8
Where have you been hiding yourself, son?” Grant handed Link a stack of salad plates as the two of them emptied the dishwasher.
Audrey kept on dicing onion for the salad in quick, rhythmic motions, but she cringed inwardly at Grant’s question. He was being far too obvious. Link would be onto him and then they’d never get any answers.
“It’s called a job, Pops. You should try it.”
“Link!” She forced a laugh, knowing he was only teasing. But these days Grant could be sensitive to the subject of retirement. It seemed certain people had gotten the idea Grant had retired and she was running the inn. Which was preposterous. There was no way she could do this without him. Not to mention the poor man had earned a retirement after all the months of back-breaking renovation, and more recently, building CeeCee’s cottage. A house Grant’s mother would probably never inhabit, given how settled in she’d become at the assisted living facility. Thankfully, CeeCee’s cottage already stood to earn them some much-needed extra income since they’d started booking it as a “deluxe private suite.” She only hoped the cottage would be ready in time for the first reservation.
Link put his hands on his father’s shoulders and shook him playfully before taking the stack of plates from him. “Just kidding, Dad.”
“Sure you were.” Grant chuckled and wriggled out from under Link’s grip. “And I was just kidding about you being welcome to stay for supper.”
Audrey smiled to herself. All was well.
“I’m glad you could come for a little while. The kids have missed you.”
“Yeah, well, like I said, I can’t stay long. I have to be in to work by eight.”
“Well, take some of the leftovers with you when you go,” Grant said over his shoulder. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you dodging my question.”
Audrey shot Link an apologetic wince. Grant wasn’t going to let this go. And as much as they tried not to pry into their children’s business, she was equally curious about what was going on in their son’s life. She knew Link had been working extra shifts, and that probably meant he needed more sleep, but even so, he certainly made himself scarce these days. And whenever they asked how things were going, he was strangely reticent. She was starting to suspect it might involve a girl, though it’d been so long since Link had a girlfriend they’d begun to worry he’d given up altogether.
“I wasn’t dodging, Mom.” Link set the plates on the table. “And yes, it may involve a woman.”
She stared at him, jaw agape. “I never said—”
“You didn’t have to say it. I can read you like an open book.”
“Smarty pants.” She punched his arm. “So spill. A woman, you say?”
He gave her that grin that would melt the heart of any young woman. “I said it may involve a woman.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ll let you know the minute there’s anything to tell.”
Audrey gave a frustrated growl, which earned Link’s charming laughter.
She knew it would be futile to press him further, but she was thrilled at the prospect of a girlfriend for her son. She supposed they’d find out soon enough, as he’d said, but the suspense would likely kill her.
Link looked pointedly around the kitchen. Danae and Dallas were picking up the pizza, and they hadn’t arrived yet so the counters were empty. “So what’s for supper, Mom?”
Changing the subject again. A trick as old as history. Grinning, she shot him a look of disdain. “I’ll let you know the minute there’s anything to tell.”
Grant’s snicker charmed her every bit as much as Link’s had.
***
“You’re sure you don’t mind?” Shayla cringed. Surely Link would tire of taking Portia with them on every date.
“I don’t mind. But I hope—” The wind gusted on the sidewalk in front of the bakery, and Link trapped a passing leaf under the toe of his shoe. He crushed it to a fine gold powder. “You’re not just using her as a shield, are you? I won’t bite. I promise. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
“A shield?” She ignored that last part about being a gentleman. “As if I could get Portia to hold still long enough to be a shield.”
That made him laugh—a sound she’d grown to love. She did not want to scare the man away. Yet maybe it would be best if she forgot all about him.
“I truly don’t mind, Shayla. But sometimes I would like to have time with just you.”
Sunday would only be their third date, if you counted Link hanging out at the park with her and Portia before he went in to work Monday evening. Still, her heart lifted at his “sometimes.” That meant he saw this as an ongoing thing.
She glanced back through the glass, squinting to see beyond the reflection of the cars parked in front. She really needed to get back inside. Her college help was watching the counter, but this was ten a.m.—coffee break time for most of the town, and the bakery was busy. It wouldn’t be in Link’s favor if her dad caught him bugging her during work hours.
She was surprised Link had stopped by unannounced, especially after working back-to-back shifts. It was only Wednesday, but he said he wanted to make sure they were still on for a movie Sunday. He could have easily called her instead, but he apparently wanted to see her. Which made her smile.
But already there were complications. At least that’s how he obviously saw things. Portia had tagged along with them on their very first date, and now Shayla was asking Link to let a five-year-old join them again. But he was wrong if he thought it was because she felt the need of protection from him. Not hardly. If anything, it was on her father’s account she needed Portia along. But she couldn’t tell Link that.
“For one thing, it’s hard to find a PG movie to see—Shayla? Earth to Shay . . .”
“Oh—” Link’s use of her nickname pulled her from her reverie—and warmed her in a way she hadn’t felt for a long time. “I know.” She gave him a wry smile. “I’m sorry.”
“Would it help if I paid for a sitter?”
“No. You’re not going to pay for my babysitter.” She hadn’t meant to sound so harsh.
