Last Chance at the Someday Café

by Angel Smits

  Halfway down the block, she stopped at the T-shirt vendor and recalled the woman who’d come in to apply for a waitress job, the one who’d insulted her, unintentionally, but the woman’s rudeness still stuck in Tara’s mind. Relieved the woman wasn’t there, she was glad to find a man behind the wide table.

  She didn’t remember seeing him before. Was folding something people who sold T-shirts did in their sleep? They always seemed to be doing it.

  “Hello,” she greeted him with a smile. He looked up, but rather than smiling, he frowned, then seemed to force his lips into a stiff grin.

  “Hi!” She tried again. He kept folding.

  “Let me know if there’s anything you’d like me to ring up.” He moved to sit in a chair beside an ancient cash register. He picked up a magazine and focused on it, ignoring her.

  “I’d like to introduce myself,” she said. He looked up and fake-smiled again.

  “Yeah, I know who you are. You bought the diner from Daisy.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I ain’t giving out any of yer flyers,” he grumbled. “It’s hard enough makin’ a livin’ doing my own business.” He went back to his magazine. “You wanna buy something?”

  She stared at him, surprised. Not now, she didn’t. Everyone else was very open and helpful, friendly. What was wrong with this guy?

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” She wasn’t giving up. “I’m offering a discount. If nothing else, you and your family might enjoy coming by for a meal.” Did she really say that without gritting her teeth? She was fairly impressed with herself.

  “No, thanks.”

  “You haven’t even tried.”

  “Lady makes a mean omelet,” another voice said beside her, and Tara turned to see The Hunk standing there, pawing at T-shirts. He wasn’t even looking at the T-shirts he was unfolding. He was looking at her instead. And smiling. Another T-shirt returned to the pile, rumpled and unviewed.

  “You want to buy something?” The man behind the counter looked up from the magazine only long enough to glare at the growing pile of messy shirts.

  “Not sure yet.” Hunk continued to smile, his expression more mischief than mirth. “I’ll let you know.”

  She couldn’t ignore him. He’d complimented her, for one thing. “Glad you enjoyed your meal. I hope you’ll return.”

  “Plan to.” He faced her, leaving the T-shirts for the other man to refold. “I’m Morgan Thane.” He stuck out a hand, a beefy hand that matched the rest of him, muscular, strong and intimidating. A total contradiction to the smile on his face and the curiosity in his eyes. “My truck is parked in your back lot. Hope that’s okay.”

  She took a step away, reluctant to touch him. “Tara Hawkins.” She didn’t want to be rude, so she finally took his hand, feeling her fingers engulfed but thankfully not crushed. His palm was rough and warm.

  Wendy was right. His eyes were green—a deep, dark green. Like the underside of those cottonwood leaves he’d been sitting beneath. This is ridiculous. Tara forced herself to slip her hand from his. “You’re welcome to park there, yes. Daisy said lots of truckers come by. Are...are you here job hunting, Mr. Thane?” That didn’t make sense, unless he was tired of driving truck. “Or just here to mess up the displays?”

  “Uh—no?” He looked puzzled, then glanced at the piles of T-shirts and laughed. “I’m just keeping him on his toes.” His expression faded and grew distant. “You ignore a business and it’ll fail. Miserably.” He tilted his head toward the man still focused on his magazine instead of them. “I see it as doing him a favor.”

  “Uh-huh.” Somehow that didn’t totally ring true, though it did make sense. “My waitress said you were asking about hiring.” Yes. Keep this on a business level.

  His eyes widened and he stepped closer. “Oh, yeah. No, I’m actually, uh, looking for a friend.” Even in the middle of the day’s heat, his body’s warmth reached out to her.

  “Does your friend have experience as a cook or a waitress?” She might not need anyone now, but she knew turnover would be an issue. It always was in the food industry.

  He stared at her, and Tara struggled to keep from falling under the spell of those eyes.

  “Actually, yeah. I was wondering if she’d already applied.”

