Читать книгу How To Rescue A Family - Teri Wilson, Teri Wilson - Страница 11

Chapter Three

“We’re out of the pulled pork and hush puppies special,” Amanda poked her head into the dining room and announced.

“That was quick.” Belle glanced at her watch and sighed.

The Grille wasn’t scheduled to close for another two hours, and now they were down to one special—the pot roast. Slow-simmered in beef broth and smothered in onion gravy, it wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t nearly as good as the wine-based recipe Amanda had been experimenting with.

Last week she’d brought her newest creation along to Sunday dinner at her parents’ house and placed it on the table as if it were a foil-wrapped work of art, steeped in pinot noir and slender, woodsy porcini mushrooms. Her sister and brother-in-law had loved it, as had her brother, Josh. Even her nieces and nephews had given it glowing reviews. But she hadn’t been able to convince her parents that it should replace the pot roast recipe the Grille had been using for the past sixty-eight years. They’d gone on and on about tradition and down-home Southern cooking, as if she’d told them she wanted to start feeding the good people of Spring Forest foie gras. It was maddening.

Amanda was trying her best to be patient. Her mom, in particular, had been especially sensitive about changing anything at the Grille since Amanda’s grandmother passed away last year. The restaurant had become a sort of monument.

But it couldn’t stay the same forever, could it? If this was going to be Amanda’s life from here on out, she needed to be able to put her own stamp on it.

But tonight, for once, she hadn’t spent the better part of the dinner rush rewriting the Grille’s menu in her head. While she’d been busy taking tickets from Belle, calling out orders to the kitchen staff and plating one serving of pulled pork after another, her mind had been back at Furever Paws.

How was it possible that Birdie and Bunny didn’t have insurance? It didn’t make sense. Amanda was pretty sure their younger brother, Gator, took care of all the shelter’s business dealings. And Gator was a big shot investment banker or something like that. He lived in a fancy Antebellum-style mansion outside Durham, with huge white columns and a yard full of trees dripping with Spanish moss. The house was so grand it had been pictured in Southern Living a few years ago. With all of his business success, and the many investments he’d made over the years, surely he knew the importance of having property insurance.

Then again, it didn’t really matter why the shelter was uninsured. The most important thing now was finding the money elsewhere to fix the storm damage, and apparently it was going to cost twenty thousand dollars. Minimum.

She wiped her hands on a dish towel and headed to the dining room to correct the specials board with her head in a fog, trying to come up with a way to help that didn’t involve admitting to Birdie and Bunny she’d overheard their private conversation. But again, twenty thousand dollars was a lot of money. An enormous amount. If Amanda had that kind of cash just sitting around, she’d have already launched her dream catering add-on at the Grille. There was no way she could solve their problem on her own, and bringing in other people would mean sharing their secret.

At the moment, she had more pressing problems because no sooner had she climbed the step stool and swiped the eraser across the words pulled pork barbecue sandwich with hush puppies on the chalkboard hanging on the wall just to the right of the pie safe than someone behind her let out a sigh.

“Looks like I’m too late for the barbecue.”

Amanda turned to find Dr. Richard Jackson looking up at her with his arms crossed and a furrow in his brow.

“Sorry, Doc. We’re clean out.” Amanda stepped down until her feet were once again planted firmly on the Grille’s white-and-black-tiled floor. “You’re here a little later than usual, aren’t you?”

Dr. Jackson had become a regular at the Grille shortly after his wife passed away five years ago. Now he was almost like family and he usually showed up for dinner at six fifteen sharp, right after his veterinary practice closed up shop for the night.

He shrugged and did a little head tilt that made him look even more like Denzel Washington than he normally did. “I was out helping Birdie and Bunny with a sick llama.”

Amanda frowned. “Which one? Drama or Llama Bean?”

“Llama Bean.” He waved a hand. “Don’t worry—she’s going to be fine.”

“That was sweet of you.” Amanda lifted a brow.

Doc J was spending more and more time volunteering his services at Furever Paws, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he was interested in one of the Whitaker sisters. She just couldn’t figure out which one. Then again, maybe the additional volunteering was only because his schedule wasn’t quite as packed as usual since his daughter, Lauren, was set to take over his practice at the end of the year.

But something about the twinkle in his eyes told her he was thinking about more than just a sick llama. “It was nothing, really. Just a mild ear infection.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure Birdie and Bunny really appreciate all you do for them. I was out there earlier today too. We must have just missed each other.”

“I guess we did. Did you see the storm damage? Such a shame.” The older man’s smile dimmed somewhat, but he still looked as handsome as ever. At sixty-seven, he was just a few years older than both Birdie and Bunny, who were ages sixty-four and sixty-three. He’d be a perfect match for either sister.

