Mae's Cafe (Welcome To Chance Book 1)

by Elsa Kurt

  Home. No, not home. Mae’s. William reminded himself—not for the first time since entering Chance—that this was not his home, but merely a location. He was a writer immersed in his project, surrounded by his subjects, period. There would be no attachments, no involvements.

  “Pardon me? Did you happen to see a little girl about yea high?” He flatted his hand and raised it hip height. “She was in the children’s department. Dark hair, big t-shirt?”

  “Oh, yes. I remember her. She left a couple of hours ago. She had a stack of books as big as she was, so I gave her a bag.”

  “Very good, thank you.” William walked to the exit and grinned at the image of the scraggly girl carrying her books like they were pirate’s gold. Then he scowled, remembering his mantra. Still, his walk to Mae’s under the blotchy sky was filled with the image of warm lamplight spilling out her long bay window, the glimpse of her in the kitchen, swaying and singing along to whatever smooth jazz or bouncy swing music she’d chosen that evening.

  It was a sight he’d walked up to on several nights since he’d begun staying at her house. The first night—a humid, heat-heavy evening—William had come from the park, feeling wilted and spent. He’d been looking down at the ground—not thinking much of anything, really—and his feet followed the turn onto her sidewalk as if they’d been going there forever.

  The sound of music came to him first, a wave of melodic notes cutting through the thick air. William looked up, and there was that bay window, alight with the glow of a solitary lamp. The front door was open. As William took the first stair, his line of sight showed a sliver of the kitchen—countertop, half a refrigerator, cabinets—and Mae stepped into that sliver. She swept her long hair aside, tilting her head with the weight of it. In one hand she held a gleaming Santoku knife, the other pressed down on a vibrant bunch of celery. She cut the end in one smooth chop, the lean muscle in her tanned bicep tensing then relaxing. When the song changed, the motion of the knife stilled, and Mae closed her eyes and began to sway to the beat. And then she sang.

  William, suddenly impervious to the heat, stilled as well. He forgot to breathe and only realized it when his chest tightened uncomfortably. She was mesmerizing, this contrary creature, and he—well, he was enthralled by her. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself behind her, putting an arm around her slender waist, placing a soft kiss at the curve of her neck. He imagined her leaning back against him, angling her head so their lips could meet…

  William sat down hard on the bottommost step, out of her sight, and mopped the dampness from his brow, exhaling slowly through his mouth and damning his foolish ideas to hell. This. This was why he avoided her, avoided being alone with her. All sense of rhyme and reason, every ounce of self-control threatened to abandon him at the smell of her perfume, the vision of her gazelle-like walk as she glided down the hall or darted about the kitchen with calm confidence.

  For all his consciousness of his physical response to her, he was equally aware of her reaction to him. There was a magnetic, hypnotic pull toward one another that defied every rule William had ever instituted for himself, namely no attachments. Yet, here he was, inserting himself into the story and in her life. After that night, he’d doubled his efforts, leaving early and returning late at the house. The café—well, the café was a different story. Somehow, the rules bent there, seemingly of their own accord, and William found himself unable to pass by Mae without grazing against her or putting a hand on her shoulder. Or flirting.

  The sky brightened briefly, and the loud clap of thunder that followed almost immediately brought him back to the present. Mae’s window was uncharacteristically dark. No music could be discerned. The sight filled him with a surprisingly deep disappointment, causing him to momentarily forget the umbrella in his hand. The hard splatter of rain jolted him soundly, and he jerked the umbrella up again.

  The neighbor’s dog began an incessant bark, and William winced in annoyance. Where was Mae? He cursed his curiosity and discontent as he climbed the steps and turned his spare key in the lock. Inside the foyer, he paused, noting the dark kitchen and listening for sounds of life down the hall where Mae’s bedroom lie. Silence reigned but for the steady drumming of rain on the roof and low, crawling rumble of swelling thunder.