  Why did he look around then, as if someone might be watching them? Something seemed off, and she frowned.

  A group of girls came over to the table then and the distracted clerk hurried over, busying himself refolding the shirts Morgan had messed up.

  Morgan looked at the man and gently grabbed Tara’s elbow to guide her away from the table. She barely resisted the urge to pull her arm from his grasp, but before she could, he let her go.

  “Did anyone named Sylvie come in and apply?”

  Surprised, Tara stared at him. “Uh, yes. Why?” She was a friend of his? What kind of friend? She mentally rolled her eyes. What business of hers was it? What did it matter? But somehow it did.

  “When?” The urgency in his voice startled her. He looked ready to pounce. “When did you last see her?” His words came out in a rush.

  “It’s been almost a month ago. That was the only time I’ve ever seen her. I don’t know her.” She wasn’t really someone Tara could see herself being friends with, that’s for sure.

  His expression fell, and she saw the disappointment cover his face. “Damn.”

  “What’s going on?”

  He paced, running his fingers over his close-cropped hair, as if forgetting he didn’t have long hair to shove them through. She watched that big hand, fascinated.

  “I’ve been looking for her for some time and every time I get close, I miss her.”

  “What do you mean, miss her?”

  “Hey, do you work here?” One of the girls who had been looking at the T-shirts came over to them.

  “Uh, no.” Tara frowned, looking around for the man who’d been behind the table. “He was here a minute ago.”

  “There isn’t anyone.” The girl actually pouted. “Darn, I wanted this one.” She held up a black T-shirt with a ghastly skeleton on it. Maybe it was a blessing the man wasn’t here.

  “Morgan did you see...?” She turned to find Morgan gone. In the distance, just this side of the park, she saw him jogging down an alley that led away from the street fair. The T-shirt salesman was a short distance ahead of him, hurrying away.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MORGAN’S CURSES FILLED the air. Where the hell had the guy gone? As he’d talked to Tara, he’d watched the vendor behind her react. Something—recognition or realization—had dawned on the man’s face. Looking up the side street now, Morgan didn’t see a trace of him.

  Half a dozen people came and went around him. A couple women stood on the corner, chatting in the sunlight. A boy played in the dirt with one of those yellow toy trucks Morgan had wished for as a kid.

  But no shaggy-haired T-shirt vendor in sight. Morgan walked for a couple blocks, looking down alleys and casually glancing into whatever window he could without turning into a Peeping Tom. Nothing. Nowhere. It was as if the guy had vanished into thin air.

  Finally, resigned, Morgan headed to the street fair. If nothing else, the guy had to come back and get his merchandise. But when Morgan returned to the booth, an older, worn-out-looking woman was there. He tried to question her, but she was too busy to talk.

  “You wanna buy a shirt? I got customers.” She held up one of the rumpled garments. To any other questions, she just shook her head, focusing on the seemingly endless line of customers.

  “Then tell me where the man went. Your partner?”

  “I don’t keep track of no one but me.” She turned to a couple women on the other side of the booth. With a sigh, Morgan settled under the oak to wait, though he wasn’t really sure what he was
waiting for.

  Sitting there in the mottled sunlight, with nothing to do but think, Morgan wondered why he was even here. Was he just wasting his time? No. This was the best lead he had, and he couldn’t walk away. The idea of leaving wasn’t even an option. He had to find Sylvie and Brooke.

  He had no choice.

  As he watched people moving around the spacious park and shopping at the varied booths, it was with a calculated eye. He was studying. Looking—but not hoping. He never let himself go there.

  He’d given up on hope a long time ago. Losing it was too painful. But where else could he look? Who else should he talk to? He thought about calling Jack, but he was tired of calling his brother with no news. Tired of failing.

  Tara Hawkins must have gone to the diner. Despite himself, he looked around for her. Damn it. He didn’t see her anywhere. Maybe she’d know more. Should he go back there?

  Turning toward the T-shirt stand, he forced himself to focus. This was his mission—Brooke was his responsibility.