Not that she should be meddling in the Whitaker sisters’ personal lives, even though Birdie had most definitely taken an interest in Amanda’s.

“The roof needs some major repairs. I’m toying with the idea of throwing them a fundraiser. I’m just trying to get everything figured out before I talk to Birdie and Bunny about it.” She bit her lip. “I wonder how profitable a bake sale could be.”

Twenty thousand dollars translated into a massive amount of brownies and cupcakes, but so far it was the only thing she’d come up with.

“I’m sure every little bit would help.” Doc J cast a longing glance at the plateful of pulled pork on Belle’s tray as she shuffled past them. “But you might raise more money if you held a barbecue instead.”

He laughed. So did Amanda, until the wheels in her head starting turning.

She knew a lot of pit masters in the area. What if she could get a few of them together, all on the same day? They could make a real event of it. Maybe Birdie and Bunny could set up an adoption booth with some of the dogs and cats from the shelter. And maybe Amanda could ask some of the other local businesses to set up booths. She could organize a whole festival, all centered around a barbecue cook-off.

“I know you’re just kidding, but that might actually work. You’re a genius, Doc.” She beamed at him. “Tonight’s dinner is on me. Okay?”

“I’m not turning down a free dinner. Bring me whatever you recommend.” He winked and slid into a booth facing Main Street.

“One pot roast special, coming right up.” She turned toward the kitchen, mind reeling.

The more she thought about it, the more a barbecue cook-off seemed like the perfect idea for a fundraiser. Now she just needed to make some calls to the pit masters she knew—a few food truck operators in Raleigh, plus some of the college barbecue hangouts in Wilmington. Once she had at least three on board, she’d present the idea to Birdie and Bunny.

“You look awfully happy all of a sudden.” Belle looked up from assembling a to-go order on the sleek stainless steel counter just inside the kitchen’s swinging door. “Has anything in particular put that giddy expression on your face?”

“Maybe.” Amanda bit back a smile. Best not to say anything until she was certain she could pull it off.

“Since you’re in such a chipper mood, can you take these out front while I grab a pitcher of sweet tea?” Belle offered her two white paper bags, all sealed up and ready to go.

Amanda took them. “The last of the pulled pork, I presume?”

“Yes, they go to the father and son waiting by the register. He’s already paid.” Belle focused intently on the pitcher in her hands, almost as if she were afraid of dropping it. Which was something Belle never, ever did.

Odd.

But Amanda didn’t have time to figure out what was going on with Belle. They were still in the middle of the dinner rush, plus she might have a fundraiser to plan. “When you get a chance, Doc J needs an order of the pot roast. On the house.”

“I’m on it, boss,” Belle said, again without meeting her gaze.

Amanda shook her head as she pushed her way through the swinging door, but as soon as she was on the other side, the reason for Belle’s strange behavior was clear.

Ryan Carter stood waiting at the counter, presumably for the bags in Amanda’s hands. But unlike all the previous times he’d been to the Grille, he wasn’t alone. A little boy around five or six years old stood beside him, clutching a bright red dinosaur toy with one hand and Ryan’s big palm with the other. There was a sadness in the child’s eyes that made Amanda’s heart feel like it was being squeezed in a vise, a sadness that also made her think twice about the reasons behind Ryan’s ever-present scowl.

She smiled at the boy, and his gaze dropped quickly to the ground. So she had no choice but to focus on his father, standing just a few feet away and looking like the world’s most handsome single dad, scowl notwithstanding. She wished she had something to stare at other than his strong jaw and rugged face. She wished it so hard that her hands grew sweaty and the to-go bags nearly fell to the ground.

“You again.” She set the paper bags on the counter and without thinking, wiped her damp palms on her frilly gingham apron. Definitely not the most attractive move she could have made, but he’d caught her off guard. She could hardly think straight. Belle is totally fired. “Welcome back.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he was trying his best to smile but had forgotten how. “Thank you. It’s good to see you. I’m glad you haven’t suffered any permanent injuries from our earlier run-in.”

He remembered her.

Finally.

Of course he remembers. He nearly mowed you down on the sidewalk. Don’t read too much into it. “Nope. I’m still all in one piece.”

“Good to know.”

Other than their awkward sidewalk collision, this was the closest Amanda had ever been to Ryan Carter. Since he hadn’t plowed into her this time, she was free to examine him without the distraction of an aching nose. He had the nicest eyes she’d ever seen—golden brown with a ring of deep amber in the center. Rich and pure, like Carolina honey drizzled on a biscuit.

She felt woozy all of a sudden, as if she’d been sipping the whiskey she kept on hand for her special bread pudding sauce.

