Phoebe's Groom

by Deb Kastner

  Good for her. He wasn’t in the mood.

  Lucy glanced at Phoebe, then back at Chance, and then she whirled around and ran from the room, wailing dramatically, something about how no one in the house ever cared about her opinion and how she couldn’t wait to grow up and get away from there.

  Brushing a hand down his face, Chance looked from Aunt Jo to Phoebe, who were both staring back at him expectantly. What were they waiting for him to do?

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “I really don’t know what her problem is.”

  “I do,” Phoebe assured him. She’d dropped her suitcase for a moment when all the ruckus started, but now she picked it back up again. “I’m the problem. And I’m out of here. Crisis averted. Take care, now.”

  “Phoebe, wait.” Surprisingly, the words were from his own lips, and the arm that snaked out to grasp Phoebe’s suitcase was his.

  She stared at him without speaking, but her own grip on her suitcase didn’t lessen.

  Their gazes locked, his breath hitched in his throat, and for a moment he forgot everything. Why she was here, what they were arguing about. Whether he should make her leave or invite her to stay. Everything.

  So he was unprepared when Aunt Jo nudged him from behind. He stepped forward to keep his balance, closing the distance between him and Phoebe to something he wasn’t even remotely comfortable with. He panicked.

  Physically, he stumbled backward. Verbally, he stumbled ahead. “Aunt Jo has already offered you the hospitality of our home.”

  “Yes, but you…”

  “Agree with her. Frankly, you have nowhere else you can stay. In case you didn’t notice, Serendipity isn’t exactly a big town.”

  “But Lucy…” Phoebe started to protest, but Chance held up his hands and cut her off.

  “Lucy is thirteen. She’ll deal with it.”

  Phoebe looked hesitant, but Chance thought that was a step up from the determined rejection which had earlier lined her features. At least she was thinking about it.

  “You’re going to hurt my Aunt Jo’s feelings if you go and leave.”

  While that was true, he immediately regretted saying so. It was a low blow to play the guilt card, and he knew it. What he didn’t know was why he was suddenly arguing so fervently for Phoebe to stay, when neither he nor Lucy wanted her there. What kind of nonsense was that?

  Because of Aunt Jo, of course. He was doing it for her. What other reason could there be?

  “If you’re sure…” Phoebe continued to hem and haw, but that half sentence was all Aunt Jo needed to hear to jump into the conversation.

  “It’s settled, then,” she said decisively, and Chance knew in that instant it was. He could see the reluctance on her face slowly morph into acceptance. “Phoebe will stay in this house for the six weeks she is here. This is supposed to be a vacation for her, so let’s lose the drama. Chance, be a dear and take Phoebe’s suitcase back to the spare room. Phoebe, you can set the table, since I appear to be a little short on help tonight.”

  Phoebe smiled, looking relieved to have something to do. She had a nice smile, Chance thought, when she wasn’t stressing out about something.

  Too bad the peace between them wouldn’t last. Tomorrow they’d be sharing a kitchen—or at least, she’d be trying to share his kitchen with him.

  It wasn’t going to work, of course. The folks of Serendipity knew full well why there were no fresh pastries at Cup O’ Jo.

  Lindsay had been the pastry chef.

  Phoebe would be rejected, not just by Lucy, but by the whole town. He almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

  Chapter Three

  STATUS UPDATE: PHOEBE YATES: Well, I’m staying—at least for now. I think I can do some good here. At the very least I can fill the empty pastry cases with some of my signature pies and cookies. Yum!

  JOSEPHINE HAWKINS MURPHY: Yay! My mouth is watering already.

  After a good night’s sleep, Phoebe’s perspective really had changed. Or maybe it was just her usual optimistic nature catching up with yesterday’s events. She was grateful for this opportunity, and as she washed up and dressed for the day, she silently thanked God for opening the doors for her to be here in Serendipity.