  He passed the kitchen doorway then backstepped, noticing the open French door to the backyard. Frowning, he set his keys down and walked to the door. The rain poured through the gutters and splashed hard against the pavers on the patio. Over that—and between thunder cracks—was a curious rhythm of metallic clanks. Following the sound, William was led to the far side of the yard where Mae kept her goats and chickens. It was there that he found the source of the strange noises. Mae—with the rain beating down on her—was battering a long steel post into the ground beside what was once the gate to the goat pen but was now a splintered, warped mess of wood and wire.

  “What happened?”

  Mae—soaked to the bone—glanced over her shoulder then resumed her pounding. In between each clank, she huffed, “Ginger. She gets freaked by the thunder. Busted the gate down. Fixing it.”

  “Here, let me help you.”

  “I’ve got it.” Whack went the hammer.

  “Mae, let me help you,” he shouted over another loud thunder boom. At first, he thought she hadn’t heard him. But when he placed his hand on her shoulder, she yanked away roughly. “Are you—are you mad at me about something?”

  She shouted, “I don’t know, William. Do I have something to be mad at you about?”

  William’s temper flared as well. He raked back his dripping hair and put his hands on his waterlogged hips. “Don’t be childish, Mae. If you’ve got something to say, say it like an adult.”

  This was perhaps not his most well-thought-out response, but he was cold, wet, and tired. And he had no clue what her problem was. Yet, despite all this, he noticed every detail about her. The way her dress—she’d not changed from work—clung to her body, how the rain cascaded down her face, her—

  “Childish? Me?” she asked with undisguised irony. She dropped the hammer and stomped over to him, standing practically under his nose, where it was easier to jab him in the chest from. “You,” jab, “have a lot of nerve, William.” Jab. “If anyone is childish here, it’s you.” Jab.

  “Me? Nonsense, Mae. What are you talking about?” He resisted the urge to grab the hand with the jabbing finger and kept his on his hips.

  “Okay, fine. Let’s start with you sneaking around and meeting up with Feather Anne, and probably Gina too, for all I know.”

  “Mae, I—”

  “No, I’m not done. Let’s talk about the fact that you avoid me at all costs here but—but flirt with me at the café for everyone to see. And don’t think I don’t know it’s intentional. So what’s your deal, huh? Why can’t you say whatever your problem is?”

  “Mae—”

  “And don’t try to deny it, Will—”

  William had stopped listening to her. All he could see in the flashes of lightning were her blazing eyes and full lips. Without thinking, he took her face in both hands and pulled her to him, kissing her silent. She froze for a moment then kissed him back hard. As the rain drenched them and the lightning and thunder raged around them, their kiss softened, deepened. He pulled away just enough to search her eyes as he brushed back the wet hair that had plastered to her cheeks and caressed her smooth skin. Her hands, at first constrained against his chest, slid up and around his neck as she pressed her body against his. William felt her tremors and realized he shook as well.

  “This is why, Mae. Do you understand now? I was trying to keep this from happening.”

  Her brow creased. “But why, William? What’s so wrong about this?”

  The rain slowed, and the thunder began to roll away by then. He looked skyward, and with all the self-control he could muster, William gently pushed her away. Instead of answering, he said, “Let’s gets this gate back in order, then we’ll talk, yes?”

  Sh
e nodded, still frowning at him. After a moment of searching, she located the hammer and handed it to him wordlessly. Together, it took them another twenty minutes, but at last the gate was once again secure enough to contain the four goats. When they’d finished, Mae took William by the hand and led him inside. They kicked off their shoes went into the laundry room adjacent to the kitchen, and Mae grabbed two plush white towels from a stack on top of the dryer.

  William blotted his face and neck, keeping his eyes locked on Mae’s. She set her towel down and stood before him and without a word began unbuttoning his shirt. He stilled her hands with his.

  “Mae, we—”

  “I don’t want to talk, William. Not now. This is what I want right now.”

  She spread the shirt open to bare his tan chest and navel then stood on her tip-toes and pressed a soft kiss upon his lips. He sighed against her mouth and started to speak again. Mae shook her head, stepped back, and began to unbutton her soaked dress to reveal delicate, pale pink undergarments.

