by Amanda Usen
Certainty grew inside him as he looked up and down the street, noting paint colors and trim styles. Betsy’s main complaint about the hotel was its lack of New Orleans charm, but he was going to remedy that. Once he did…would she change her mind? I need that courtyard. He couldn’t explain his certainty, but he knew his nightmares would continue without it. He could see it so clearly: shutters and gates, wrought-iron furniture, tiny lights, vines overhead and bricks underfoot. His head pounded, a paralyzing throb that nearly knocked him out of his seat. Darkness rose, swirling around the edges of his vision, and fear constricted his throat. He clutched the bench, fighting the bizarre urge to crawl under it.
The chime of his phone sounded like a clap of thunder, and he flinched, then reached into his pocket. The shadows dissipated as he saw how many new e-mails awaited him. His gut tightened with anticipation at the thought of the now even larger pile of work awaiting him, and he tapped the screen, relaxing into the morning routine he usually started in his air-conditioned office. Most of the time he avoided being outside, but today the heat and lazy bustle of the French Quarter at lunchtime fueled his imagination. He wasn’t the only one; Luc’s new menu was already in his inbox. It figures. The cocky bastard had probably had it finished for weeks, waiting for him to come to his senses. Let him gloat. Quin didn’t know how to cook, but he loved to eat, and he was drooling over every item. Blackened chicken on a stick, fried green tomato poppers, charbroiled oysters casino…his stomach growled, but he ignored it, working his way through his messages.
Ideas churned in his mind, and he tapped notes into his phone and rescheduled his day, making appointments with his contractor, architect, and interior decorator. He had no idea what it would take to make changes so fast, but that was why he hired experts.
A food truck rumbled down the street, and he paused mid-text. What had Betsy suggested the other night during dinner? It came back to him in a rush, and he laughed aloud. The woman was a genius, and Luc would likely have the right connections to make it happen. Between the interior decorator, his event manager, and the prominent party planner she’d insisted on hiring for the grand opening, they’d have New Orleans soul absolutely covered.
He stood, waiting for cars to pass so he could cross the street to Last Call and share his plans with Betsy, but then he sank back down on the bench, remembering the expression on her face when she’d told him her mother’s story. She’d looked haunted. Gutted. At her limit.
His certainty that she would walk away if he kept pushing had been as strong as his desire to keep her close. Screwing this up was not an option, and she’d made it abundantly clear she didn’t want to talk business with him. He wasn’t willing to risk losing the next two weeks with her by bringing the subject up again, but he also wasn’t going to disappear into thin air when his time ran out. How could he show her how good a partnership between them could be without actually saying it?
An idea leapt into his mind, and everything went still and dark inside him while he weighed the risks. Betsy would definitely consider it interfering in her business, and he’d have to keep it a secret. But now that he’d thought of it, he couldn’t deny it felt like the right thing to do. A spark of excitement flared inside him, burning away the darkness. She might not want him, but he knew what she wanted more than anything else in the world, and he had the power to give it to her.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Kyle.
He answered immediately. “Hey, boss, I’m making headway. As it turns out there are only five hundred Melinda Johnsons in the—”
“Pay off the mortgage for Last Call.”
“What? Pay it off? Why not acquire it and raise the payments? I thought you wanted—”
Quin cut him off again. “Get it discharged in full. And get your ass down here. Keystone renovations just became a 24/7 job, and I need my nights free.”
“Renovations?” Kyle’s voice peaked on the last syllable. “I thought we were done.”
“I’m just getting started.” The sound of a door opening and the tinkle of bells made him look to his left, and a familiar flash of colors sent goose bumps racing across his skin. He stood, keeping his gaze low so he wouldn’t have to meet hers as he hurried down the street, away from the tea shop and the too-sweet scent of sugar and incense. Cold sweat glued his shirt to his back and he tugged at the fabric, pulling it away from his skin. “Make it happen, Kyle.”
