Sweet Surprise: Romance Collection

by Wanda E. Brunstetter, Kristin Billerbeck, Kristy Dykes, Aisha Ford, Birdie L. Etchison, Pamela Griffin, Joyce Livingston, Tamela Hancock Murray

  A couple of the boys had been unusually rowdy this morning, horsing around and making their usual obnoxious remarks. Jason Baxter had tried Cyril’s patience in the worst way. But Cyril didn’t let him know he’d irked him. Instead, he quietly breathed a word of prayer and asked for wisdom, then continued with the lesson.

  When Jason first started attending the class, someone told Cyril his mom had a drug problem, and his heart had gone out to him. He had donated money through the church to be used to purchase groceries and necessities for Jason and his mother. Every Sunday, he brought doughnuts and juice to his class, and he gave the boys freebies—prize items boys of his age enjoyed.

  Cyril occasionally took them on outings, showing them a good time while trying to live out the Gospel before them, hoping they would make a decision for Christ. A couple of them had done this, but Jason had never responded.

  Cyril had done a lot to help Jason, to no avail it seemed. He’d tried to find out what made him tick, tried to get him to open up, but the boy was like a stone wall.

  Lord, he silently prayed, be real to these boys. Give them the strength and will to live for You. Help them put You first in their lives. And, Lord, help Jason realize his need of a Savior. Let him know You’re real and You’re there for him. Somehow, speak to his heart. Lord, use someone to get through to him.

  Later, as Pastor Kyle preached, Cyril deemed his sermon a masterpiece. Pastor Kyle and his wife were in their late twenties, unlike the church’s former pastor who had been much older. Even though he was young, Pastor Kyle was a gifted speaker.

  Lord, let someone respond to Your Word today.

  At the close of the service, Pastor Kyle gave a salvation appeal.

  A woman walked down the aisle, a stranger. She knelt at the altar, and an altar worker came and knelt beside her.

  Jason came barreling down the aisle, tears streaming down his face. He knelt beside the woman.

  Cyril’s heart lurched when he saw Jason. This must be his mother. He remembered his prayer. He’d asked God to use someone to get through to Jason. And God had used his mother! Thank You, Lord.

  Cyril quickly made his way to the altar and knelt beside Jason. A little while later, he knew the angels in heaven were happy. The Bible said they rejoiced when a sinner found the Lord.

  And Cyril was rejoicing, too.

  After the service, Angel spotted Mr. Hooty-Toot coming down the church aisle. She waved and smiled like a kid opening Christmas presents, and he waved back. She would dazzle him this time—for her restaurant’s sake. No cat-getting-your-tongue stuff today.

  “Why, hello, Mr. Jackson,” she said, as he approached, her voice dripping with friendliness. Hello to the owner of Main Street Café, domain of down-home cooking. She’d already heard some locals say his restaurant served soul food, what with its home-style fare and its superb black cook, Mama Edwards. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Call me Cyril.” He held out his hand.

  She shook it heartily. “Only if you’ll call me Angel.”

  “Sure thing. I almost invited you to church the other day when I stopped by your restaurant and almost asked if you were saved—”

  “Of course I’m a Christian, Mr. Hoo—” She caught herself. “Mr. Jackson.”

  “It’s Cyril—”

  “I received a pin every year for perfect Sunday school attendance when I was growing up, over in Orlando.” She didn’t tell him her mother had agreed to be her chef at Rue de France if Angel started going to church again.

  “Perfect attendance in Sunday school? Learning Bible stories? Memorizing scriptures?”

  She nodded. “ ‘I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me,’ ” she quoted.

  “Now that’s what I call real soul food.”

  Angel smiled to be polite. But she didn’t want to talk about the Lord right now. She wanted to talk about Rue de France—at every opportunity that came her way. The Lord had His place, of course, but for right now, at this pivotal time in her life, when she’d put all of Aunt Myrtle Jean’s money on the line, she needed to push her restaurant.

  “You look like you zoned out….I asked if you’re ready for your opening day?”