  Throughout the rest of the day, the woman at the booth did a brisk business. Nothing unusual. Just busy. She cast Morgan several furtive glances, which made him more determined to stay put. The man didn’t return.

  Finally, as the sun set low, the woman pulled boxes from under the table and packed the remaining stock. No one came to help, and she glared at Morgan.

  If he didn’t want to have an up-close-and-personal meeting with the sheriff, he knew he had to be careful about how he approached her.

  When she taped the last box closed, Morgan moved closer for one last try. He didn’t say anything at first, simply stood, watching, trying not to intimidate her too much. She, on the other hand, had no hesitancy in glaring at him.

  Slowly, deliberately, Morgan pulled out his wallet. Not to get money, but to slip out the familiar, worn picture. He hesitated. Was this a good idea? He had no clue, but he didn’t know what else to do. Praying he was making the right choice, Morgan put the picture on top of the last box. “She’s mine,” he whispered around the lump in his throat. “She’s a year older than that picture.”

  The woman paused and looked at Brooke’s grin. Recognition flashed in her eyes an instant before she shut the reaction down.

  “Yeah?” She hefted a box onto a metal dolly. “Cute kid.”

  “She is. I haven’t seen her in a year.”

  The silence hung thick in the twilight. “Whatcha want me to do ’bout it?” The woman moved another box, more slowly this time.

  “Have you seen her?”

  “Maybe.” Another box moved. It barely fit on the dolly, but she put it there anyway. It’d be awkward as heck to move, but he doubted that would stop her. And it didn’t.

  “Can I help you with that?” He reached for the handle and the woman lifted an elbow to push him away.

  “I got it. Thanks.” She stepped behind the dolly, shoving her foot against the bottom rail and tilting it. She grunted briefly as the big box fell onto the rail and her shoulder.

  “Do you know her?” Morgan asked.

  The woman met his gaze, and the sadness in her eyes surprised him. “Don’t know her. I seen her, I think, but lots of people come through here.” She tilted her head toward the now-empty booth.

  “If you see her again, would you let me know?” He tried to tamp down the emotion flaring annoyingly to life in his chest. He pulled a business card out of his wallet and put it on top of the boxes as he retrieved the precious photo.

  “Maybe.” She took a couple of steps, struggling with the weight.

  Midway through the gate to a dirt parking lot, she stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. She reached out awkwardly over the carefully balanced boxes and picked up the business card. She stared at it in the fading light. Morgan half expected her to toss it to the wind.

  Instead, she slipped it into her back pocket, and he finally remembered to breathe. He stood there, watching her load her car, then climb in. Before she turned the corner, he snapped a quick photo of the license plate and car with his phone.

  She hadn’t done anything wrong—that he knew of—but the information might be useful. If not now, maybe later. Who knew what a private detective could do with something like that? If television was to be believed, a lot.

  Slowly, Morgan walked toward his truck. The streets were empty now, a few vendors still packing up, but no customers left.

  Streetlights had come on and squares of gold fell out of the glass windows of houses he passed. He saw families sitting down to dinner. Couples in homey kitchens putting meals together. Something shifted in his chest. Envy. Longing.

  If he walked these streets, glancing in windows, would he find Sylvie? Not likely. Sylvie had tried to cook a few times, and she’d been getting better, but she’d never liked it. There wouldn’t be any homey warm scene to watch. Or any chance to find them that way.

  Loneliness settled in close, and he shivered to push it away. He didn’t have time to feel. He had too much to do. He headed toward the diner, telling himself it was only because that’s where his truck was parked.

  It had nothing to do with the fact that Tara would be serving up warmth.

  And maybe a little bit of belonging.

  * * *

  DESPITE THE HEAVY RAIN, the Saturday morning rush was in full swing. Tara stood on tiptoe to peer out the round window in the doors that separated the kitchen from the dining room. Nearly all the tables were full and her staff hustled back and forth.

  She couldn’t help smiling. Just then, a customer gave Wendy one of the coupon flyers. Yes. Her work was paying off. She glanced around, hoping to see more.

