Last Chance at the Someday Café

by Angel Smits

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then what did you say?” She opened her eyes and glared at him. “Tell me the truth. Now.”

  Silence stretched out thick and heavy. “It’s complicated.”

  “Uncomplicate it. Explain.” She had to know what was going on, what she was really getting into, but the longer they stood like this, the further away her sanity slipped. “Morgan. Now.” Sweat broke out all over her body at the unintended double entendre. Even she was turned on by her words. “Tell me now.”

  He was so close, she felt the friction of his body moving against hers as he took a deep breath. “Sylvie—”

  “Sylvie? She’s your wife? You said she was your friend.” Tara knew she sounded bitchy, but she couldn’t help it. This hurt.

  Morgan frowned at her. “Okay, maybe I wasn’t totally honest about our relationship. There wasn’t any reason to explain to you then. Yes, Sylvie is who I’m looking for. Yes, we’re married.”

  Tara stepped back, anger flooding through her. What did he see in her? Jealousy, and a mix of several other painful emotions, flared wild and green. “You’re as bad as they are.” She pointed at the doors, indicating the obnoxious diners. “At least their come-on was honest.”

  “That’s low, Tara. I thought we were, at least, friends.” He shoved open the doors, then headed to his seat, grabbed his jacket. Morgan angrily slipped it on before pitching several bills on the counter, then leaving.

  She watched until he disappeared into the rainy night.

  “No change needed.” The two other diners got up and hustled out behind him, leaving another pile of cash on their table.

  “There’d better be a good tip in there,” she said to no one. Grumbling, she stomped over to count the payments. “You men all suck.”

  “You say somethin’?” Wade asked.

  “No.” No sense ticking him off, too. She still needed him to cook.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ACCORDING TO JACK’S MANIFEST, Dewey was picking up a load here in Haskins Corners this afternoon, then heading to Fort Worth. Dewey wouldn’t arrive at the client’s business for another couple hours, so Morgan would come back. Until then, this town wasn’t that big, and he figured he could jog through most of it in a couple hours.

  Running was about the only consistent workout he got on the road. Sometimes there was a gym nearby, but today the run gave him the opportunity to move around town, essentially unnoticed.

  As well as burn off a mountain of Tara-induced frustration and energy.

  Maybe he’d find Dewey sooner this way. How hard could it be to locate that truck?

  He jogged past a tiny movie theater that still had one of those white marquees with the black plastic letters. A Disney logo told him this was one of those kid movies he’d probably know all about if Brooke was with him. Something, grief maybe, twisted in his gut. This was getting really, really old. But instead of the melancholia taking over, his anger grew.

  Damn Sylvie.

  He moved farther down the street, heading to the park. Today the street fair wasn’t in business. Which might be a good thing with the thick, heavy clouds hanging overhead. It had rained most of yesterday, so business must have been slow.

  The few semipermanent structures around the park were covered in tarps, and a light rain gently pattered on the vinyl. The empty spaces between, where the temporary setups would be tomorrow, were quickly growing into mud puddles.

  It was almost eerie. Few people were out, and those he saw were all doing business at the bank, the post office and such, hurrying from one doorway to the next.

  Turning down the main drag, Morgan decided to head toward the part of town Dewey was more likely to haunt.

  The creek ran through town, meandering behind buildings that had been here for what looked like decades. Morgan didn’t remember the water being so swift or high on the worn banks before, though. From here, looking across the flowing water, he could see the back of Tara’s diner.

  He’d had breakfast there sometime around dawn. Tara hadn’t been there yet since she’d worked late last night. The back door was open at the moment. Sounds of pots and pans and cooking came across the water. It sounded homey and warm.

  This morning, the diner had felt as empty as the streets did now. At the crosswalk, Morgan stopped, looking up and down the empty street, the back alley and at the assorted buildings.

  A loud crack cut through the morning air. The big pine that sat among the stones on this side of the creek swayed precariously. The rocks were already loose from the past week’s frequent downpours and the creek’s swift current.

  If that pine fell across the creek, it would reach the back of the diner. Nothing in its path was safe from harm.

  He’d have to mention it to Tara. If—and that was a big if—she’d even talk to him.

  Dread settled in close. This was not what he wanted his life to be. This was not who he wanted to be. Alone. Searching. Endlessly.

  But right now, it didn’t matter what he wanted. What he needed was to find Sylvie and get Brooke back. He headed along the creek’s winding path away from the quaint diner and toward a very different part of town.

  The rain fell in earnest now, in bigger drops that formed a curtain around him. With a curse, he picked up the pace, heading to the footbridge down the bank.

  He’d just come around the corner of a body shop when he heard voices. He glanced back to see two twentysomething men huddling at the overhang of a rear doorway having a smoke.

  “You going to the fight tonight?” one man asked the other. The voice was young and rough, cutting through the sound of the falling rain. Morgan slowed his pace.

  “Nah. I gotta work.”

  “You’re gonna miss a good one. I hear there’re three different matches.”

  Morgan stopped, leaning against a brick wall, acting like he needed to rest instead of eavesdrop. This was exactly why he’d come down here. How many times had he heard this type of conversation? Some things never changed. A ball of dread filled his stomach.