  William nodded once—unwilling and unable to resist her any longer, damn the consequence—and shed his shirt. He walked past her, dropped it into the barrel of the machine, then stood behind Mae. He helped her slowly peel away the skin-hugging garment to expose her back, the sharp points of her shoulder blades, trim waist, down and over her full hips. She held his arm and pressed her buttocks against him as she stepped out of the dress and bent to pick it up off the floor and tossed it deftly into the wash with his shirt. Then Mae led William to her bedroom.

  She turned down the scarlet duvet and ivory sheets, lit a candle, and sauntered over to the old-fashioned record player tucked into the corner of the spacious, sparsely decorated room. The static scratch of the needle on the record was the only sound for a few moments, then something soft and low began to play. William had watched her from the doorway, admiring her graceful beauty.

  “Come here, William. I won’t bite.” She laughed.

  He smiled devilishly as he came to her and said, “Ah, but I might,” and kissed her. He lowered her gently onto the bed and laid down beside her, tracing her curves and trailing kisses from her throat to breast, navel, and thighs. When she could take no more, William made love to her with a reverence that made tears spring into her eyes.

  He kissed the saltiness on her cheek and said, “Darling, you’re crying. What is it?”

  Mae slipped her fingers into his hair, kissed him, and said, “That was—you are, oh, William. I want to stay right here, like this with you for days and days. Say we can.”

  William grinned down at Mae’s sweet, hopeful face and nudged her cheek with his nose before climbing off her. He stretched out alongside her, threw a leg over hers, and pulled the sheet over them both. He whispered against her ear, “We can stay like this…for now.”

  She sighed and turned her body to his, pulling him tight against her, so they were skin to skin. She placed her hand—it felt so small, he thought—on his rough cheek and said, “I’ll take now, William. For as long as it lasts.”

  They fell asleep intertwined, breathing against each other, their heartbeats slowing to a matching rhythm. In the morning, William woke to the sound of birds chirping and the clink and clatter of dishes under running water from the kitchen. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked around Mae’s room, as if seeing it for the first time. It was a room designed for a reader, with two ceiling-height bookcases on either side of a recessed window bench. The bench cushion was thick and had a ruby red and cream paisley pattern, the pillows a riot of stripes, and playful patterns. Another magnolia painting—like the one in William’s room, but in shades of scarlet, cream, and black—hung above Mae’s queen-sized bed. For the first time, William noticed the signature at the bottom of the painting. It was Keith Huxley’s work.

  At the end of the bed were a fresh pair of his pants and a shirt that Mae had been thoughtful enough to get from his room. He put the pants on, slung the shirt over his shoulder, and opened her door. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee hit his nose as he walked down the hall, a most welcome scent. As William rounded the corner, he said, “Ah, there’s a sweetheart. Fresh coffee after a night of—”

  “Well, hello, William. You remember me, right? Mae’s aunt?”

  Katrina’s eyes traveled unabashed over William’s bare torso, unbuckled belt, and bare feet before returning to his face.

  William hurriedly buckled his pants and pulled on his shirt, feeling like an adolescent boy who’d just been caught out by his girlfriend’s mother. “I—uh, hello. Yes, of course. Good to see you again. Is Mae—”

  “She’s out in the coop, grabbing some eggs. So, after a night of…what, exactly?” Katrina’s expression was one of mock ignorance.

  William cleared his throat. “Mae didn’t mention the goat’s pen? The, uh, gate, that is? One of the goats busted it open last night, and she, well—we that is—had to fix it.”

  Just then, Mae burst in. “All right, Tree. We’ve got half a dozen—oh! Good morning, William,” Mae stammered and blushed.

  William grinned stupidly at her, she back at him. Katrina slowly slid her stare from him to her then back again. “My God, you two are as subtle as an elephant in church. So, you slept together, huh? There’s a shocker.”

  “Katrina,” Mae exclaimed.

  William cleared his throat again and excused himself. “I’ll leave you two to chat.”

  “Here,” said Mae, handing him a mug and blushing, “take a coffee with you.”

