Читать книгу Wanted: The Perfect Mom - T. R. McClure - Страница 13

CHAPTER FOUR

FRIDAY MORNING, MAC decided to patrol the outskirts of town. An out-of-towner’s hunting camp had been broken into. The only damage was a shattered window and the disappearance of some canned goods, but he still wanted to check it out. Passing Holly’s shop, he noticed a line out the door. Coffee would have to wait.

A short while later, he found himself crossing the suspension bridge over Little Bear Creek. Halfway across he stopped just in time to see a sleek brown trout jump in the fast-moving stream. On the bank, the green of late spring had rapidly covered the dead brush of winter. He continued on and turned left onto a macadam road that paralleled the stream. Coming to a freshly plowed field, he slowed and studied the white house at the end of a long lane.

Gravel crunched beneath the tires of Mac’s patrol car as he eased down the driveway of the Smith farm. The twins were the third generation to live on the two-hundred-acre farm. They no longer worked the land but instead rented out the fields to younger farmers who needed more land but couldn’t afford it. He stopped the car at the foot of a long flight of steps leading up to the front porch. A garden surrounded by a wire fence sat off to the right. A long row of green onion tops peeked through dark, rich, freshly turned soil.

The homestead, where the twins and their sister had been born and raised, had to be at least a hundred years old. A fresh coat of white paint glistened on the two-story structure. The new metal roof sported a satellite dish.

Mac leaned back in his seat and stroked his chin, remembering the last time he’d been to the farm. Shortly after his return to Pennsylvania, he and Chief Stone had visited some of the neighbors in the area. Then, the house had been badly in need of a paint job.

He should’ve shaved this morning. Instead, he’d invested those extra five minutes in chasing much-needed sleep. Sleep that still refused to come. He’d lain in bed thinking about Anne, about Riley and what his wife would think of their current living arrangements.

“Are you gettin’ outta the car or are you just gonna sit there and gawk?”

Lanky as his nickname implied, Skinny Smith stood not five feet away, dressed in clean but faded bib overalls and a red plaid flannel shirt. A large black dog lounged at his feet, his graying muzzle forming a perfect circle as he gave a low woof. Mac jumped out of the vehicle and thrust out his hand. “Sorry, Mr. Smith, I haven’t been here for a while. I was admiring the work you’ve done.”

Skinny gripped Mac’s hand. After a brief squeeze, he wrapped his fingers around the overall straps, tilted his bald head and squinted at Mac. “You’re the one who came out with Chief Stone that day. You just got back from livin’ down South for a while, ain’t that right?”

“Yes, sir.” Mac’s stomach flipped as he remembered the reason for his sudden return home. They had put it gently. We have to let you go. But he knew he had lost his edge. Coming home was an attempt to get his life back in order. Now his former in-laws had been pressing him to take his little girl for the summer.

Between the guilt and the never-ending decisions he sometimes questioned his sanity. His forehead was throbbing and he realized he had again skipped coffee. The double bourbon the night before hadn’t helped, either. He caught Skinny shooting him a puzzled look.

Skinny started toward the steep porch steps and waved a hand at Mac. “Come on in. Hawkeye’s makin’ French press coffee. You look like you need some.”

Mac’s jaw dropped. French press? Apparently the townspeople weren’t the only ones to have become citizens of the world in his absence.

Watching the dog make his way up the steep steps, he followed and caught the screen door just before it slammed shut behind Skinny. The farmer continued through a long, dark hall lined on one side with stacks of boxes.

“We have company, brother. Grab another cup.”

When Mac entered the kitchen Skinny was opening a pink bakery box. His brother, identical in every way, except his shirt was blue plaid, poured coffee out of a glass container. He pushed a china cup and saucer across the table and motioned for Mac to sit.

“Mother always said things taste better if they look nice. We still use the china set she got for her wedding. Kind of silly, I suppose, for two old bachelors. How about it, brother?” Skinny chuckled, a deep rumbling in his chest.

Hawkeye nodded as he continued to pour. “Yep.”

His forefinger threaded through the small, circular handle, Mac lifted the cup and toasted the two men. “Gentlemen, this is a welcome—unexpected, but welcome—surprise.” He held the cup under his nose and inhaled the rich, heavy scent before sipping the hot brew. “Ah, perfect.”

“Fair trade organic.” Hawkeye finished pouring and set the French press on a pad in the center of the Formica table. “We farmers have to stick together.”

A black cat clock, its eyes darting back and forth, ticked noisily above the sink as the three men enjoyed the coffee. Between the two farmers, the hound thumped his tail in anticipation as Hawkeye reached for a scone from the box. Breaking off a corner, he presented the morsel to the dog, who mouthed the treat daintily from the old man’s hand. “Good boy.” He petted the dog.

Skinny bit off a piece of muffin. He winked at Mac as he chewed. “Buddy’s the best dog we ever had. He’s a black-and-tan coonhound. Got him from up toward Erie. He chases raccoons mostly, but he’ll go after a squirrel or a rabbit. When we’re ready to go, he’s right beside us.” He gave another bite to the dog. “Not so much anymore, though. He’s getting old, like us.”