  She wasn’t ready to give up yet. She would trust God to smooth away whatever bumps she experienced along the way, though she wasn’t foolish enough to think there wouldn’t be a few, at least. Probably many more.

  But she’d never been one to back down from a challenge, and she wasn’t about to start now. This might be a strenuous day, but she had no doubt it would be fulfilling as well, and she couldn’t wait to get started.

  Her most immediate hurdle, and it was a big one, would be trying to establish a friendly relationship with Chance and his kitchen. The first day on a new job was always a little overwhelming, but Phoebe was certain she could handle it—almost certain, at any rate.

  Baking was her passion; it was only a matter of working out the logistical problems. Perhaps Chance wouldn’t be so surly now that he’d had a night to think about it.

  Yawning, she went searching for a cup of hot coffee. She expected to find Jo, or even Chance, but though it was just after daybreak, there was no one about. Apparently they’d already left for the café, or else they weren’t yet up. Phoebe suspected the former, since she knew the café was open for breakfast, so they’d need to get an early start. Her thoughts were confirmed when she found a little note tented in front of the coffeepot on the counter.

  The message indicated that she could help herself to anything in the refrigerator, but Phoebe opted for toast. No one had specified what time she should arrive at the café for work— Chance was no doubt still debating whether or not he wanted her there at all—and what with the mixed welcome she’d received yesterday, she’d forgotten to ask.

  Presumably, on most mornings, she’d be going into work at daybreak in order to get fresh pastries ready for the breakfast rush—or whatever one would call a slight surge of customers in a small, lazy town like Serendipity. It wasn’t like anything in Phoebe’s urban experience, but she imagined there would be at least a handful of regulars, since Cup O’ Jo was the only restaurant in town that Phoebe knew of. And the café had seemed busy enough yesterday.

  The only way she would know for sure was to get on over and see for herself. Washing down the last of her toast with a lukewarm cup of coffee, she fished her car keys from her purse and headed out the door.

  Her mind on the day ahead, she didn’t immediately see Chance walking along the side of the road, his cowboy hat dipped low against the ever-present west Texas wind. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his trench coat, and he walked with long, purposeful strides.

  What was he thinking? The Texas wind was chilly in the morning, and he didn’t look like he was enjoying himself. And he sure wasn’t doing it for the exercise—not with the old, scuffed black cowboy boots he was wearing. Maybe his car was in the shop.

  Phoebe pulled to the side of the road and pushed the electric button that rolled down the passenger-side window. He didn’t exactly acknowledge her, but she knew he’d seen her, because he froze in place, as still as an ice sculpture—not speaking, and not looking at her.

  “Can I give you a lift?” she asked politely.

  He took a hasty step backward as if she’d physically pushed him and then turned his head toward her. She could barely see the black of his eyes under the brim of his hat, but his firm, square jaw was taut with tension.

  “No,” he barked, spinning away from her. As an afterthought, he mumbled, “Thank you,” but it didn’t sound as if he meant it.

  This time it was Phoebe who felt as if he’d physically shoved her, wounding, if nothing else, her pride.

  Chance paced urgently forward, clearly wanting to escape her, but it was easy enough for Phoebe to accelerate the car forward to match his pace as he walked.

  What was up with the man? He was going to the same destination as she; why not catch a ride if she’d offered him one?
Talk about making no sense, not to mention being downright rude.

  As much as she wanted to ask him what his problem was, she knew how those words would come out, and it wouldn’t be pretty. There was no sense alienating Chance if she didn’t have to, given that they’d be working together every day.

  At least, not yet. At this rate, she didn’t think it would be long before they were at each other’s throats—especially in the kitchen.

  “Are you sure?” she asked instead. “It’s awfully cold outside for you to be walking, and I really wouldn’t mind the company.”

  He stopped again, this time leaning in the window, his features set in stone. “I mind,” he said gruffly in that singularly raspy voice of his. “Please. Just leave me alone. I’ll meet you at the café.”

  So much for trying to be friendly.