  “Opening day?” Angel felt all aglow. “As ready as ready can be. The curtains are hung, the furniture’s in place, the menus are beautiful, and the table service is Paris perfect at Rue de France.”

  “Why’d you decide on a French restaurant?” He rocked on his heels, his expression unreadable. But his disdain came through loud and clear.

  “I spent a week in April at a Paris cooking school. It was the grand prize for a contest I entered, and I fell in love with France while I was over there. When I decided to open a restaurant, it seemed the way to go. Vive le difference, monsieur! ”

  “Bone jeer, mad a moe sale.” He dipped forward in a mock bow.

  She didn’t think his exaggerated redneck drawl was funny. But she would continue being nice. She couldn’t afford to do otherwise. “I’m offering a free lunch to downtown business owners the day before my official opening day. I put the invitations in the mail yesterday. It’s on a Monday, two weeks from tomorrow. I hope you’ll come by.”

  His eyebrows went up, then down. “I’ll put it on my calendar.”

  For several moments, she churned out information like she was a publicist, using words and phrases like upscale and elegant and patterning after the Paris restaurant where I’d studied. She didn’t care about her shameless self-promotion. Everyone in Nine Cloud would soon see that Rue de France was worth bragging about.

  “I plan to serve mostly fine French cuisine,” she said, “though I’ll have some sandwiches, too. My signature dessert will be Charlotte au chocolat.”

  “Sounds divine. Angel’s food is di–vine.” He dragged out the last word.

  She gripped her purse, viselike. Was he making fun of her restaurant? He’d already made fun of her French. Did he think his restaurant was superior? Probably so. “I hope you’ll soon say my food tastes divine.”

  “Sure thing.” His affirming words didn’t match his tone.

  Irritation bubbled inside her like fudge in a pot. Talk about a condescending attitude. Forget he was a mover and a shaker in this town. The word influencer lit up like neon lights in her brain, but she turned them off with an imaginary flick of the wrist. Forget he was single—the attorney had told her that tidbit of info about Mr. Cyril Jackson III. Forget he was a Christian—he’d just told her he was. Forget her quest for Mr. Right.

  In her mind, he was Mr. Hooty-Toot.

  Cyril felt a little guilty as he watched Angel shaking hands with Pastor Kyle in the church foyer. He’d maintained a stiff reserve with her and kidded her condescendingly. But her pushy ways brought it out of him. Whatever happened to genteel Southern charm in women? Where were the angelic ways he’d anticipated when he’d met her and learned her name?

  Thinking quickly, he determined to make up for his behavior by asking her to lunch. He would display some Nine Cloud friendliness. He could do that much. It was professional courtesy to extend oneself to a fellow business owner. And besides, she was one good-looking woman.

  He made his way down the church steps and into the parking lot. He saw her getting in her car and caught up to her just as she shut the door. “Angel?”

  She looked up at him as she put on her seat belt. “Yes?”

  “Care to get some lunch with me?”

  Her brows drew together contemplatively.

  “We could talk about Nine Cloud…and your plans for Rue de France.”

  She brightened. “That sounds great.”

  “What’s your choice? B&B Cafeteria? Or Jim’s Steak House? Those are the only two restaurants open on Sundays in Nine Cloud.”

  “Either one’s fine with me. Why don’t I follow you?”

  “You’re on.”

  Five minutes later, Cyril pulled into the parking lot of Jim’s Steak House, knowing Angel was following. He searched for a parking place
amidst a sea of trucks and a few cars. With their gargantuan tires, some of the trucks were nearly as tall as hundred-gallon drums.

  Half of Nine Cloud must be inside. For some reason, every pothole he hit—he counted seven in all—seemed to jar him like they were jarring his car. Probably because Angel was hitting them, too, he decided. She’d gone to considerable trouble to fix up her aunt’s old building, and she was probably thinking Jim of Jim’s Steak House needed to repave his parking lot.

  He walked up to the restaurant with Angel at his side. He grabbed the handle of the glass door, but it was so heavy he couldn’t get it open. Obviously, the swing mechanism was in disrepair. He gave it a hefty pull and finally opened it. She walked inside, and he followed her, the door bumping him on the backside.