He cocked his head. “You sound like she’s your sole responsibility. Won’t your dad watch her sometimes?”
“He does. Sometimes.” Hardly ever. She’d been Mom’s designated caregiver all those years. And now she had Portia to take care of. The only relief she ever got—the only time Daddy was willing to watch Portia—was when she had an event to cater. Daddy always managed to get away for his Tuesday night prayer meetings in Cape. But somehow there was never time for her to get away, unless she took Portia, of course.
When would it ever be her turn? Immediately the guilt came. She’d loved her mother. It had been her privilege to take care of Mom. And in Daddy’s defense, he’d had to keep the bakery running. And he did pay her a fair wage, and didn’t charge her rent, so she’d managed to put a little savings aside.
And as for Portia, she was precious. And innocent.
Sometimes Shayla let herself daydream that her little niece was her own daughter. At the rate she was going, it might be the closest she ever got to being a mother.
She took a step backward and reached for the bakery door. She didn’t like the direction her thoughts were taking. “I need to go. Daddy’s going to think I ran away.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll see you Sunday. Pick you up about six?”
“Maybe make it five-thirty?” Daddy would probably be back from Bowling Green by six and she didn’t want to risk having to introduce Link to him. Or vice versa.
Link gave her a questioning look.
“Portia has school Monday. I don’t want her out too late.”
“Oh. Okay. Five-thirty then.”
She shrugged and took another step back. “I really do need to go.”
“Okay.” He hesitated, then reached out to touch her arm. “I’ll see you soon. Have a good day.”
Shivering—and knowing it had nothing to do w
ith the brisk wind—she nodded. Then, ignoring how desperately she wanted to stay out here talking to him, she turned and ran inside.
A swirl of dry leaves followed her in on a gust of cold wind, and she immediately went for the broom in the back room.
“Who was that?” Her father stood behind the cake case with hands on hips. “That the Whitman boy? Again?”
She pretended she hadn’t heard him and took the broom and dustpan to the door and swept up the mess.
Daddy was still standing there, watching, when she started back with the full dustpan. “You hear me, girl?”
“I heard you. His name is Link.”
“He the one almost ran over Portia?”
“He didn’t almost run over her.”
“That’s not the story you told that day it happened.” His gaze panned the humming dining room before it landed on Valerie, the college girl at the cash register. “I’ll get the register, Val. You go make the rounds with coffee.”
Shayla resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Just say it, Daddy: Shayla here isn’t pulling her weight. But she grabbed a clean apron and looped it over her head. “You want me to start some potato soup?”
That seemed to derail his interrogation. “Yeah, but don’t make as much as you did last Tuesday. We had too many leftovers.”
“Portia and I can eat it while you’re gone this weekend.”
Daddy pulled the decaf carafe off the burner, dumped the old coffee in the sink, and started scouring the pot as if he thought the restaurant inspector was five minutes out or something. “I’m not going this weekend.”
She froze. “You’re not going? Why?”
“I’m just not. Leave it be.”
“But Daddy—”
“I said leave it be.”
“You weren’t expecting me to go since you’re not?” She hadn’t been to visit her brother in prison for at least four months. Probably closer to five now. And the longer she could stretch that, the happier she’d be. She’d never gone by herself. And wouldn’t. It was almost three hours each way and from what she remembered, it was rough. Daddy had already decided they wouldn’t take Portia to see Jerry. A decision Shayla agreed with, even though it made her feel guilty. But then, what didn’t make her feel guilty these days?
“I never said I expected you to go. I wouldn’t want you going by yourself.” He set the sparkling carafe on the counter and wadded up the dish towel he’d used to dry it. An impish grin flicked at the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I don’t relish being stuck by myself all day with that little Energizer bunny.”
Shayla giggled, grateful to see a side of her father she hadn’t seen in a long time. But now what was she supposed to do about Sunday? She had to tell him. When Daddy headed to Bowling Green each Sunday to visit Jeremiah, she didn’t feel obligated to tell him what she did with her time while he was gone, but she wouldn’t lie to him. As Daddy liked to say, “A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes.” Probably one of his Mark Twain quotes. But it was true. Especially in a small town like Langhorne—speaking of Mr. Twain.
She took a breath. “Portia and I were going to go to a movie Sunday. In Cape. That okay with you?”
“What movie? Maybe I’ll go with you. Unless it’s a lame kids’ movie.”
“It kind of needs to be a lame kids’ movie if Portia’s going.” This was not going the way she wanted.
She looked up to see her father looking at her with an expression that told her she was pretty much busted.
“You going with somebody else? That it?”
“I—”
“It’s that Whitman kid, isn’t it? What’d you say he’s called—Luke?”
“Link. And yes. If you must know, he invited me and Portia.”
“Like . . . a date?”
She affected a laugh. “You can’t exactly call it a date if Portia’s going.”
“How’d this come about? Is that what you were talking to him about out there?” He waved a hand toward the front of the bakery. “You don’t even know the man.”
“I know him. He’s a great guy. He’s really good to Portia.”
