Mae's Cafe (Welcome To Chance Book 1)

by Elsa Kurt

  Rosabelle had no such exotic claims. She was the only child of ordinary parents. Ruth and Steven. Ruth was a homemaker, and Steven was an accountant. They lived on Oak Street in a powder blue raised ranch and had an aboveground swimming pool in the fenced-in backyard. Mae knew this because her one high school friend—Mia Amendola—lived across the street. They used to sit out on her front stoop and make up stories about what went on behind closed doors in the Waterman household.

  Mia moved away in the middle of sophomore year. The two friends kept in touch for a little while, then, as things like that did, it fizzled out. Thanks to Facebook, Mae and Mia reconnected last year. She sold real estate in Virginia and lived with her boyfriend, Dean, in a condo. Going by her pictures, she was happy.

  Rosabelle was on Facebook too. Her profile picture was a hand-drawn sketch of Pegasus. She shared inspirational quotes and cat videos but never anything personal. The only people who commented or shared anything on her page were her parents—usually a picture of them in front of some national monument or other with all-caps comments like, WISH YOU WERE HERE and LOVE THE VIEW. HUGS AND KISSES. Apparently, they sold the house and bought an RV to travel cross-country. Either they gave her money, or she saved up her own, because soon after her parents left, Rosabelle purchased the old Sherman house on Dogwood Drive. It was the size of a shoebox but, under her loving attention, looked like a dollhouse. It suited her exactly. Mae knew all this because she’d posted a before-and-after photo on Facebook, with a one-word caption—HOME—and a smiley emoji. One “like” from RUTHSTEVE WATERMAN and a comment that said, SO PROUD! PERFECT, JUST LIKE YOH. I guess they didn’t know that you could fix typos. Or that they could release the caps-lock tab.

  Over scones and tea, Mae told William, “I’m still awkward with social media. Ugh. Too much work—all the ‘liking’ and ‘sharing’ stuff. If it weren’t for the café, I’d probably still not be on there. My dad adored Facebook. He had tons of friends on there. Likes, comments, shares galore. He posted funny pictures and silly videos or, like, insightful articles. Oh, and links to old movie clips. He made sure everyone knew if an eclipse or meteor shower would be in view and reminded us of ‘the restorative beauty of the Summer and Winter solstice.’ His account is still open, and friends regularly post things to him.”

  William had seen them. They wrote things like, “Oh, sweet man, how you would’ve loved this picture,” or “Thought of you today, old friend. Still missing you.” Mae cried every time she read them, but it also made her feel happy, less bereft. Less unmoored. When she watched the videos he posted—ones where he’s laughing hysterically at something, speaking in accents, or belting out a song, or the hardest ones to watch—ones of them acting out scenes from old movies—she was tethered again. Even if just for those brief moments. Mae didn’t say this to William; he just knew.

  “I could have Bruce take Rosabelle’s order, but I’m afraid she’ll have a heart attack on the spot. He has that effect on girls. You should see the Petrova twins around him.” Before William could respond, she had moved to Rosabelle’s table.

  “Thanks for waiting, Rosabelle. You sure you want to sit outside? I swear it’s getting hotter by the minute.”

  “I’m okay, thanks. Maybe…could we pull that umbrella over? If it’s not any trouble, of course.”

  “No trouble at all. Know what you’d like today? If you don’t see anything you like, I can always—”

  “Oh no, please. Everything looks great, Mae. I’d love the,” she read from the menu, “chilled macadamia gazpacho with cured asparagus, please.”

  “You got it. How about a half sandwich to go with? I’m doing a roast turkey and avocado or a cucumber-feta ciabatta. All the usual stuff too.”

  “The cucumber one sounds great.”

  Rosabelle was pretty. William saw this almost immediately. Her skin was flawless, her brown eyes caught flecks of green and gold in the sunlight, and her hair looked like it had never been damaged by chemicals or hair products. Even without a trace of makeup—or maybe because of it—Rosabelle Waterman was pretty. She just hid it under all that plainness.

  A loud, two-note whistle cut through the late morning air. An unmistakable cat-call. All eyes—Bruce from the doorway, to Mae and Rosabelle, and William’s—turn to the sound.