  Their hands touched and lingered as the coffee was passed. Katrina rolled her eyes and made a derisive sound. William, in a soft voice, meant only for Mae’s ears, said, “Did you sleep well enough? Aren’t you usually at the café by now?”

  “Melina and Paulina are opening for me. I’m going in for ten a.m. Will I see you there, or…?”

  Or was he going to see Feather Anne or Gina? That was what she really wanted to know. A pang of regret stabbed him; they’d not discussed his impromptu meeting with the girl, and Mae likely still felt betrayed. However, with Katrina watching hawkishly from behind them, he thought it prudent to let it go for the time being.

  “I need to go into town for some new clothes, then I’ll be there. Say lunchtime?”

  “Perfect. Now go, before my aunt says something else embarrassing.” She gave him a playful, gentle shove, sending him grinning down the hall.

  Once there, though, his smile faded. He set the mug down on the dresser and rubbed his face. Well, look what you’ve done now, you old fool, you. What could he have been thinking, sleeping with Mae? He was a fifty-six-year-old man behaving like a horny teenager. And with a woman more than half his age. He could be nothing more to her than a substitute father-figure, a filler for a terrible void. The expression on Katrina’s face said it all plainly. Whatever Mae Huxley felt for William could be nothing more than fleeting need. As far as his feelings for her? Well, they didn’t matter. They would surely both agree to nip this tryst in the bud, perhaps even have a laugh over it. There were no other real possibilities, William was confident. What he was less certain of was how he’d convince himself to stay away from her when all he wanted was to hold her again.

  Chapter 14

  A VISITOR

  Georgie and Charles Brightsider lived five houses down—on the opposite side of the street—from Mae. They’d seen her grow up from a close distance, given her baked goods at the annual block party, and even babysat her once when Keith had been in a pinch. They’d both always had a soft spot for the pretty, quirky little girl who grew up to be a beautiful, quirky young woman. Charles had been fond of saying—not in mixed company, of course—that Keith Huxley “had done a fine job of raising the girl, even if he was a homosexual.” He always followed it up with, “Not that it matters, I mean.” However, now—for the first time in all the years they’d known Mae—Georgie was angry at her.

  “Oh, now Georgie, sweetheart. You can’t be mad at the girl. And remember, it’s not our place to say anything, either,”
chided Charles, setting down his violin bow. It was the same thing he’d said when she’d tutted about the Grant fellow staying in Mae’s house.

  “Well, I know that, Charles. I’m just saying it’s wrong. She’s wrong. And it’s wrong that we all are pretending not to know. This town has too many secrets or things meant to be secrets. How does anyone keep up with it all?”

  “You seem to be keeping up rather well, my sweet,” said Charles with more than a hint of causticness.

  “Oh, hush. Sixty-seven years I’ve been in this town. It’s impossible not to know things about the people in it. And don’t pretend that you’re above it all, Mr. High and Mighty,” sniffed Georgie indignantly.

  “Whatever you say, love. Shall we take Rufus and Mabel for a walk?”

  “It’s too hot. We’ll go this evening. And don’t try to change the subject. I have—on good authority, mind you—that Mae now knows about Gina Byrd’s impending eviction.”

  “I don’t see how that’s any—”

  “Oh, Charles. It’s her mother, for goodness’ sake.”

  Charles heaved a sigh and set his violin down alongside the bow. There would be no playing while his wife was in a snit. He braced himself for the inevitable fallout from disagreeing but disagree he must. “Georgianna Marie Brightsider, you know full well it is not so simple. She is Mae’s mother by a matter of biology, not parenting. And the way she told her? At her father’s funeral? Inexcusable. Team Mae, I’m afraid.”

  Georgie—now looking out the tall sunroom window—turned and lowered her reading glasses to frown at him. “Team Mae? Really, Charles, you’ve been watching that MTV again, haven’t you? Anyway, there’s no need for choosing sides. Heaven knows Gina Byrd is no prize. Still, a girl needs a mother and a mother needs her child.”