“So he is,” his brother added, crumbs littering the table in front of him.

Mac eyed the bakery box, and when Hawkeye pushed it closer, he helped himself to a chocolate cookie sandwich with white cream oozing out of the middle. “I haven’t had a chocolate gob in years.” The first bite melted in his mouth, followed by the rich coffee. He swallowed. “Where do you guys find this stuff?”

“Over town. Those things are called whoopie pies in these parts.” Skinny seemed surprised at his question. “We stop at The Cookie Jar and then, since the Hoffman girl opened up her place, we bought our special beans from her. Saves us from driving all the way to State College, what with the price of gas such as it is.”

Mac looked around the kitchen at the modern appliances and wondered how two old farmers afforded updating the homestead, much less buying fair trade organic coffee. He emptied his cup and stood. “Thank you, fellas, I needed that.” He brushed a crumb from his uniform jacket.

Skinny leaned back in his chair. “You sure did. You looked a mite peaked when you got out of your car. You got some color in your face now. You should stop at the coffee shop mornings, get yourself goin’.” He chuckled. “And the Hoffman girl’s not too bad to look at, either. How about it, brother?” He nudged Hawkeye.

“Yep.” His brother smiled into his coffee cup.

“If I was forty years younger...” The talkative brother led the way back to the front porch.

Mac grinned. He agreed with the two men. The Hoffman girl, his best friend’s little sister, had grown from a gawky teenager into an attractive woman. And he owed that woman an apology. He just hoped she accepted the long overdue request for forgiveness.

How could he have been attracted to two such different women? Holly and Anne were night and day. Refined and delicate, Anne’s pale complexion and fine blond hair had placed her on the cover of many local equestrian magazines. She was the cool balm he’d needed after the heat of the desert, when his overseas duty finally came to an end. Holly, while she had never graced the cover of a magazine, was known for her phenomenal times in barrel racing. She was all darkness, energy and heat.

Following his host, he passed the living room at the front of the house and caught a glimpse of a flat screen television. Ahead of him Skinny held the screen door, his bright eyes watchful.

“Thanks again, Skinny.” With his stomach full of whoopie pie and his head mercifully pain free, Mac shook the man’s hand and clumped down the steps.

“Anytime, Chief McAndrews, anytime.” Skinny stood on the porch, his fingers wrapped around his overall straps. In his rearview mirror, Mac saw him still watching as he drove slowly up the drive.

* * *

APPROACHING HER STORE from the alley, Holly paused as she neared the back door. A tiny corpse lay right in the middle of the threshold. Sonny’s teasing about gerbils echoed in her head. But peering closely, she discovered the victim was a mouse, courtesy of the brown cat she had glimpsed earlier, she guessed. Scooping the creature onto a scrap of cardboard she deposited the lifeless body in the Dumpster, then unlocked the back door of the coffee shop. She would have to return the favor.

She set a milk-filled bowl outside the back door just as the brown tabby appeared. He sniffed the bowl and walked away.

“Not a milk drinker, eh?” Holly shook her head. “Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

She walked through the gleaming kitchen and into the quiet storefront, where she unlocked the front door and flipped her sign to Open. Although she didn’t expect any business at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning. After a hectic opening day on Monday, and being reasonably busy the rest of the week, Holly figured most people would sleep late today. She expected Louise at nine. In the meantime she would get the coffee going, make some iced tea and uncover the pastries in the display case.

She scurried around, humming a tune from her high school days, and readied the shop for business. She glanced in the tip jar. Empty. Even Sonny’s two cents were gone.

“Goodness, I forgot to open the cash register.” She popped into the kitchen, where the green money bag protruded from her purse. Returning to the cash register, she punched in the code and the drawer opened. Withdrawing a wad of cash, she proceeded to fill the drawer.

The bell jingled over the door. “You should keep your door locked when you’re handling that much cash. No telling who might wander in.”

Holly jerked her head up to see Mac McAndrews’s tanned face and blue eyes. “You’re telling me.”

His answer was a faint smile. Instead of his uniform, Mac was dressed in faded jeans, a black T-shirt and sneakers. Keeping his mouth pressed in the familiar straight line, he stood in the open door, as if uncertain of her welcome.

“Come in.” Holly sorted the coins and thought about Sonny’s words the night he had helped her to close. They were just kids back then. “Would you like a cup of coffee? On the house.”

The bell jingled as the door eased shut. She glanced up quickly, unsure if he was inside the store or had decided her brand of welcome wasn’t worth the aggravation. Mac approached the counter and leaned one elbow on the surface. “Will you have one with me?”

Holly flipped down the money holders and slammed the drawer shut. Turning her back, she retrieved two mugs from the tray. “I suppose I have a minute for a cup of coffee.” Her heart beat a little faster, presumably at the thought of caffeine. Why else?

Rounding the end of the counter, she carried the cups to the low table with the four cushioned chairs. Perching on the edge of one, she tilted her head toward the door. “Cream and sugar on the condiment counter.”