  She shrugged, but Chance didn’t see it. He was already walking away from her. Obstinate man.

  Yet again, Phoebe wondered what she was getting herself into. Maybe Chance was not sold on their working together, even after having a good night’s sleep.

  Maybe he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep. He was certainly acting as if he’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed.

  Though she didn’t want to admit it, his refusal to ride with her felt personal, especially because she couldn’t think of a single reason why he would not have accepted her offer. If anything, the two of them having a few minutes to converse on a personal level, before they arrived at the café and had to talk work, would have been a good thing.

  Right?

  Unless he really hated the thought of being around her, and she thought it was a little early for that, whether she was threatening the use of his kitchen or not. At least he could get to know her first before he decided he wasn’t going to like her.

  Phoebe arrived at the café a little before seven, and well ahead of Chance. Which was good, since she was still feeling a little confused and put out by his strange actions. She needed a moment to recover and get her bearings before having to face him again.

  She had no idea what to say to him, or how to act, given his uncouth behavior, but she knew it would feel awkward to see him again. Praying for guidance, she decided to let it go and take her cue from Chance when the time came. She had other things to think about—nicer things.

  It wouldn’t be a huge stretch to assume he might be dead-set on giving her trouble, but she wasn’t going to let him ruin her day—especially since Jo had realized she was there and was gesturing her inside the café. The welcome smile on the old woman’s face and the cheerful twinkle in her eye went a long way toward making Phoebe feel better.

  So, for that matter, did her No Attitude T-shirt. As far as Phoebe was concerned, Chance needed to take a clue from the words.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Jo said, turning the sign on the door from closed to open.

  Phoebe was certainly glad somebody was happy to see her.

  “Most days, we open at seven, though nothing is completely cut-and-dried in this little town. I imagine that after this morning you’ll want to get an early start on your daily baking, but I wanted to let you sleep in today, seeing as you just got here, and all.”

  “Thank you,” Phoebe replied, grinning back at Jo. There was no way a person could not smile around Jo’s bubbly, joyful presence. “I’m usually a morning person, so I’d be perfectly happy to get here a couple of hours early to get fresh pastries in the oven for our breakfast customers.”

  And to avoid working with Chance, as much as possible, she added mentally, though of course she didn’t say it out loud.

  “Chance usually comes in at seven?” she asked, hoping she sounded casual, and not like she wanted to avoid the man.

  Even though she did. And somehow, Phoebe had the uncomfortable prickling sensation that Jo had picked up on her underlying viewpoint.

  “My nephew works his heart out for this café,” Jo said, her voice full of affection. “I don’t know what I’d do without him. He arrives at seven every morning, six days a week, and doesn’t leave until after eight at night. He’d work seven days a week if I’d let him. We’re closed on Sundays, so we can all go to church.”

  Chance was a churchgoing man? From Phoebe’s brief but memorable encounters with him, she wouldn’t have thought him the type. She wouldn’t call his attitude or his actions Christian charity, by any means. But this was a small town. Perhaps things were different here. Maybe everyone attended church as a general rule. Even rude, gruff Chance Hawkins.

  “Aunt Jo works harder than I do,” came Chance’s raspy, rugged-sounding reply from the door. “There’s a very good reason her name is on the sign. She’s the real heart of this café, and everyone in Serendipity knows it.” He ended his statement by giving his Aunt Jo an affectionate buss on the cheek.

  Jo smiled in satisfaction.

  She wondered how long he’d been standing there listening to their conversation, and whether or not he’d heard her asking questions about him. He couldn’t have arrived much earlier, she assured herself, since he’d chosen to walk to work.

  And where had this tenderhearted man who clearly adored his aunt even come from? It was certainly a night-and-day difference from the man she’d met on the road. Phoebe was floored not only by his words, but by the way his whole demeanor had changed. She was seeing a glimpse of an entirely different man altogether.