He narrowed his eyes. “When’s he ever seen Portia outside of running her over with his pickup?”
“Daddy! He didn’t run over her. It was an accident. In fact he did everything he could to save Portia. And he’s apologized all over himself about—”
Two patrons came to pay their checks and Daddy slid behind the cash register to ring up their food. He made small talk with them like always, but when they walked out, he picked up right where they’d left off. “Are you seeing him? You done this before?”
She hadn’t noticed how much gray there was in his eyebrows until they were knit together like this. “He took us to a movie . . . and the park.”
Her father pressed his lips together and balled the dish towel up tighter, scrubbing at an invisible smudge on the case. “When were you planning on telling me?”
“It was nothing.”
“One time is nothing. Two times might be close to nothing. But three times? You might think it’s nothing, but I guarantee you that’s not how Mr. Luke sees it.”
“Link, Daddy. His name is Link.”
Noise from the brick street wafted in through the front entrance. With a jangle of bells, the door closed behind an older couple.
Saved by the bell.
“Good morning, folks!” Daddy called. “Come on in. It’s a chilly one out there, isn’t it?” Her father turned so the couple couldn’t see his face. He pointed a finger at her chest and lowered his voice. “Don’t think I don’t see those wheels of yours turning. And don’t think you were saved by no bell. We’ll discuss this later.”
Her jaw dropped. “How did you—”
“I’m your father. I know everything.” He tossed the towel at her, his eyes sparkling. “You go start some soup. I’ll take care of our customers.”
She huffed at him, even as she felt her lips form that same impish grin that he’d let her glimpse before.
It’d been a long time since she’d seen this side of him. It made her heart swell to know that playful side hadn’t been buried with Mama after all.
Valerie appeared out of nowhere, as if she’d been hovering, waiting to talk to them. “I need to clock out if that’s okay. I have a test to study for.”
Daddy glanced at the clock. Almost eleven and the crowd had dwindled. “Sure, go on.”
Shayla waved. “See you tomorrow, Val.”
Her father went back to the register and Shayla trudged to the kitchen. At least he hadn’t totally flipped out about Link. That was something. She tied a scarf around her hair, scrubbed her hands, and put a pot of water on to boil. Peeling potatoes, she rehearsed her speech.
She knew her father well enough to know there would be nothing playful about the man when it came time to discuss her dating Link Whitman.
A loud crash from the front of the store made her gasp. She quickly turned the stove down and ran out to see what had happened.
Her father and the elderly couple stood in front of a broken window, a pile of shattered glass littering the floor and tables near the window. The wind whistled eerily through the hole in the plate glass.
“Daddy? What happened?”
“Some kid threw something through the window.” The elderly woman’s voice quavered, and her face went pale as cream cheese frosting. “I saw him do it. This pickup drove by real slow and this kid leaned out the window and threw something. You need to report him. Call 9-1-1!”
“Get the broom, Shay,” Daddy barked.
She started for the broom closet.
“That’s him!” the woman yelled.
Shayla whirled around.
“They’re coming back again!” The old man pointed through the jagged hole in the window.
Shayla rushed to the window in time to see a gray pickup coast by, a bulky white guy hanging out of the passenger-side window. His yellow hair waved like a f
lag in the wind. She froze. The guy from the movies. The one Link had gone after. She would have sworn to it.
“You really should call the police,” the woman said.
Daddy kicked into proprietor mode. “We’ll take care of it, ma’am.” He ushered the couple away from the front of the bakery. “Neither of you are hurt, are you?”
“No, we’re fine,” the woman’s husband said.
“Bert, did you get the license plate?”
“I couldn’t see it,” he said. “But I caught a glimpse of the driver. I’d know him if I saw him again. It was a kid. Had one of those crazy haircuts”—he ran his hands down the middle of his own scalp—“and he had those metal things through his eyebrow and his lip . . . staples or whatever they call them.”
“I don’t know why anybody would want to do that to their body,” his wife said. “Plumb crazy, if you ask me.”
“Folks, we’re going to have to close the store until we can get that window repaired.” He started herding them toward the front door. “Let me get you some pastries to go. On the house.”
“Nonsense. Let us help,” the man said.
“No, no. I appreciate the offer, but you don’t need to do that. We’ll take care of it. But we do need to lock up.” He motioned toward Shayla. “Bag up some pastries, Shay.”
Shayla walked backward toward the display cases, watching her father herd the couple toward the door. She quickly filled a bag with pastries, neatly folding the top down as she carried it to the couple. “Here you go.”
“Well, thank you. You didn’t need to do that.” Reluctantly, the woman took the bag.
Her husband fished an old flip phone from his pocket. “I’ll call the police department while you clean up.”
“No, no. Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” Daddy all but put the man’s phone back in his pocket for him. “We can handle it. You folks don’t need to get involved.”
Her father would not call the police. Not now. Not later. He’d sweep up the glass, call the hardware store to order a new window, and sweep the whole incident under the rug.
Shayla didn’t blame him. Not the way things were.
But if it really had been the bully from the theater the other night—the one Link referred to as Mohawk—would that make a difference?
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