Читать книгу Christmas At The Café - Rebecca Raisin, Darcie Boleyn - Страница 15

Once I’m out and walking across the road it dawns on me: I’m nervous. I never meant to hurt him by having these sales; I only wanted to stay afloat. Always me and the guilt. It’s a gift of mine to blame myself. Balancing the pie, I take small steps; the road is icy, and slippery.

“Well, hello,” I say as Damon walks to the front to meet me. He looks up, his eyes vacant. And for a second I’m truly worried. Has someone died? He looks hollowed out, his shoulders are slumped, and his usual grin is replaced with a tight line.

“What you got there?” he asks, his voice barely audible.

“Some of CeeCee’s famous pecan pie. Free, and made with love, no less.”

That provokes a slight lift at the corners of his mouth.

“And what’s with the change of heart?” he says, taking the proffered pie. “This got horse laxatives in it or something?”

Laughter bubbles out of me. “I wish I’d thought of that. Nope. This is a peace offering. The proverbial olive branch.”

I edge closer to the step, about to walk up when I slip on a pile of sleet, and scramble like some kind of roller-skater before I land smack bang into Damon’s arms. He holds me tight, his face trained down towards me. His aftershave wafts over, something tangy and spicy. I try to hold myself back from outright sniffing him. So, I’ve got a thing with aftershave.

“You always throw yourself at men like that?” he asks, grinning.

“You wish,” I say, realizing I should probably try to extricate myself from his embrace. It’s just that he’s so warm. “I think you really need to salt and shovel your steps. Not hard to tell you’re new around here.”

“What, and miss all the fun?”

Untangling myself from Damon, I try to stand without slipping. I notice he still holds the pecan pie, which somehow didn’t get squashed in the fracas.

Pulling my jacket together, I say, “So, what do you say — friends?”

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, his voice husky.

“I’m no good at fighting. I can’t be angry for longer than ten minutes, and this has lasted two days. I’m exhausted. And seeing you over here all glum, well, it’s just not me, causing this kind of reaction in a man.”

He leans back against the window and looks up at the sky. He’s silent for too long; an awkward pause hangs between us, making me fidget.

“OK, well, I’m going to get back—”

“Wait,” he says, touching me lightly on the hand. “Don’t go. You want to come inside for coffee?” There is something different about him, a sadness in his eyes. It dawns on me it might not be the business causing it.

“Sure. Love to.”

We amble inside and my breath catches. “Wow, you sure do know how to decorate.” We’d peeked in when he was setting up, but now the shop is decked out with half whiskey barrels filled with straw, a bed for jars of preserves. Old wagon wheels are varnished and hitched to the walls, with a variety of goods hanging from the spokes on thin golden hooks. On the decked floor, little round up lights shine, making the place sparkle. It’s like something from a Western movie, a bygone era, and it has a real homely feel. The delicious smell of rich coffee beans lingers in the air. In the corner is a huge fireplace with mahogany Chesterfield lounges to each side. The only Christmas decorations are a string of lights along the counter, and a small plastic tree on a coffee table.

“This is really something,” I say.

“Thanks, Lil. Can’t take much credit for it, though. It’s an exact replica of the shop I had back in New Orleans. Someone else designed it.”

“So you have two shops?”

He moves behind the fancy coffee maker, which is the size of a small car. He presses some buttons and pulls a lever; it coughs and splutters like someone drowning. “Cappuccino OK?”

“Sure,” I say and sit on a bar stool in front of him.

After much gurgling from the machine, Damon walks through a shroud of steam and hands me a cup jiggling on a saucer.

“I hope you like it strong.”

“Just like my men,” I say and feel myself color. It just slipped out as if I were joking with CeeCee.

He pretends to flex his muscles, and my blush deepens. “So, do you still have the shop in New Orleans?” I repeat in order to get back to a safer topic.

His eyes cloud. “Nope. That’s all finished. I’m here for good, now.”

A heavy silence fills the room. I can hear my heartbeat thump.

He looks forlorn staring into his cup. “Do you want to join forces?” I ask, before I can change my mind and think about anything remotely sensible, like, I hardly know the man.

He looks lazily over his cup to me. “What do you mean?”

Darn it. Too late to recant. “How many people are booked in for the class tonight?”

He takes a sip of his coffee. “Three. The three Mary-Jos.”