  Her gaze found the French doors to the patio where raindrops hit, then slid down the panes. The street fair would be hurt by the rain, but some of today’s crowd was likely due to the weather.

  She wasn’t about to complain.

  Then she glanced at the long counter and froze. Morgan sat at the far end. A newspaper was spread out in front of him as he absently sipped from a mug and read.

  She should be surprised he was here after his abrupt departure from the park the other day. But she wasn’t. Not really. Briefly, she wondered what had happened at the fair. Not that he owed her an explanation, but she couldn’t help being curious about where the two men had gone.

  For a brief instant, she watched him. Any moment, one of the waitstaff would come through the doors, but until then, she didn’t move. He really was something.

  Most of the men in her life were like her brothers. Tall, rangy cowboys. Muscular, yes, but not like this. Their physique came from working with the cattle and riding horses; Morgan’s seemed more deliberate. More defined. Purposeful.

  He had to work out. Suddenly, an image of him, sweat glistening on the hard curves of his bare chest, his arms straining as he lifted a bar with black weights on each end, leaped to mind. If her arms hadn’t been full of fresh linens, she’d have reached up to fan herself.

  Forcing herself to stop this nonsense and get back to work, she stepped out of the kitchen, hugging the linens tight. She took her time putting them away in the antique wooden cabinet nestled in the corner.

  She did not have time for this. Hadn’t she learned her lesson? Men—good-looking men—were a distraction she couldn’t afford right now.

  Once the linens were settled, she headed to the cash register and pulled out the day’s receipts to prep the deposit. Robbie was here handling the kitchen, so she had a couple hours to get paperwork done.

  “Mornin’, Morgan. Can I get you a warm-up?” Wendy’s voice, friendly, inviting and warm, came across the dining room, and Tara looked up again. A twinge of jealousy surprised her. The waitress stood across the counter from the burly truck driver, holding the carafe.

  He didn’t respond at first and Tara paused, just as Wendy did, waiting.r />
  “You okay?” Wendy touched his arm, giving him a tiny shake. “Morgan?”

  He shook his head. “Guess I’m tired.” He rubbed his eyes. “I need to get some shut-eye.” Then he smiled. His eyes sparkled and a tiny dimple grew in his left cheek. Tara stared, frozen by the sight of him. What would it feel like to have that smile aimed at her?

  Wendy repeated her offer.

  “No, thanks.” Morgan set down the cup. “I’ve gotta run. Good breakfast. Thanks.” He nodded, tossing the folded newspaper onto the counter for someone else to read. A ball cap sat at his elbow. He settled it over his close-cropped hair, the wide brim hiding his eyes from Tara’s view and shadowing the rest of his face.

  Before turning to leave, he flipped a couple bills on the counter, then stood and shoved his wallet into the back pocket of a worn pair of jeans. Her gaze followed.

  Tara watched every move. Moments ticked by until she realized she was staring openly at his backside. Shaking her head, she forced herself to look away. Focus on something—anything—else.

  “See you tomorrow?” the waitress asked hopefully, her gaze darting meaningfully to Tara.

  Tara tore her gaze away from them, forcing herself to focus on the deposits. And to try to control her breathing. It should be against the law for a man to wear a T-shirt that fit so well. Wasn’t there some kind of ordinance?

  “Maybe. Depends on my load.” His voice dipped low. How the hell did he make it reach deep inside her?

  He looked up then, his gaze reaching out beyond the shadowed hat brim and finding hers. Tara stared back, knowing she should look away, but unable to do so.

  Her breath caught, and she tried to release it.

  Then he was gone, the glass door closing quietly in his wake.

  “Wonder why he’s in such a toot?” Wendy asked, sidling up to Tara, as if she knew more than she was saying.

  Tara shrugged, forcing her face not to show her own curiosity. Wendy didn’t need any more encouragement.

  “He doesn’t owe us any explanations.” Tara cringed at the breathy sound of her own voice.