  Mae backstepped to William and spoke over her shoulder. “You’re about to meet the one and only—thank God—Miles Hannaford. He jogs past the café four times a week. Same routine every time.” She nodded in Miles’s direction, a sardonic expression on her face. She announced each action a beat before it happened. “Stop. Pull earbuds out. Swipe the back of hand across the forehead. Stretch. Act surprised to find himself in front of the café. Wait until I make eye contact, give mega-watt smile. And…”

  “Hey, beautiful. Sexy apron.”

  “Gee, thanks. Not sure I’ve ever been told I had a sexy apron, though. Leave it to you, Miles.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, it’s not the apron. It’s what underneath the apron.”

  He sidled up and leaned over the patio railing to tug playfully at her apron strings. William disliked the man instantly and hazarded a glance at Bruce. His facial expression mirrored William’s thoughts.

  “Hands off, Miles. Don’t you have a marathon to prepare for or something?”

  “Yep. Early start today. Following my posts on Facebook, are you? Admit it, Huxley. You want me.”

  “I want you to stop dripping sweat on my petunias. You’re going to kill them, idiot.”

  “You wound me. Make it up to me by going out to dinner.”

  “Same answer as before, Miles. No thank you. I will have your smoothie ready for you when you make your way back, though.”

  “One of these days, you’re going to stop fighting this obvious animal attraction between us, Huxley. Mark my words.”

  “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Miles.”

  “So mean, Huxley. And in front of customers too.” His eyes slid over Rosabelle to William, where he paused longer. He had the calculating, appraising eye of a car salesman. Cue megawatt smile again. Miles Hannaford, William would learn, had slept with nearly the entire female population of Chance. Except for Mae. Oh, and safe to say—Rosabelle.

  “Sorry, Rosabelle. I’m putting in your order right now,” said Mae apologetically.

  Ah, Rosabelle. She sat at that table all by herself and stared at Miles with a look of—what was that look? Ah, poor Rosabelle is in love with Miles. Everything clicked into place. William suspected that if he were to peruse Miles’s Facebook—where he undoubtedly posted his every move—he’d learn that her dining habits coincided with his training schedule.

  Mae pulled Bruce inside the café with her, and Miles made an exaggerated show of nonchalance that William found curious. He shot a sly glance at William then acknowledged Rosabelle.

  “Oh, hey, Rosie. Didn’t see you there.”

  He blew her a kiss. He started walk-jogging away, backward. Mae had just come back out, a food-laden tray on her arm.

  “I’ve got to keep my eye on you ladies. Make sure you’re not watching my ass.”

  “Oh, please, Hannaford. You wish.”

  “Rosie,” he said, wagging a finger at Mae, “look at that, Huxley is giving me the finger. Not very ladylike, Mae.”

  Mae rolled her eyes and set a plate on William’s table, even though he’d yet to order anything. She brought the other dishes to Rosabelle and saw that she was crimson. “Um, Rosabelle? I’m going to get you more water. Hold on.”

  “I’ll bring it out,” Bruce said from the doorway, glass already in hand.

  “That’s okay, Bruce. I can bring it—”

  Bruce and Miles hated each other, so she wanted Miles gone before Bruce lost his cool. Mae was too late, though. The larger, broader man’s jaw was clenched, and his temple pulsed. In one bear paw hand, resting between the V of his fore and middle fingers was the head of a hammer. The pale wood handle swung free. He set the glass of water down hard enough to ma
ke Rosabelle jump.

  “Well, hey, QB one. Still running errands for Mae, huh? How’s the arm, bro?”

  “Dunno, Hannaford. Wanna find out?”

  “Bruce, keep a hold on the hammer, big guy.” Mae put a hand on Bruce’s chest and looked back at Miles. “Miles, go on now, fuck off.”

  “You wound me yet again, Huxley.”

  “See you in a half hour,” Mae said through clenched teeth. Miles laughed and jogged away, whistling a jaunty tune.

  “Dick,” spat Bruce. Then, seeing Mae’s raised eyebrow, “Don’t give me that look, Mae. You just told him to fuck off.”