  At that moment, three older gentlemen dressed nearly identically in red flannel shirts and denim overalls entered the café and greeted Jo and Chance by name, as friends. Jo introduced Phoebe and then chatted easily with the men as she seated them.

  This was what Phoebe was here for. The small-town atmosphere where everybody knew everybody and the pace of life was slow and peaceful.

  “Gotta go,” Chance said to Phoebe, nodding his head toward the three men. “These guys work the hardware store. They don’t just dress alike. They eat alike—every morning. Bacon, hash browns and eggs over easy. A solid country breakfast.”

  “A heart attack on a plate,” Phoebe countered.

  He grinned at her. Actually grinned.

  She crossed her arms, feeling suddenly awkward and out of place just standing there next to the door like she didn’t know what she was doing—even if it was true. Jo was still conversing with the men at the table, and Chance was already halfway to the kitchen. Phoebe didn’t know if she should stay where she was, or follow Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde into the kitchen.

  Chance turned just as he reached the green swinging doors, his brow raised in question.

  “After you,” he said, stepping back and sweeping his hand toward the doorway.

  She didn’t know if it was an invitation or an order. Not that it mattered either way. She was still trying to get over his contradictory behavior. Fifteen minutes ago, he wouldn’t even ride in her car. Now he was inviting her into his kitchen, his private domain.

  Was this some kind of truce?

  “We have a problem,” he said as soon as he passed through the doors. He hung his hat on the rack, followed by his trench coat, and then wrapped a plain white apron around his waist. When he turned back to her, his stern, hawk-like features and low brow only magnified the intensity of his dark, stormy eyes.

  Not a truce, then.

  “Okay,” she said, willing herself not to respond to Chance’s aggressive posture. “I’m listening.”

  As long as she remained cool and detached, this would be the moment they worked things out. Emotion would only cloud reason. Instead of focusing on the confrontation at hand, she thought about afterward, when she could enjoy her first real day in Serendipity, and maybe even bake something. She hoped.

  “I’m messy,” he stated without preamble. “That being said, though it may not appear that way, I have a method to my cooking, a certain way I do things, and I need room. Lots of room.”

  “Like the whole kitchen. I get it,” she said, standing her ground. “I, on the other hand, don’t require much room at all to do my bak
ing. I’ll need one counter, a place to store my supplies, and shared use of the oven.”

  Chance’s scowl deepened. “Of course you will.”

  He turned back to the grill, tossing bacon onto the sizzling surface and acting as if they’d never even spoken, or even acknowledging that she was still in the room.

  Incensed, Phoebe propped her hands on her hips and glared at him. He didn’t see it, but it made her feel better even so.

  “So are we going to do this thing, or what? I’m tired of running around the issue without really addressing it. It’s your call. Yes or no?”

  He turned to her, tongs in midair. “I have breakfast to cook. The bell over the front door just rang, which means we have more customers.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  He turned back to the grill. “That’s all you’re going to get.”

  Which meant what, exactly?

  She had no idea. Clearly he resented her presence in his kitchen, but it seemed to Phoebe that whatever was happening here went a little bit deeper than just a boy not willing to share his toys.

  On the other hand, he’d just said they had more customers. Was he including her, then?

  She stepped to the grill, side by side with Chance, and picked up a spatula.

  “I cook a mean fried egg,” she offered brightly, feeling tentative in her heart, but making certain it didn’t show in her voice.

  “Yeah?” he said, sounding at least vaguely interested. “I thought you were some big-time pastry chef who only worked at the most upscale restaurants.”

  “I still went to cooking school,” she said with a chuckle, as she expertly cracked an egg onto the sizzling hot surface of the grill. “I didn’t start my career by making wedding cakes and croissants.”

  “School, huh?” he mused, flipping the hash browns. “Interesting.”

  Phoebe felt a jolt of triumph at her success. He hadn’t pushed her aside when she’d offered to help. That was a good sign. And she’d gotten him talking, and not tuning her out the way he had moments before.