  She slid in on one side of a booth, and he slid in on the other. “Thanks for suggesting this.” She opened the dog-eared menu. “I appreciate your friendliness. I’d be eating alone today if you hadn’t asked. I don’t know too many people yet.”

  “I’m sure that’ll change—”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You said you’re from Orlando?”

  “Yes. When I decided to open a restaurant in Nine Cloud, I decided to live here, too. I fixed up the apartment on the second floor of Aunt Myrtle Jean’s building. I’m liking it, though downtown is dead in the evenings. But since I’m on the premises twenty-four-seven, it’ll be a big help in running Rue de France.”

  “The restaurant business can be all-consuming, so be careful.”

  She shrugged. “I’m game. I’ll do anything it takes to see it succeed. I’ve dreamed of owning a restaurant for a long time. I’m ready to work my heart out, as my mother puts it.”

  Cyril felt something gooey on his fingers, saw the shininess of pancake syrup on the menu—and now on his hand. He pulled his napkin out from under the fork and wiped the goo from his fingers. She has vim, vigor, and vitality—an old saying of his grandfather’s—and he admired her already. “You said your mother’s going to be your cook?”

  “My chef. She’ll be driving over to Nine Cloud every day. But it only takes about thirty-five minutes. I tried to get her to move in with me, but so far, I haven’t been able to convince her. She says her little bungalow in Orlando is just fine for her. Someday, though, after the business takes off, I’m going to buy a nice home in Nine Cloud and get her to live with me. I want to take care of her in her later years, like she took care of me when I was growing up.”

  He noted the wistful look about her, enjoyed the soft side he was seeing.

  They placed their orders and didn’t say much for a few minutes, just listened to the songs on the jukebox.

  “She thinks my tractor’s sexy,” crooned the country singer. “She likes my farmer’s tan.”

  When they made eye contact, they got tickled. He laughed, and she giggled, and her eyes twinkled, and his shoulders shook in mirth.

  “What a song,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I never listen to country music. But it’s a hoot.”

  The waitress brought their drinks and salads.

  “Thanks,” they said in unison, still laughing.

  Cyril asked the blessing over the food.

  Angel took a sip of her sweet iced tea, then picked at her salad and finally took a bite.

  He was enjoying looking at Angel across the table. Living in a small town, going to a small church…well…pretty women—especially those with drive and ambition—didn’t come along too often. She’d practically dropped down from…heaven? Her name is Angel, he thought with a smile. He’d been praying for a good mate. He’d asked the Lord for the last two of his twenty-five years—soon after he and Sheree broke up—to send him the right mate. He’d dated several women during that time, though none seriously. Angel is…fine.

  He tried to distract his thoughts and concentrated on his salad. What wasn’t brown was wilted. Two miniscule pieces of tomato were the only other ingredients. He pushed the bowl aside and took a long swallow of his sweet iced tea. At least the tea was good.

  Angel pulled a napkin from the stainless steel dispenser and took a swipe at something on the table, then wadded it up and put it aside.

  Cyril wondered what she was doing. Then he spotted a dead fly—belly up—on his side of the table, between the ketchup bottle and the filthy window. She must’ve found a fly, too. He went through the same procedure, the napkin swiping and wadding.

  They got tickled again.

  “Sorry about that,” he finally said, still laughing.

  “It’s not your fault.” She fished in her purse and pulled out a bottle of hand sanitizer. “This isn’t your restaurant.”

  “No, but I know who owns it.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “ ’Course, Jim pays a manager to see that things like this don’t happen. But even managers have to be managed.”

  She didn’t say anything, just poured some sanitizer in her palm.

  He held out his hand, and she poured some in his. He admired her for not chiming in with criticism of Jim’s restaurant, though it would’ve been well deserved. He believed in sticking up for fellow business owners. Apparently she had this philosophy, too, and he admired her all the more.

  The waitress brought their entrees and left like she was going to a fire.

  Cyril needed butter for his roll. He looked across the restaurant but couldn’t see their waitress. Another waitress approached. “Ma’am…”

  The waitress whizzed by without stopping.