  “Anybody we know?”

  “Yeah. Brawler’s supposed to be there. And some guy from Houston that Tate says is a real powerhouse. Could make a nice chunk of change quick if you pick the right guy.”

  “I know. Probably make more than I’ll get in my paycheck.”

  “Probably.”

  “Too bad there ain’t a match every night. I’m tired of working this damned hard.”

  The men fell silent for a few minutes. Morgan stayed close enough to still hear anything else, hoping they’d say where the fights were going to be held.

  Dewey had offered to come to Haskins Corners. He had to have known there was a fight scheduled. Morgan’s memories rushed in of all the years he’d made ends meet by fighting, the years before he’d realized how far on the fringes of reality he’d gone.

  Would Sylvie return to her old habits? he wondered again. He strained to hear the men talk as the rain pattered louder. He barely caught the rest of their words, but he did hear railroad and barn. That had to be where the fight would be. Tonight.

  Like all the rest, it’d be late enough in the night that the normal world was settled in their quaint little houses, but not so late that the fringe elements were already drunk or stoned enough not to care.

  Was this the break he’d been waiting for? Would he finally find Sylvie there? Was Brooke nearby? Or would he be totally disappointed?

  Again?

  He had to try.

  * * *

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE you said that to him.” Wendy’s voice carried clear across the dining room to Tara. It helped that the place was empty, but still.

  “Shh. Apparently Wade has a big mouth.” Tara glared in the general direction of the kitchen, knowing full well the cook couldn�
��t see her.

  “If you chased Morgan away, there’ll be hell to pay.” Wendy worked furiously, a bit too furiously, cleaning the back counter. That chrome was going to be real shiny when she got all her anger worked out.

  “And why is that exactly?” Tara glared at Wendy, too. She was getting quite good at it. Rolling her eyes at herself, she finished putting the last of the catering orders into the system.

  She’d always loved to cook, always dreamed of owning her own restaurant. As a kid, dreaming big, she hadn’t known what a caterer was. Now she did. It was the part of the business that would keep the doors open, and the part she found the most challenging.

  She rang in—to the newly fixed and well-behaved computer—and billed for two upcoming weddings and a retirement party for one of the teachers at the high school. She smiled despite Wendy’s attitude. She might actually make a living at this someday.

  “You owe that man an apology.” Wendy had come up to stand beside her, hand on hip, tapping one foot impatiently.

  “For what?” Tara knew why she thought she should apologize to Morgan, but she was curious why Wendy thought so.

  “For insulting him.” There was that. “And for not being willing to listen.”

  “Listen to what?”

  Wendy threw her hands up in dramatic defeat. “You are so disconnected sometimes. Don’t you realize he might need someone to talk to, someone to confide in? He’s out on the road all alone.”

  Tara stared at her waitress and friend. “Confide in me? About what? How many men do you actually know?”

  “Several.” Wendy looked insulted. “I don’t know. He just looks so sad sometimes.”

  “Look, I know you mean well. But I’ve got three older brothers and confiding secrets is not something they do.”

  She pictured Morgan, first as she’d last seen him, fuming and walking away. Then, that image morphed into the laughing, good-looking guy who was normally in here. Lastly, she saw him as he’d told her—what little he’d told her—about Sylvie.

  None of those images was of a man wanting to spill his guts to her. If anything, he’d put considerable effort into covering the pain she saw flash in his eyes.

  “Okay, I’ll admit I insulted him, but the last thing Morgan wants is to tell me all about his life’s secrets. And it’s not really something I want to know about.”

  “You’re hopeless.” Wendy backed off finally as customers came through the door. A young couple with a toddler. Wendy grimaced at the little boy. High-chair duty meant floor mopping at some point in her near future. They all knew it.

  With a sigh, Wendy seated them and even gave the boy’s chubby little cheeks a soft pinch.

  Tara laughed as Wendy walked past her toward the kitchen. “See what falling in love gets you?” she whispered just to irritate Wendy. “Floor duty.”

  Wendy stuck her tongue out at Tara just before she slipped through the swinging doors. Tara laughed. She enjoyed the friendly banter with all her employees, but more so with Wendy. It reminded Tara of growing up with her sisters.

  For the next hour, they hustled to wait on several groups of customers.

  Finally, the rush ended and they could take a break. Tara made herself and Wendy mocha lattes with the fancy espresso machine. They’d earned the treat.

  She handed Wendy her cup. “Okay, I’ll admit, I was a bit bitchy to Morgan last night.” Had it really been just last night? Seemed like ages ago.

  “A bit?”

  “Yes, a bit.” She slid onto one of the counter stools. The one on the end, where she could see the entire place, either straight on or reflected in the chrome decor in front of her. No wonder Morgan sat here.

  She’d have to figure out a way to talk with him and hopefully not end up in another argument. His truck was still parked out back, but she’d seen him leave earlier—clad in sweats and a tank top. She hadn’t seen him come back.

  How far did he run to keep himself in such amazing shape? Shape she definitely appreciated. She couldn’t help looking out the window to see if maybe he was out there.