“I’m on it.”
Quin ended the call and kept walking, following his instincts. Urgency built inside him, a desperate thrum, and he walked faster, scrutinizing the shops, alleys, bars, and restaurants, and making more notes. When his growling stomach could no longer be ignored, he veered into a decent-looking restaurant and ordered lunch. The sandwiches couldn’t hold a candle to Betsy’s creations, but he was starving and had no idea how long it would take to make his way back to the hotel. His phone buzzed just as his lunch arrived.
Kyle’s name flashed across the lock screen. Quin swiped and saw one word. Done.
His tension eased. No matter how it played out between Betsy and him, her dream was safe. No one could take Last Call away from her now, and he had two weeks to convince her to let him be a part of it. He checked the time and dug into his sandwich, eating quickly so he could get back to the hotel and get his meetings finished. He wanted to be ready and waiting in the alley when she got off work.
Chapter Nine
When the lunch rush ended, Betsy’s gaze strayed to the kitchen door for the umpteenth time that day.
“He’ll come,” her mother said.
“What?” She jerked out of her daze and began chopping parsley.
“Quinton James. Isn’t that who you’re waiting for?”
“No! God, no. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But the truth hollowed out her chest, making her feel empty. She’d waited for his text all day, but her phone had remained stubbornly silent. Her mood, not good to begin with, soured even more. This whole day had been a clusterfuck from the minute she’d walked in and found her mother in the kitchen making gumbo instead of out front in the bar.
Betsy should have had the whole day alone to figure out how she felt about what Kate had said yesterday and, more important, what to do. Instead she was stuck pretending to be grateful for the extra help while wondering where her mother stood on the subject. Lunch had come and gone and she wasn’t any closer to making a plan. Her mom was right. She couldn’t stop thinking about Quin, and she couldn’t shake the sense she was making a huge mistake.
Her mother laughed, and Betsy looked up, startled by the happy noise. “What?”
“You never could lie to me.”
“I don’t want to talk about Quinton James.” Heat spiraled up from her center and buzzed in her cheeks. She set her knife on the cutting board and wiped her hands on a towel. The tears she’d banished in Quin’s lobby threatened again, and her throat tightened. She forced a deep breath past the lump in her throat, filling every space in her body with air and leaving no room for tears. She was not going to lose it in front of her mother.
The subject of Last Call hung between them like an invisible barrier, one she hadn’t been willing to cross this morning when she was feeling guilty for being late for work, but she couldn’t avoid it forever. Where to start? Quin’s low voice vibrated in her head. Isn’t that why you’re killing yourself to get the café off the ground alone? A hefty mortgage payment? In her mind’s eye, she saw his expression slam shut, hiding his thoughts.
Betsy knew exactly where to start; she was just afraid to ask the question. She exhaled slowly and turned to her mother. “Did you take out a mortgage on the bar?”
Her mom looked at her for a long second before she lifted her chin and nodded, looking so much like her younger daughter it made Betsy flinch. Her mother and Kate really were two peas in a pod, and where did that leave her? The towel in her hand slid to the floor.
Her mom picked it up and tossed it in the direction of the bi
n. “Did you think culinary school was going to pay for itself?”
Betsy shook her head. “I got student loans. I pay them every month.”
“Uh-huh—and the rest of the bills came to me. I called the school and set it up with the financial aid office.”
“But you said it was fine. I never would have gone to culinary school if I’d known it would jeopardize Last Call. You said we could afford it.”
“We can—just barely, and I didn’t think it was necessary to burden you with the details.”
Betsy’s stomach twisted. “Really? You didn’t think you should tell me going to school to be a chef meant risking the business I eventually wanted to run? That seems like pretty crucial information to me.”
Her mother shrugged. “Being honest wasn’t an option. If I’d told you, you wouldn’t have gone.”
