerful yellows and blues and reds and greens.
Angie, Mary Ella and Alex had insisted on coming over Thanksgiving weekend to help her put up the rest of the decorations, but she had placed this little tree here herself, as well as the little solar-powered tree on the gravesite. She had decorated it with all Layla’s favorite ornaments—little beaded snowflakes Layla had made at String Fever, a glass snowman she had received from one of her good friends, a few small, pearlescent balls that seemed to shimmer in the glow from the lights.
She hadn’t changed anything in here yet. It still looked like a fifteen-year-old girl’s room, with a couple of lava lamps, a big, plump purple beanbag where Layla had loved to study, and huge posters of bands on the wall—most notably, Pendragon, her father’s acoustic rock band. Though he was twice her age, Layla had had a bit of a crush on Chris’s drummer.
Some day she would do something with the room. Maybe turn it into a home office, since most of the bookstore paperwork she brought home ended up spread out on a desk in her bedroom.
Not yet, though. She couldn’t bring herself to change anything yet, so she left it untouched and only came in occasionally to dust.
After a few minutes of watching the lights, Maura cleared her throat and turned off the lights before she walked back into the quiet hallway.
As much as she ached with pain for Layla and the life that had been cut short by a whole chain of stupid decisions by a bunch of teenagers, Maura couldn’t stop living. She had another daughter who needed her, now more than ever.
CHAPTER FOUR
DESPITE THE RADICAL CHANGES to the rest of the town, the Center of Hope Café had changed very little in the twenty years since Jack had been here.
That might be new wallpaper on the wall, something brighter to replace the old wood paneling he remembered, but the booths were covered in the same red vinyl and the ceiling was still the old-fashioned tin-stamped sort favored around the turn of the century.
Even the owner, Dermot Caine, still stood behind the U-shaped bar. He had to be in his mid-sixties, but he had the familiar shock of white hair he’d worn as long as Jack could remember and the same piercing blue eyes that seemed capable of ferreting out any secret.
Despite the calorie-heavy comfort food the café was famous for, Dermot had stayed in shape and looked as if he could beat any comers in an arm-wrestling contest, probably from years of working the grill.
Just now he was busy talking to a couple of guys in Stetsons. Jack looked around for Maura and Sage but couldn’t spot them. He didn’t see anyone else he recognized either. It looked as if the Center of Hope was popular with both locals and tourists, at least judging by the odd mix of high-dollar ski gear and ranch coats.
He stood waiting to be seated for just a moment before Dermot walked over, no trace of recognition in his gaze. No surprise there. Jack had been gone twenty years. He probably looked markedly different than that kid who used to come into the café to study after the library had closed for the night.
It sure as hell had beat going home.
“Hello there and welcome to the Center of Hope Café.” Dermot had a trace of Ireland in his voice. Jack could easily have pictured him running a corner pub in a little town in County Galway somewhere, surrounded by mossy-green fields and stone fences. “You’ve got a couple of choices this lovely morning. You can find yourself a vacant spot at the counter, or I can fix you up with a booth or a
table. Your preference.”
“I’m actually waiting for two more. A booth would be fine.”
“I’ve got a prime spot right here by the window. Will that suit you?”
“Perfectly. Thank you.” He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a convenient hook made from a portion of an elk antler on the wall beside the booth. As he slid into the booth, Dermot set out a trio of menus and opened one for him.
“Here. You can have a little sneak peek at the menu before the rest of your party comes. We also have made-to-order omelets, if that suits your fancy. The breakfast special this morning is our eggs Benedict, famous in three counties. Can I get you some coffee or juice while you’re waiting?”
Ordinarily, he would have liked to extend the courtesy of at least ordering beverages for Sage and Maura. Since he had no idea what they would like, he opted to play it safe and order only for himself. “I’ll have both. Regular coffee and a small grapefruit juice. Thank you.”
Dermot nodded. “Coming right up.” He paused for just a moment, his blue eyes narrowed. “Have you been in before? I usually have a good eye for my customers. I keep thinking I should know you, but I’m afraid my memory’s not what it once was and I can’t quite place you. Sorry, I am, for that.”
“Don’t apologize. I would have been surprised if you had recognized me. It’s been twenty years. You used to serve me chocolate malts from the fountain with extra whipped cream while I did my homework in the corner.” It was a surprisingly pleasant memory, especially considering he didn’t think he had many of this town. That hadn’t involved Maura, anyway.
“Jackson Lange,” Dermot exclaimed. “Lordy, it’s been an age, it has. How have you been, son?”
How did a man encapsulate his journey over the past two decades? Hard work, ambition, amazing good fortune in his chosen field and not such good fortune in his painfully short-lived marriage. “I can’t complain. How about you? How’s Mrs. Caine?”
His cheerful smile slipped a little. “I lost her some fifteen years back. The cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Aye. So am I. I miss her every single day. But we had seven beautiful children together, and her memory lives on in them and our eight grandchildren.”
He gestured to the other two menus. “And what about you? Are you meeting your family here, then?”
He thought of Sage, the daughter he hadn’t known existed a handful of days ago. “Something like that.”
“I’ll treat you right. Don’t you worry. Our French toast is still legendary around these parts. We still cover it in toasted almonds and dust it with powdered sugar.”
He usually was a coffee-and-toast kind of guy, but he had fond memories of that French toast. An indulgence once in a while probably wouldn’t kill him. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Dermot smiled at him and headed to the kitchen, probably for his juice. Through the window, Jack watched Main Street bustle to life. The woman who was trying to change the marquee on the little two-theater cinema up the road had to stop about five times to return the wave of someone driving past, and a couple of women in winter workout gear who had dogs on leashes paused at just about every storefront to talk to somebody.