  The rain had quit for now, and the sun was trying to break through the thick cloud cover. The ground was wet, with puddles scattered over the parking lot and street. He’d be wet whether it rained any more or not.

  Tara tapped her fingers on the counter. Wendy was right. She owed him an apology. But how would she start? What should she say? “I’m sorry I snapped at you” lost a bit of appeal when she followed it with the statement about how he started it.

  She wasn’t saying anything until she figured out what to say. Sitting here solved nothing. She headed back into the kitchen. Nervous energy made her pace.

  “Just in time.” Katie, her new pastry chef, put her hands on her ample hips. “I got bread dough that could use some kneading.”

  And Tara had energy to burn.

  Kate Watson had taken the blue ribbon in baking the past five years at the county fair. The only reason she hadn’t before that was because she hadn’t entered. She’d started working here last week, and one of the first tasks Tara had asked her to take on was to figure out Addie’s cookie recipe.

  Addie wasn’t sharing, but so far, Kate’s attempts hadn’t been right, either. She had given the customers plenty of delicious alternatives, though.

  “That might be a good idea.” Tara went to the metal counter where the bowls of dough sat, waiting. She pulled out the big ball of sweet-smelling, light gold dough and plopped it onto the floured surface.

  Push. Pull. Repeat. She felt the resistance, felt the pressure in her shoulders as she continued the repetitive motion. The rhythm helped her focus, helped her think—smooth, even thoughts. She closed her eyes and let herself slip into the motion.

  In the darkness behind her eyelids, images wavered. Images of him. Morgan. Last night. He’d yanked on that battered jacket, glaring at her with anger and something else, something she’d ignored, in his eyes.

  Hurt? Pain? What had hurt him? Her comments? The men he’d had to confront to protect her? His past? Why hadn’t she seen that?

  She’d been angry at his comments, at his stepping in when she hadn’t asked him to. But if he hadn’t? If he hadn’t been there, and she’d been alone with those jerks, what would have happened?

  She shivered. She didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to think about how he made her feel, made her want something she shouldn’t. He wasn’t hers to want.

  And maybe it wasn’t all his fault. She recalled the brief kiss she’d given him. Yep, she owed him an apology. She opened her eyes, seeing the bright white subway tile, nearly blinding from the fluorescent light’s glare. The shelf over her head held flour and yeast. All the pieces that made up the bread she was now making.

  The scent of all those particulars wafted around her and she savored the aroma, anticipating the sweet buns and loaves she’d have to serve her customers once this all came out of the oven.

  Another scent shattered the sweetness. What—

  The remnants of cologne and the scent of the damp outdoors. She frowned and turned her head. Morgan had come in the back door and stood there with a water bottle in his hand, his shoulder against the doorframe. How long had he been there? She hadn’t heard any footsteps.

  He smiled. “My grandmother used to make bread. I’d almost forgotten about that until now.” He took a deep swig of water.

  She’d worked enough. Quickly, she put portions of the big ball into the loaf pans to the side of the counter. She covered them with the damp cloth to rise again, then dusted off her hands. Finally, she turned to face him. He hadn’t moved. Except to finish the water. He crushed the bottle, the crack of plastic overly loud in this quiet corner of the kitchen.

  “My mom liked to bake more than she did cook.” She untied her apron and lifted it over her head. She hung i
t on the hook by the table. “That’s how I got the opportunity to do most of the cooking.”

  He nodded.

  The air in the room felt thick and awkward. She wanted to say something, wanted to say the right thing this time and not make matters worse.

  “You’re thinking too hard,” he said.

  Tara laughed, at herself and at his ability to boil it all down. “Maybe. I do that when it’s important.”

  “What’s important?”

  She looked up then. She’d moved closer to him than she’d at first thought. Or he’d moved... There were mere inches between them. Staring into his eyes, she tried to see the anger or the pain from last night. Neither was there. What was he thinking? What did he want from her?

  “I owe you an apology,” she finally said. “What I said was...inappropriate.”

  He laughed. “Maybe it sounded like that. But you were right.”

  “I was?” Did she look as shocked as she sounded?

  * * *

  MORGAN WAS A bad boy at heart. He knew that. When he’d gotten married, he’d wanted to be reformed, had actually let himself believe in the dream of happily-ever-after, two-point-five kids and picket fences. He’d told himself he’d accomplish what his old man had never managed.

  But Morgan wasn’t cut out for straitlaced. He never had been and knew he never would be. For the first time, looking at Tara now, disappointment accompanied that realization.

  As a kid he’d thought about running away from home, but he’d felt an obligation to his little brother. He’d stayed and taken the whippings for them both, knowing he might deserve some of them.

  He’d married Sylvie, not because he loved her—he’d never believed he was capable of the emotion—but because he was young and stupid, and she was pregnant. It was his kid. His responsibility.

  But the instant Brooke’s little body had settled in his hands, that pink fuzzy blanket all soft and warm; the instant she’d stared at him with those dark eyes—and opened her tiny mouth to scream in what he was sure was terror—he’d been hooked. He’d found that love was something he had a capacity for. At least that kind of love. He’d known in that instant that he’d do anything for her—even die for her—if that’s what it took.