Shivering, she looked up to the top of the windows wondering if there was a way she could tack up a bedsheet or blanket.
Coffee bags. You could put them on rods with curtain clips.
She remembered the excitement in Bree Whitman’s voice that day she and Landyn had come in to talk about the catering for Bree’s wedding.
She still had the two coffee sacks she’d planned to give Landyn, and there was another one half empty in the storage room. Mama’s sewing machine was in the back of the broom closet. If only she could remember how to thread it. Her mother had usually done that for her.
She ran upstairs for the coffee bags and laid them out on her bed. They still carried a strong coffee smell—which was actually a plus. She ran back downstairs and got a tape measure from the drawer by the cash register. She measured the windows, then ran back upstairs and measured the bags. If she only covered the bottom half of the windows—enough that no one could look in without a tall ladder—three bags would give her enough fabric to cover all the windows in the corner seating nook.
She checked on Portia, then went to empty the third bag of coffee beans into another container. She’d learned from the bags she saved for Landyn that they needed to be shaken out to get rid of stray beans, dust, and burlap fibers.
She had one hand on the back doorknob when a chill rolled up her spine. Given what had just happened at the shelter, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to go outside alone. Oh, grow up, Shay.
She’d seen the truck turn around and head back toward Cape. As far as she knew, Mohawk didn’t know they lived at the bakery. But it wasn’t exactly a secret. Anybody in town could have told him that. But no one knew Daddy wasn’t home. And it was Thanksgiving. Surely, even people like that jerk had better things to do on Thanksgiving Day.
She was not going to let fear win. She would not let somebody like Mohawk relegate her to her bedroom for the rest of the winter. But the realization that she also would not feel safe sitting in the nook until those windows were covered—and her excitement about the curtain project—won out. She ran halfway up the stairs and called for Portia.
The patter of little bare feet came, then Portia poked her head around the door. “I’m not Portia. I’m a princess.”
“Well, Princess Portia, please come out to the balcony so I can talk to you for a minute.”
Her niece stepped onto the landing and struck a pose in her raggedy Frozen nightgown, which was heavily accessorized with costume jewelry. “You summoned me, Wicked Stepmother?”
“Hey!” Shayla laughed and struck her most regal pose. “I am not a wicked stepmother! I am Queen Shayla”—she affected a pathetic British accent—“and I have summoned you to tell you that I am stepping outside the castle for a few moments. So should you request my services, that is where I shall be.”
Portia broke character long enough to ask, “Where you goin’?”
“Just out back to shake out some coffee sacks. I’m not leaving. I’ll be right back. I just didn’t want you to worry.”
“Okay.” She twirled, fully back in character, and pranced back to her room.
Still smiling, Shayla flipped on the outside light and peered through the window in the back door. The parking lot was empty, and the sliding door to the garage where the delivery van was parked was padlocked as Daddy’d left it. He was still waiting on parts. She could get by with her car for smaller deliveries, but she needed that van running before the Whitman wedding. In a little more than two weeks. She made a mental note to remind him. Nagging, Daddy would call it. Whatever.
She grabbed the dusty coffee sack and went outside, pulling the door closed behind her. She gave the bag three or four hard shakes, sneezing at the dust that blew back in her face. She peered inside the burlap bag, but it was too dark to tell if she’d gotten all the debris.
As she folded the bag, something rustled out near the garage. She whirled, panic rising in her like steam in a boiling kettle. She stumbled backward toward the house, her gaze constantly scanning the edges of the darkness. Mohawk may have thought he was only playing a game, giving her a scare on the highway, but she wondered if she’d ever feel completely safe again. To go anywhere. Or worse, to be home alone.
She hurried inside and locked the door, checking the locks twice. After checking on Portia again, she hauled out the sewing machine and set it up on one of the tables in the dining room, grateful to see there was already a spool of gold-colored thread ready to go. It wasn’t an exact match to the burlap, but close enough. Thank you, Mama.
For the next two hours she measured and cut and sewed and measured some more. As she worked, she could almost feel her mother’s arms around her. See Mama’s white hands upon her dark ones, helping her guide the fabric through the machine, keeping her stitches straight and even.
She’d never missed her mother so deeply, and yet there was profound comfort in performing this task that Mama had taught her so many years ago. Together, they’d hemmed all the dish towels for the bakery, singing and sometimes being silly as they went. Now, Daddy just ordered towels from the restaurant supply where they got their other baking supplies.
She looked down at her hot pink nails and smiled, remembering Portia’s delight this afternoon when Shayla had chosen that color for herself. Sometimes it was too easy to forget that Portia would have been Mama’s first granddaughter. Mama surely would have taught her to sew too. In fact, Shayla had probably been about Portia’s age when Mama first taught her to use the sewing machine. She made a mental note to find some of that fabric her mother had liked so well for dish towels—if they even made it any more.
It had been a day filled with fear, with longing for what she’d lost, but also with sweet discoveries. And even though there was a huge hole in her heart that Link had filled for so brief and sweet a time, it struck her that maybe Link Whitman had come into her life to remind her of what she already had. Of what yet remained. And that was something to be thankful for.