Mac settled onto the opposite chair and reached for the cup. “Black is fine.” He leaned back in the chair, cup in hand, and surveyed the shop. “Besides, good coffee doesn’t need to be doctored.”

Holly smiled at the unexpected compliment. “Do you drink your gas station coffee black?” Eyes lowered, she took a sip of her rich, special blend coffee, her first of the morning.

Mac laughed loudly. “Lots of milk and sugar to disguise the taste.” Silence stretched between them.

Searching for a topic of conversation, Holly drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. “Would you believe I own a coffee shop and half the time I forget to drink a cup?” She scooted back and rested the cup on the arm of the chair.

Mac propped his ankle on his knee. “I’m not surprised. Wednesday I drove by and your line was so long I ended up getting coffee at the gas station. Again.”

Holly made a face. “So you said. I figured you aren’t particular when it comes to coffee.”

“I was in a hurry.” Mac patted his knee and threw her a look. “I can appreciate quality.”

Wondering if he was still talking about coffee, Holly shivered. “I’m afraid business might slow once people get over the novelty of having a coffee shop in town.” While he read her menu board she studied him. He looked less severe than he did in uniform, more like the boy she knew in high school. Even his close-cropped light brown hair showed hints of the blond streaks she remembered. Suddenly he turned his head and caught her watching him.

“I was thinking about our encounter the other day.”

Heat crept up Holly’s neck and onto her cheeks as she remembered her rudeness. “I apologize, I—”

“I’m the one who should apologize.” Cup clasped in both hands, Mac leaned forward. “I wasn’t very nice to you when we were kids.”

She sipped her coffee, let the hot liquid lie on her tongue before swallowing. Over the rim of her mug, her eyes met his. “Really? I don’t remember.”

Did he know she was lying? Of course she remembered. The incident in eighth grade was one of those memories that stays with you forever. It’s bad enough to think everybody is laughing at you. In Holly’s case, she had known they were. Thanks to Mac and his timely, loud and accurate insult.

Mac kept her gaze as if trying to read her. Balancing the coffee cup on his knee, he took a deep breath. “We moved here two weeks before school started, two weeks before I entered the tenth grade. Chris was one of my first new friends. But then Chris was friends with everybody.” Mac stared into his coffee cup. “The first time he invited me to your place was for a family Christmas party.”

Holly had a clear picture in her mind of fifteen-year-old Mac coming in the door with Chris. “That was the year Thomas and Sonny got into a fight and knocked over the Christmas tree.”

“Never a dull moment at your house,” Mac said, grinning. “We moved here because my mom wanted to be near her sister.”

“Who was your aunt?”

“I doubt you knew her. She worked for the federal government. Three months after we moved here she got a promotion in Maryland. She left and we were back to not knowing anyone in town.”

“Until you met Chris.”

A ghost of a smile lit his face, then quickly disappeared. “I spent a lot of time at your place. Mom started nursing school. She was hardly ever home.”

“I can’t believe you preferred the chaos at—”

“There’s no excuse for the way I treated you, the things I did.” Mac shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

His shoulders were set and he couldn’t meet her eyes. Apparently his apology hadn’t come easy. Although moving to a new school didn’t entirely explain why he’d singled her out for his verbal attacks. Maybe she would never know. But then, he had always been a mystery. “No worries, Mac. You were going through a hard time.”

He shrugged. “Being with your family helped.”

“I’m glad.”

“I remember you riding your bay horse all the time, running barrels in the field. What was his name?” Mac pulled a paperback from the shelf and studied the front cover.

“Twister.” She had avoided Mac through the end of eighth grade and all through ninth, but in tenth grade, things changed. She shot up five inches, thinned out. Part of the reason she’d begun competing in barrel racing was Mac’s constant presence at Chris’s side. Even then, she’d sometimes see Mac leaning on a fence post, watching. When she caught him watching her, he’d walk away. Riding Twister had built her confidence. The trampoline incident faded. “I haven’t ridden in years.”

“Too bad. You were so good.” He returned the book to the shelf.

Holly drummed her fingers, wondering how the old gelding was doing. “He was a good horse.”

“So what possessed you to open a coffee shop in Bear Meadows?”

She leaned forward. “Walking around European cities all those years, visiting cafés, I always thought, I can bring this home, this feeling of carefree abandon. I want this, but at home.” She looked around the shop. Her shop. The comfortable chairs, the used books, the menu on the back wall. Her gaze returned to Mac, who was watching her, his blue eyes alert. “Why did you come home?”

With a quick look at the clock, Mac stood and carried his empty cup to the counter. “I’ve got to run.”

Grabbing her own cup, Holly followed more slowly. She might have bought his answer if she hadn’t seen the brief flicker in his eyes. Fear? Embarrassment? She couldn’t tell. She studied his broad shoulders. Whatever emotion she’d seen, it reminded her that there were two sides to Mac McAndrews. One very sweet...and one very ugly.