“Damn right I wouldn’t have gone.” Familiar frustration surged through her. “There were other ways to learn what I needed to know without risking our family business. That was the whole point—I wanted to make things better for us.” Remembering her sister’s words, she felt like puking into the garbage can next to the counter. “Or were things better for you when I was gone, too?” Maybe her mother had wanted her out of the way.
“What? Kate and I missed you like crazy, and we’re so glad you’re home.”
“That’s not what she said yesterday. She said both of you wanted to keep the bar open and if I closed it, she’d quit.” She hated that her voice broke on the last word.
To her shock, her mother burst out laughing. “Oh, my—that girl really ran her mouth, didn’t she? No wonder she took off.”
Even though she was furious and hurt, Betsy felt a sharp stab of worry. “Took off? Where?”
“Just gone. I’m sure she’ll be back, tail between her legs before too long, but if she said all that it might be a while.” Her mother sighed. “One mess at a time. Let’s worry about you first, sugar.”
Betsy lifted a brow. She didn’t make messes. She cleaned them up.
One corner of her mother’s mouth curved, as if in acknowledgment of the irony. “I’ll keep my promise, if that’s what you’re worried about. If the café continues to do well, you can open for dinner, even if Kate gets a job somewhere else.”
Betsy felt the crack inside her open again. Instead of relief, she felt the ground under her feet shaking. If Kate left, what was the point? Betsy wanted a better life for all of them. She felt herself slipping closer to the edge and gripped the counter to help her hold on to her temper. Losing control wouldn’t help the situation. “You have to make her stay. What’s she going to do? Get a job in another bar? Do you really want her slinging beers and breaking her heart every night for the rest of her life?” Like you?
Betsy didn’t say it, but her mother clearly heard it anyway. Her dark eyes flashed. “Not every night.”
“It sure looked like it to me.”
“You’re not talking about Kate, are you?” Her mother took several deep breaths. Her eyes shined with tears, and Betsy was ashamed.
After this morning, she knew how temptation felt. “I’m sorry, Momma.”
Her mother lifted one hand and let it fall. “You’ve got good cause. You can’t possibly know how much I regret making you a part of my mistakes. It took me a long time to learn how to be a single mother. I didn’t know how attached a small child could get in a short period of time. I wanted my boyfriends to understand I was a package deal, so I let them meet you, and I’m sorry for that. Once I saw how hard it was for you to let go, I stopped introducing you. I did a better job with Kate. It helped that you were old enough to stay home with her.”
“You think you did a better job with her?” That really stung. “She hooks up all the time.”
“People are different. She’s not as sensitive as you are.”
Betsy crossed her arms. “Sensitive? I’m not the one who took off after a fight.” Of course her mother would side with Kate. Why had she expected anything else?
“That’s not what I meant.” Her mom gazed around the kitchen for a minute and then pointed at a pot on the stove. “That’s you.”
“I’m a cast-iron pot?”
Her mother nodded. “Heats slowly and evenly, but if it isn’t exactly the right temperature, every damn thing sticks.” She pointed at a Teflon sauté pan, the only one in the kitchen and reserved exclusively for making crêpes. “That’s Kate. Heats in a flash, and everything slides right off, all the time. Both are great—just different.”
She stared at her mom. “So you think it’s fine that Kate wants a hot, rich guy to walk in the door of Last Call and sweep her off her feet?”
Her mother nodded slowly. “But you know how the song goes. She might not get him—I didn’t, at least not forever. But I did get what I needed. I got you, and I got Kate.” She gestured around the room. “And I got Last Call. It’s enough.”
And I want to take it away. Betsy’s heart skipped a beat. Could Kate be right, after all? Would closing the bar erase their history? Betsy wanted a better life for them, but according to her mother, better was subjective. If opening for dinner was only better for Betsy, she’d done all this work for nothing. “If Last Call means so much to you, why are you letting me close the bar?”