23
The dining room was littered with a few “Black Friday” customers. Mostly, Shayla suspected, college students who hadn’t gone home for Thanksgiving break. Right now half a dozen kids had congregated in the seating nook, laughing and talking—several of them international students, judging by the cacophony of unfamiliar languages swirling through the space. Their camaraderie made her a little jealous of the whole college experience she’d missed.
But she had to smile as she made the rounds with coffee refills, then stood behind the counter admiring her handiwork. The new coffee themed curtains gave the place just the right funky vibe. She’d strung the half-curtains on twine, and tied up the edges to give them a little style. The effect was exactly what she’d been going for in the seating nook. She had to think it was one reason the students had gravitated to the cozy, private cave this morning.
There were enough scraps left over that she sewed a couple of throw pillows for the nook as well. They probably wouldn’t last a year with all the handling they’d get here, but she could save coffee bags forever and make new pillow covers when they were needed.
While she made the soups for lunch in the kitchen early this morning, Daddy had handled the morning doughnut rush before turning the cash register over to her at eight.
He’d walked right by the seating nook on his way out to work on the delivery van and hadn’t said a word about the transformation. She didn’t know if it was because he hadn’t noticed or if he was still upset with her for not going with him to Bowling Green yesterday.
She’d made a point of being in bed when he got home last night and hadn’t said more than to holler goodnight when she heard his footsteps in the hall when he came up.
She checked the trays in the cases, rearranging some of the baked goods to make the cases look tidier. They didn’t expect a very big crowd on this holiday weekend, but you never knew. Daddy always baked like it was a normal day. And the shelter was always glad to have the leftovers.
A knot still twisted in her
gut whenever she thought about what had happened at the shelter yesterday. And how could she avoid going there again—at least as long as he was there? Now that she knew his name, she’d considered calling the shelter before she went, to make sure he wasn’t on the premises. Or maybe she’d ask if someone would come out to the car and pick up the boxes of pastries. She’d think of something. Because the thought of seeing him again sent a shiver through her.
She’d Googled his name last night but the only thing the search turned up was a 2011 obituary for a woman named Phyllis Waverton with a surviving son named William. The woman had been sixty-two, which made her a little old to have a son the age of Mohawk. But then, maybe people would be saying that about the survivors in her own obit someday.
She knew she should tell Daddy about the incident. But there were so many reasons not to, foremost being it would only remind him that this whole thing had started because Link couldn’t leave a taunt unanswered. Link was a subject she wanted—no, needed—to put behind her. It was over. She’d made her decision, and as much as it hurt, she was determined to make the best of it.
Sprucing up the bakery had been a start. Her revelation about Portia—and about what that child needed from her—had helped her wake up this morning with a renewed determination to make the best of things. To discover little joys in life, even though she’d been denied the things she wanted most. With God’s help she would focus on what she did have. On what God had called her to do, by virtue of the fact that those tasks were part of the life she had. Not the one she’d dreamed of.
Scuffling on the floor overhead made Shayla pause and listen. Portia must finally be waking up. She was glad there was no school today so her niece could catch up from the late bedtime last night.
The back door opened and she turned to see her dad poke his head through. “Good morning. You doing okay in here?”
“I am, except I hear Portia stirring. Can you watch the counter for a few minutes while I go check on her?”
“I can.” He came on inside, shedding his coat. He started to grab a clean apron from the hook, then called back to her. “Would you rather I help the girlie get ready or run the register?”
She studied him. That was a new one. “I’ll get her. But . . . thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” He looped a clean apron over his neck, then tied it behind him. He seemed awfully chipper this morning.
She ran up and nudged Portia, who’d apparently gone back to sleep. “Hey kiddo. Up and at ’em.”
Portia rolled over and stretched. The girl was about to outgrow the child-size bed. When had she gotten so big?
Portia stretched again, catching sight of her purple fingernails as she did. A huge smile bloomed on her face. “They’re still on!”
Shayla laughed. “Yes, baby. They stay on for days and days—if you don’t pick at them and chip them up.”
“I won’t. Promise.”
“Well, if they chip off, we’ll put some new polish on.”
“Can I have green next time?”
“We’ll see. Right now, you need to get your skinny butt out of bed and come down and eat some breakfast before we sell all the doughnuts.”
“Huh-uh.” Portia looked smug. “Big Daddy always saves me some.”
Shayla laughed. “Yes, and I’d like to know how you stay so skinny eating doughnuts every morning.” She made sure Portia got her fruits and vegetables, but there was always a little paper plate set aside from the morning’s first batch. She’d been known to snatch an old-fashioned or a blueberry crumb off of it herself, on occasion, though she was more of a yogurt-and-granola-for-breakfast kind of gal.
She helped Portia get washed up and dressed, and together they went down to the dining room. The college kids had left, and the only customers were two middle-aged women at a table in the front. The usual coffee break crowd likely wouldn’t be in today since few were working today, so it might be a quiet one.