The scene reminded him of a small village outside Milan where he had rented an apartment for two months during the construction of a hotel and regional conference center a few miles from town. He used to love to grab a cappuccino and sit on the square with a sketchbook and pencil, watching the town wake up to greet the day.
In his career, Jack had worked on projects across the world, from Riyadh to Rio de Janeiro. He loved the excitement and vitality of a large city. The streets outside his loft in San Francisco bustled with life, and he enjoyed sitting out on the terrace and watching it from time to time, but he had to admit, he always found something appealing about the slower pace of a small town, where neighbors took time to stop their own lives to chat and care about each other.
Dermot walked out with his juice and a coffeepot. “Still waiting?” he asked as he flipped a cup over and expertly poured.
“I’m sure they’ll be here soon.”
“I’ll keep an eye out, unless you would like me to take your order now.”
“No. I’ll wait.”
A few moments later, while he was watching the dog walkers grab a shovel out of an elderly man’s hands in front of a jewelry store and start clearing snow off his store entrance, Maura and Sage came in. Their faces were both flushed from the cold, but he was struck for the first time how alike they looked. Sage was an interesting mix of the both of them, but in the morning light and with her darker, curlier hair covered by a beanie, she looked very much like her mother.
The women spotted him instantly and hurried over to the booth.
“Sorry we’re late,” Maura said without explanation, but Sage gave a heavy sigh.
“It’s my fault,” Sage said. “I was so tired and had a hard time getting moving this morning.”
“You’re here now. That’s the important thing.” He rose and helped them out of their coats. Sage wore a bulky red sweater under hers, while Maura wore a pale blue turtleneck and a long spill of silver-and-blue beads that reminded him of a waterfall.
He was struck by how thin she appeared. The shirt bagged at her wrists, and he wondered if she had lost weight in the months since her daughter died.
“I’ve been enjoying the café,” he said after they slid into the other side of the booth together, with Sage on the inside. “It hasn’t changed much in twenty years.”
“The food’s still just as good,” Maura said. “Unfortunately, the tourists have figured that out too.”
“I noticed that. It’s been hopping since I got here.”
The conversation lagged, and to cover the awkwardness, he picked up their menus from the table and opened them, then handed them to the women. He hadn’t worked his way through college tending bar at a little dive near the Gourmet Ghetto for nothing.
“So Mr. Caine recommended the French toast.”
“That’s what I always get when we come here for breakfast,” Sage told him. “It’s sooo good. Like having dessert for breakfast. Mom usually has a poached egg and whole wheat toast. That’s like driving all the way to Disneyland and not riding Space Mountain!”
“Maybe I’ll try the French toast this morning too,” Maura said, a hint of rebellion in her tone.
She seemed to be in a prickly mood, probably unhappy at the prospect of sharing a booth and a meal with him.
“Sorry I didn’t order coffee for either of you. I wasn’t sure of your preferences.”
“I usually like coffee in the morning,” Sage told him, “but I’m not sure my stomach can handle it today. I’d better go for tea.”
As if on cue, Dermot Caine headed toward their booth and did an almost comical double take when he saw Maura and Sage sitting with him. Jack wondered at it, until he remembered his comment about waiting for his family, in a manner of speaking.
Well, if the word wasn’t out around town that he was Sage’s father after the scene at the bookstore the night before, he imagined it wouldn’t take long for the Hope’s Crossing grapevine to start humming.
“Sage, my darlin’. Home for the holidays, are you?”
“That’s the plan, Mr. C.” She beamed at the older man, who plainly adored her.
“And how is school going for you?”
Sage made a face. “Meh. I had a chemistry and biology class in the same semester. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Well, you’re such a smarty, I’m sure you’ll do fine.” He turned to face Maura. Somehow
Jack wasn’t surprised when he reached out and covered her hand with his. “And how are you, my dear?”
“I’m fine, Dermot. Thanks.” She gave him a smile, but Jack didn’t miss the way she moved her hand back to her lap as soon as Dermot lifted his away, as if she couldn’t bear to hold even a trace of sympathy.
“I’m guessing you’ll be wanting water for tea.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Make that two,” Sage said.
“Sure thing. And what else can I bring you? Have you had time to decide?”
They all settled on French toast, which seemed to delight Dermot Caine to no end. “I’ll add an extra dollop of fresh cream on the side for you. No charge,” he promised.
After he left, awkwardness returned to the booth. What strange dynamics between the three of them, he thought. Twenty years ago, Maura had been his best friend. They could never seem to stop talking—about politics, about religion, about their hopes and dreams for the future.
Over the past few days, he had seen Sage several times, and their conversation had been easy and wide-changing. He had years of her life to catch up on, and she seemed fascinated with his career, asking him questions nonstop about his life since he’d left Hope’s Crossing and about some of the projects he had designed.
Maura and Sage seemed very close as mother and daughter, and he would have expected them to have plenty to talk about.
So why did these jerky silences seem to strangle the conversation when the three of them were together?
“I guess you found a hotel room,” Sage finally said after Dermot returned with cups of hot water and the two women busied themselves selecting their tea bags.
“It wasn’t easy,” he admitted. “I ended up stopping at a couple different places and finally found a room at the Blue Columbine.”
“That’s a really nice place,” Sage said. “My mom’s friend Lucy owns it.”
RaeAnne Thayne Hope's Crossings Series Volume One: Blackberry SummerWoodrose MountainSweet Laurel Falls Page 61