  He looked left and right, searching for their waitress, for any waitress. He saw their waitress approaching. “Ma’am…”

  She whizzed by.

  He broke his roll in half and took a bite. Forget the butter. “You said your mother’s a cook—”

  “The best.”

  He smiled. “What line of work is your father in?”

  “He passed away—”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I was only eight years old when it happened….”

  “That must’ve been hard.”

  She nodded. Like she was lost in time, she held a forkful of rice and gravy in midair. “I still remember the day he died.” She put down the fork and blinked hard, as if trying to ward off tears. “I was born when they were in their forties—”

  “So that means your mother’s in her…what? Early sixties?”

  “She’s sixty-seven.”

  “No way. She can’t be.”

  Angel smiled. “I guess hard work—and raising a child in your forties and fifties—keeps you looking young.”

  “I’ll say. How old was she when you were born?” He laughed. “I guess I’m asking how old you are.”

  “I don’t mind telling you. I’m twenty-four. Mom was forty-three when I was born. And Dad was forty-five. That doesn’t sound out of the norm today—”

  “Lots of people have children later in life.”

  “Right. But when I was born, it was fairly unusual. Mom and Dad got married when they were eighteen. They’d been together a long time when I came along. Mom always said they weren’t just husband and wife, they were best friends, too.” She smiled. “You know what Southerners say. They were so close, they were like white on rice.”

  He laughed at the familiar cliché.

  Her eyes seemed to glow. “They called me their miracle baby.” She had a distant, far-off look. “They were the most wonderful parents…loving and caring…and fun, too. Every afternoon when Dad got home from work, he’d sit with me on the porch swing. And Mom would be in the kitchen, cooking up a storm. And when she’d call us in for supper”—she breathed in deeply—“why, I can still smell the aromas. Chicken frying in the skillet. Biscuits baking in the oven…”

  He sat quietly, envisioning the homey scene she was painting with verbal brush strokes. And he could feel the sense of nostalgia she was creating, and it was a good feeling.

  She blinked hard again. “Dad was a car mechanic. We made it even though things were tight. But after he
died, Mom needed to find a job so we could survive, she said. She was elated when she got the job at my elementary-school cafeteria. She said she would be able to be near me all day long. She retired two years ago.” She paused.

  “But here I’ve been babbling like a parrot,” she continued, “and I haven’t even let you say a word. Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize. I was enjoying it.” He really was. He saw why she was so…pushy, he’d called it earlier. No, she was driven, he decided. By necessity.

  “It’s your turn to talk. Tell me some things about you.”

  He drained his tea glass then looked around for their waitress. Where was the woman? He spotted her near the cash register, jabbering on her cell phone. He stood up, loped across the aisle to an iced-tea station, whisked up a pitcher, and then loped back to the table. In short order, he refilled both his and Angel’s glasses. He sat down and set the pitcher on the table to keep it handy.

  “Did you grow up in Nine Cloud?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I’m a native. Born and raised here.”

  “When I tell people I’m a native of Orlando, they always say, ‘I bet you’ve seen a lot of changes.’ ” She smiled. “You can’t say that about Nine Cloud, can you?”

  “No. Nine Cloud’s been the same since I was a kid. No malls. No huge housing developments. And no superstores.” He chuckled.

  Angel studied the tabletop, ran her finger over a chipped-out place in the laminate.

  “Let me guess what item you’d like to add to my list about Nine Cloud.”

  She looked up, questions in her sky blue eyes.

  “No progress.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You were thinking it.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “I just do.” He wiped his lips with a napkin—a fresh one pulled from the container—then pushed his plate back. He’d finished eating and wanted to get to know her better. “And you know what? You’re half right.”

  “I am?”

  “I’ve been here all my life, and I’ll admit, Nine Cloud needs some spiffing up here and there. In fact, it needs more than that. It needs refurbishing. Especially our downtown. I’m not blind. But renovation costs are sky high. And most business owners are barely making ends meet now. They don’t have the money to kick in the tens of thousands it would take.”