  “It’s different. He knows I’m joking. Mostly. Well, sort of. Just…go back inside.”

  Meanwhile, William saw that Rosabelle was outright scowling at Bruce. However, she did drop her gaze the second he glanced down at her. Still, that was bold for Rosabelle. Mae and Bruce were oblivious as they went back inside, bickering all the while.

  “Why do you let him get under your skin like that? You know he does it for a reaction, and you give him one every time. So what if he took your position on the team? You’ll always be number one, and he’ll always be number two. See, you win.”

  “Whatever. You wanna come check the salads? You know, in case I didn’t do them your way?”

  “It is Mae’s Café, you know. I have a reputation to uphold.”

  Mae walked past Bruce and into the kitchen where two rows of vintage, mismatched salad bowls lined a butcher block counter. Each held a generous mound of mesclun lettuce, a neat section of shredded carrot, then red onion, and small heirloom tomatoes. She nodded then added a little more carrot here, taking a bit away there. As she started to ask the whereabouts of the fresh herbs, Bruce leaned over and around her, dropping sprigs of dill, parsley, and chive onto the tops of the green mounds. She smirked up at him. He studiously ignored her.

  The café kitchen was tiny—more a galley, really—designed for one average-sized person or, at best, two smaller-sized ones. Mae was essentially trapped between Bruce and the countertop, so they moved along down the line together. She found it increasingly hard to not be aware of such a physically…impressive man. His head was tipped down, hovering at her collarbone; his breath fluttered the loose strands of hair that had slipped free of her ponytail and lay against her neck. Mae inhaled slowly, closing her eyes for a moment. The hum and bustle of a kitchen at work hadn’t begun yet, and the quiet was palpable. It was a moment or two before either realized that they’d stopped moving down the line. Bruce’s hands were fisted and braced on the counter on either side of Mae, his chest pressed against her back. The cotton of his shirt was soft against her bare shoulder blades. Bruce’s head dropped closer to her scalp. He breathed in deeply, his chest expanding against her back. Mae remained stock still. A part of her wanted to press back against him, lean into his body, and feel it hard and firm against her. But they’d been down that road once and agreed it wouldn’t work. They wouldn’t work. Day and night, oil and water, lemon and milk.

  Mae suddenly wondered what William would think if he knew they’d slept together. Once. Three years ago. On the floor of her unfinished café, after about three bottles of wine. She’d poured her heart out then climbed on top of him. He’d been unexpectedly sweet and gentle. Afterward, Mae had been embarrassed and confused and ended the night awkwardly. The next day, he showed up with some hangover remedy his dad swore by and coffee. He handed both over sheepishly then apologized about the night before. She shrugged and laughed it off. Told him, “Don’t give it a second thought. We’re totally cool. No need to ever mention it again.” So they hadn’t.

  “Hello? Anybody home?” a vaguely familiar voice called out from the café.

  They both jumped, and Mae exclaimed, “Shit. Damn it. Move, you big ape,” breaking the spell. Bruce sucked in his stomach, and Mae ducked down and out from under him, hyper-aware of his erection pressed against his jeans. She brushed her apron down and dashed through the doorway, feeling a phone order slip in the pocket.

  “Fuck! Here. Get this started, quick.” She shoved the paper into Bruce’s hand and plastered a smile on her face. “Hey, sorry about that. To go, or for here?”

  Regulars came in, taking their seats or placing their orders, chatting with one another or staring at menus. The Petrova twins had arrived like a fresh breeze and glided about like nimble, graceful gazelles, raising their trays deftly over heads or ducking underneath them. Bruce made himself scarce, knowing that his size was nothing short of a hindrance to the well-oiled machine that was the weekday lunch routine. By unspoken agreement, the twins took the tables of businessmen and blue-collar boys, while Mae waited on the soccer moms and the seniors. Throughout it all, Mae stole glances at both Rosabelle and William at their respective tables outside. She reminded Mae of a castaway on a deserted island, isolated in the sea of laughing, talking diners. William, however, was an island. Isolated, yes. But where Rosabelle appeared lonesome, he seemed content.