Her mother grasped her shoulders tightly. “Because you are made of my blood and bone, and I’ve watched you nearly every minute of your life, trying to protect you, care for you, give you everything you needed to be happy. And you have resisted me for just about that long.” Betsy stiffened, and her mother squeezed her tighter. “I’ve read all the books, trying not to screw this up worse than I already have. I learned that kids grow up, become independent, and create their own separate identities. I know you’ve got big plans, sugar. They’re good plans, and I wanted to finally be able to do something to help you. I mortgaged Last Call because I believe in you.”
For a fraction of a second, Betsy wanted to throw her arms around her mother and sob with gratitude and relief, but the seed Kate had planted yesterday had embedded itself in her soul and grown instant, seething roots. She twisted out of her mother’s grasp. “That’s not what Kate said. She said you wanted me to fail.”
Her mom cocked her head and frowned. “Of course I don’t want you to fail, honey. That was just Kate…being Kate. You know she’s sorry she said it already.”
Betsy picked up her knife and started chopping to hide her reaction to the unfairness of that statement. Kate got a free pass just for being herself? Betsy was just supposed to let it go? “What about Kate? Don’t you believe in her?”
“My faith in my children is not mutually exclusive.” Her mother’s enigmatic smile made Betsy feel like she was missing something. “So get on with building up that lunch business, sugar. You’re gonna be a hotshot superstar chef, and I know you’ll pull us out of debt in no time.”
No pressure. Betsy wanted to scream. The stakes were so much higher now, and it was just like her mother to expect everything to work out fine. What if the bank foreclosed? They wouldn’t have the money, not for a very long time. Or worse—what if the bank sold the mortgage? Some hungry corporation could come along, make the bank an offer, and ruin everything. Her heart thumped, and sweat prickled on her forehead. If Quin knew about the mortgage, he knew Last Call was vulnerable. He’d given his word to stay out of her business, but how long would that last?
“How much, Momma?” She kept her voice calm. “How big is the mortgage?”
“Three hundred thousand.”
“And how much is left?” Her schooling hadn’t cost that much.
“Ten grand.”
Betsy couldn’t stifle a hiss, and her mom shrugged. “It cost more to open the café than I expected.”
My tuition, my café, my fault—and my responsibility. “Is that why you want to sell?” For what Quin had offered, they could pay back the mortgage and set up shop somewhere else, just as he had suggested in the alley the other morning, a fact he undoubtedly knew. B
etsy’s stomach rolled, and she swallowed the harsh taste of metal in her mouth.
“I don’t want to sell—I just want my children to be happy, and that means not making decisions for them. Quinton James put a hell of an offer on the table, and I thought you girls needed to hear it.” But her mother hadn’t thought they needed to know about the mortgage. Betsy didn’t have to ask if Kate knew. She didn’t—or she would have used it as ammunition yesterday.
Her mom popped the top off a beer like she didn’t have a care in the world. “Can we get back to why I know he’s coming back?”
“No,” Betsy said darkly, picking up her knife and attacking the parsley again.
“Hard to forget a man like Quinton James.” Her mother ignored her. “I know I didn’t.”
“What?” Betsy’s knife slid sideways and clunked against the cutting board, narrowly missing her thumb. A double shot of adrenaline surged through her. “What does that mean?”
“The day you left for the Culinary Academy, a man came into the bar looking for you. Well-dressed. Obviously wealthy. Sexy. So compelling he turned every head in the place.” One look into her mother’s eyes told Betsy her mom knew everything.
She sagged against the counter, pressing her cool, wet, parsley-scented hands to her hot cheeks as her mother continued. “When I told him you were gone and not coming back for a long time, the look on his face made every hair on my body stand on end. He was furious, and for a second I thought he was going to make trouble, big trouble, but he just thanked me and left.” A satisfied smile spread across her mother’s face. “I got the story from the staff, of course. I wasn’t at all shocked when he walked in the door again the other night. I was just surprised it took him so long. You’ve been home for months.”