The three Mary-Jos are infamous for being flirts. They’re teenagers. They all grew up together, some kind of cousins, twice removed or some such. Their moms all staked their claim to the name Mary-Jo and wouldn’t budge. And now our small town has three blond-haired, blue-eyed mischief-makers, who share the same name. It can get confusing.

“You’re not going to make any money with the Mary-Jos. Can you cook?” I ask.

“Yeah, the Mary-Jos are my best customers, ‘cept they’ve never actually bought a thing. What do you mean can I cook? Sure I can.”

His phone blares out from the pocket of his jeans. He sure does receive a lot of calls.

He looks at the screen and frowns. “I gotta take this.” He struts away, and answers the phone, speaking what sounds all lovey dovey to me. As if he’s trying to soothe someone. He’s obviously got a girl back in New Orleans. Maybe they’re trying to mend the bridges, or something. Not that it matters; I still love my Joel. I’m only here on business, I tell myself, and drink the steaming coffee, which tastes bitter now.

I’m about to leave when Damon strolls back in, rubbing his face. He seems jittery, nervous. I don’t think it’s my place to ask, but I am from a small town, which means it’s kind of in my blood to question.

“You OK?”

He looks startled, as if he forgot I’m here. “Oh, right. Lil, where were we?”

“You sure you’re OK?”

“Nothing time can’t fix,” he says, mysteriously.

His demeanor worries me, but I figure I’ll talk shop and eventually he’ll tell me what’s really going on. Call it female intuition, but there’s something happening in Damon’s life that takes the sparkle from his eyes after each of those phone calls. “OK, then.” I sit back and explain CeeCee’s idea.

The moon is winking behind clouds by the time I cross the street back to CeeCee. I know she’ll be baking up a storm; anything to keep herself from marching over to Damon’s to see what’s taking so long.

Opening the front door, I’m assailed with the scent of butterscotch from CeeCee’s pies. It’s rich and comforting, so buttery, and wholesome, I almost want to take one back to Damon.

CeeCee jumps out from behind the fridge, scaring me half to death. “So, what’d he say?”

“He said yes. I hope I made the right decision.” Fumbling with my apron strings, I decide I’m going to spruce up the shop. I clean when I’m nervous.

“Why you all twitchy like that?”

“You should see the inside of his shop. It’s got polished oak floors, a big old wooden bar, and these tiny little lights that shine right on down to all the bottles perched there. And some imbedded in the floor too. It’s just so warm, what with all that dark wood. He’s got all sorts of things you just can’t get around here. Makes me think this place—” I glance around at the bare white walls, and the long silver benches we use to roll out dough “—is a little stark. You know, once we put the Christmas decorations away…”

CeeCee plants her hands on my shoulders. “So we flick some paint over the walls, and buy some lamps, but what’d he say about the business side of things?”

“Oh, right. Yeah, we discussed it, and we’re going to give it a three-month trial. We’ll expand the catering, and he’ll get someone to run his shop, like you do here, and see if we can venture out further afield. It was the darnedest thing, though…”

“Sit down,” CeeCee says. “You’re all fluttery like some kind of butterfly.”

We move to the lounges, and I take a few deep breaths. I think I’ve overdone it with those fancy coffees of his.

“What’s making you nervous?” CeeCee asks.

“Well, we were discussing all the ins and outs, and what we’d expect from each other, you know, trying to lay some ground rules out before we agree to start, and he kept taking phone calls. Every two, three minutes. In the end, he didn’t say anything, just rushed off with the phone, and then came back with this defeated look on his face.”

“You ask him who it was?”

“I asked him if he was OK. He kept changing the subject.”

CeeCee mutters to herself, and starts wringing her hands. “I don’t believe it! Oh, Lord.” She looks up at the ceiling. “Why you do this to me?”

“What are you talking about, Cee?”

“I seen the signs.” She points to the spot between her eyes. “I seen you two…together.”

I slap my leg and laugh. “Oh, Cee. Is that why you dreamt up this business venture? So I could get a boyfriend?”

“Why o’ course!”

“I should know better than to trust you when it comes to me and single men. I’m nervous, because what if he does have a girlfriend, some kind of long-distance relationship or something? He can’t be running off every two minutes to speak on the phone. And what about if he up and walks out, once I get a bunch of customers?”

“He ain’t like that,” CeeCee says knowingly. “He a Guthrie, after all. They good people. You just say it delicately, maybe phone calls are better left for after work, like that.” She lets out a squeal. “I knew it. I knew this was gonna be your year.”

I laugh along with her, but I’m plagued by doubt. Who would call someone so many times? What’s his secret?