  As Mae made her observations, William noted Rosabelle’s longing stares at the couple dead ahead from her. The wistful gaze at the chubby toddler clapping his mother’s face between his pudgy hands. The sharp head drop when her gaze was met. Most of all, he noticed her neck elongate and strain as she peered up the street and the way she listlessly moved the food around her plate.

  Rosabelle was on her second tall glass of water when Mae approached her. She touched Rosabelle’s shoulder and asked, “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  Rosabelle’s expression was pained, anxious. Like she’d been asked to quickly solve a complicated equation. Mae coaxed her with, “A dessert menu, maybe? I just got some gorgeous mangoes this morning. In fact,” she hesitated then leaned down conspiratorially, “I’m about to make a smoothie for Miles with one of them. He should be back any time now.”

  Rosabelle blushed so deeply she could’ve burst. Mae’s suspicions confirmed, she nodded and smiled at her. “Yeah, he’s pretty damn good looking, isn’t he?”

  “I—he…yes. He is.” Rosabelle waved her hand as if batting away a fly. “Not that I—well, he would never—”

  “Nonsense. Just, you know, talk to him. Make him notice you.”

  Rosabelle’s round eyes gazed up at Mae with such hopefulness, but then she looked down again, shaking her head.

  “I’ll get you that dessert menu.” Mae patted her arm and went back inside for a menu. William stopped her.

  “Miss Huxley, are you playing matchmaker?” His tone was teasing.

  “Guilty as charged, Mr. Grant. Miles is a total creeper, but you never know who’s meant for who, right? I mean, maybe Rosabelle’s the one to settle him down.” She shrugged, doubt and optimism battling across her face.

  At last, the lunch crowd began to thin. All that would be left soon was the large table of toddler moms, who predictably decided—after several “oh, I don’t know” and “I really shouldn’t”s and “well, if you are, then why not”—to have that second glass of Chardonnay while their little ones tore apart napkins and threw Cheerios on the floor. All the while, they laughed loudly at each other’s jokes, humble-bragged about their children’s many accomplishments, and complained about their husbands. Mae wished she’d had one of the Petrova girls deal with them. She felt much the same way Rosabelle did around those women—inferior. Judged.

  Before they were toddler moms, they were clique girls—cheerleaders, specifically. Like Bruce, they were a year ahead of Mae. The first time they swarmed into the café, she recognized them—even if she couldn’t remember all their names. Nor did they recall hers. This despite that they were all townies who never left. One of them vaguely recognized Mae and made a big show of pretending she totally remembered. “Oh, my God, Mae…” She paused, not knowing her last name, but smoothed over with, “It’s been forever! Is this your place? I freaking love it! Girls, you remember Mae, don’t you?”

  Her posse nodded and exclaimed a chorus of unconvincing “oh my God” and “yeah, totally,
of course.” Mae had sat them, gave them a complimentary appetizer, and shoved Melina Petrova on them. Or maybe it was Paulina; she couldn’t tell them apart in the beginning. Mae told all this to an amused William.

  “Listen,” she rested her bottom against the railing next to William’s table and said, “it’s not that I’d ever wanted to be a part of their clan—I can’t speak for Rosabelle—but it’s just,” she struggled for the words, “well, they were so damn confident. They had their bubble, and everyone else just kind of bounced off it.”

  Mae ticked off each one. “Brianna Baker—the tall blonde, just had a baby not too long ago. Charlotte Asheby—super skinny brunette. The toddler ripping the leaves off my fern is hers. Katie O’Brien—strawberry blonde, that’s her fourth kid in the papoose thing. I’m guessing the other three are home with her mother-in-law. Brittany Sheffield—platinum blonde, married to the dentist up the street. The twins shaking all the sugar out of the packets are hers. Elise Martino—black hair, loud mouth. Her kid is the one in the stroller taking up half the room.”

  “Hey, sexy, how about that smoothie?” Miles had crept up behind Mae, his voice buzzing in her ear like a pesky fly. It had not the same effect as William’s had on her earlier. She jumped and swatted him away and told him to meet her inside. Mae marched behind the counter and loaded the blender. Every time he tried to speak, she pulsed the machine.

  “What do you say to—”

  Whirrrr.