“Hey, baby girl.” Her dad came from around the counter and held his arms out. “I missed you.”
“Big Daddy!” Portia ran for a hug, then launched in to an enthusiastic account of their girls’ day. Shayla arrowed up a prayer that the girl wouldn’t say anything about seeing Mohawk at the shelter.
Her dad grinned and winked at her over Portia’s head. It was more than just a response to Portia’s chattering. Something was up. There was . . . a twinkle? . . . in his eye.
Curious, but a little disconcerted too, she grabbed the watering can from the kitchen and filled it, then went to water the plants in the nook.
She sensed someone behind her and turned to find her father watching her. “Do you need something?”
He looked past her, and his surprised expression told her he’d noticed her curtains for the first time. “What’s going on here?”
She felt suddenly shy. And also wondered how she could explain why she’d been so eager to cover those windows when they’d never talked about the possibility. She couldn’t even tell him where she’d gotten the idea, since it’d come from Link’s sister-in-law. “What do you think?”
He studied it for a minute too long, his expression serious. She braced herself.
“Those are coffee bags?”
She nodded, more riding on his response than she realized. “I heard they did that at an upscale coffee shop in St. Louis so”—she shrugged—“I thought I’d try it.”
“Well, this is no upscale coffee shop, but it does class the place up a little.” He pointed to the sofa. “You make them pillows too?”
“Uh-huh, with leftover scraps.”
He looked at her like maybe he was seeing her for the first time in a while. “You get that from your mama, you know. That creative streak. You have a lot of your mama in you.”
Nothing her father had ever said to her meant as much as that handful of words.
Her father looked around the bakery. The two women at the front table were still deep in conversation, but otherwise the dining room was empty. Daddy lowered his voice. “I have something I want to tell you.” He steered Portia toward the kitchen. “Portia, baby, you go get you a doughnut from the box on the table in the alcove. Sit in there to eat it. And don’t make a mess. I mopped in there already.”
Now Shayla was dying of curiosity.
When Portia disappeared behind the counter, her dad looked down at her. “I know you don’t have much use for your brother right now, but I want you to keep an open mind.”
She sighed. Was this about her and Portia going with him to see Jerry next time? “What is it?”
“I come away yesterday feeling a new hope in my heart. You know my prayer group has been praying up a storm. And I wasn’t seeing anything happen for it. But yesterday. Yesterday there was just something different. I sensed it the minute your brother walked into that room. Something in his eyes.”
Shayla tilted her head. “Something in his eyes?” Was that sparkle she’d seen in Daddy’s eyes this morning a reflection of what he’d seen in Jerry’s?
Daddy’s grin turned to a full-on beam. “My boy’s been going to a Bible study. There at the prison. He’s still struggling. He needs our prayers, Shay. But this is the first time I’ve felt a bit of hope—a good bit—walking out of that place.”
She didn’t know what to think. It was almost a joke that prisoners found Jesus. Sure they did. Maybe it was a way to sway a parole board—though given the severity of his drug charges, Jerry wasn’t up for parole any time soon. Maybe “religion” was just something to pass the time. She didn’t know. But if the sparkle, or whatever it was, was like Daddy’s, it was the real deal. She couldn’t let herself hope too much. But maybe it was a start.
“I’m not going to bug you about it, Shay, I promise. But I’d like you to pray . . . just pray that God will show you if maybe it would be good—for our Jerry’s sake—if you came with me next time.” He held up a hand. “I’m not talking about Portia. We made a decision, you and me. And it was the right one. At least for now. But Jerr
y . . . he asks about you. He misses his sissy. It’d be real nice if you could go. Sometime.”
She closed her eyes briefly. “I’ll pray about it. I really will.”
He put a hand on her forearm and squeezed gently. “I know you will.”
Shayla almost hated the grain of hope her father’s news had planted inside her. But even more, she hated the very first thought that came to her: She wished she could talk it over with Link. Hear his insight and wisdom on the topic.
But maybe God wanted her to figure this one out on her own.
24
All set?” Grant paced nervously in the fellowship hall of Langhorne Community Christian.
“Set as I’ll ever be in a tie.” Link tugged at the noose around his neck and plotted how soon he might be able to escape the thing.
He guessed it could be worse. Bree could have asked them to wear tuxes. He pointed at his father’s chest. “Come here, Pops. You’re crooked.” He slid the knot of his dad’s tie up and straightened it, then took a step back to check. “Better.”
Link glanced through the wide doorway to the floor-to-ceiling windows out in the foyer. Bree hadn’t gotten the “dusting of snow” she’d hoped for on her wedding day, but recent rains had left the landscape washed clean, and now the sun shone in a deep blue sky—as nice a day as mid-December days came in Missouri. But the church was decked out in Christmas greenery and white lights. Rented English-style lampposts and a full dozen Christmas trees aglow in twinkling lights flanked the entrance to the sanctuary. Link and the brothers-in-law had set up the trees and strung the lights last night after the rehearsal dinner. A miserable job, but he had to admit it was worth it. The effect was a little like walking through the wardrobe into Narnia—well, minus the snow.
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