“Well,” she said, and gestured to the bags.

That was his cue to leave. She much preferred crushing on the swoonworthy newspaperman from afar. Up close, he was far too intense. Far too dangerous, if the sudden pounding of her heart was any indication.

She wasn’t good at the whole flirting and dating thing. The one time she’d put herself out there and asked someone on a date, she’d been so nervous that she’d vomited on the boy’s feet immediately after she’d gotten the words out. It had been mortifying, obviously. Amanda still couldn’t bring herself to talk about it, even when Belle urged her to try to move past “the Sadie Hawkins incident.” It had become part of the town lore, and according to one of Amanda’s nieces, kids at Spring Forest High still talked about it.

No matter. Amanda had no intention of flirting with Ryan. The very idea of going on a date with the man terrified her, and she definitely didn’t have time for it, especially if she was going to put together a massive fundraiser on top of her already jam-packed schedule.

Just go away, she wanted to say. Go away and let me catch my breath.

She didn’t say it, of course. And he clearly wasn’t a mind reader because he didn’t budge. He just kept looking at her while her knees went weak.

Why is this so hard?

It wasn’t as if she’d never gone on a date before. She’d dated...a little. But she’d never had a serious relationship, mainly because she liked to keep men at arm’s length. As the only biracial woman in Spring Forest—other than her sister, obviously—dating could be complicated. She’d been called striking or told that her looks were unusual more times than she could count.

Oddly enough, her brother, Josh, didn’t seem to have that problem. Or maybe he simply didn’t let it get to him. All Amanda knew was that he dated all the time, which would have been a nightmare in and of itself. She wouldn’t be able to cope with Sadie Hawkins–type nerves on such a regular basis.

No. Way.

Maybe it would have been easier if she lived in a big city like Raleigh or Charlotte—somewhere more metropolitan. But her family had roots here. The Grille itself was a reminder that the Sylvesters had been in Spring Forest for generations. Amanda was happy in her hometown.

She just found it much simpler to go it alone.

Amanda gripped the edge of the counter and smiled at the little boy, who had the same striking eyes as his father. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

He tightened his grip on his triceratops until his little knuckles went white.

“This is Dillon,” Ryan said. “Barbecue is his favorite. I usually try to pick up our dinner on my way home, but thought he could use an outing, so here we are.”

Here they were indeed.

“Is that right? Is barbecue really your favorite?” She moved around the counter and crouched down so she was on eye level with Dillon.

Her effort earned her a nod and a tiny hint of a smile.

“Of course it is.” Ryan gave his son’s hand a squeeze, and there was a new tenderness in his tone that did nothing to help the weak-in-the-knees situation. “We never lie about barbecue, do we, bud?”

He’d mirrored his words from this afternoon.

I never lie about coffee.

Cute.

Way too cute. Adorable, actually.

“Hot dogs are the only thing I cook that he’s interested in eating. Even single fathers know kids can’t eat hot dogs seven nights a week.” Ryan’s smile turned sheepish.

Why did he seem even more attractive now that she knew he was a single dad? All he needed now was a puppy in his arms and she’d be a goner.

But the thought of puppies reminded her of Tucker, which in turn reminded her that she was supposed to be making calls to pit masters to help the shelter, not standing around mooning over her secret crush and his bashful mini-me.

She stood and nudged the paper bags closer to him. “I hope you enjoy it.”

He took the hint this time and reached for the food. “We will. Thank you...” His usual unreadable expression gave way to one of befuddlement—charming Hugh Grant–style befuddlement, because of course. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Amanda.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Belle refilling the coffeepot just a few feet away, looking pleased as punch. “Amanda Sylvester.”

He nodded. “Have a good evening, Amanda Sylvester.”

And then he was gone, only instead of walking down Main Street with his signature brisk pace and ramrod-straight spine, he matched his steps with Dillon’s and rested one of his big hands on the little boy’s shoulder.

Amanda’s heart gave a tiny squeeze.

She ignored it as best she could and swiveled to face Belle. “You did that on purpose. You knew I was distracted, so you caught me off guard and had me come out here to deliver his dinner.”

Belle grinned from ear to ear. “Of course I did, but look on the bright side. At least now you know he’s not married.”

Amanda almost wished she wasn’t privy to that fascinating bit of information. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not looking for a boyfriend, remember?”

Or, God forbid, a husband. While Amanda struggled in the small-town dating world, her sister married the first boy who’d ever asked her out. Alexis and Paul had gotten engaged right out of high school and look what had happened. She’d had six kids in eight years and no longer had time to brush her teeth, much less run a business.

No, thank you.

Amanda loved her nieces and nephews, but every time she babysat for them, the night ended in some kind of disaster. Under her watch, Alexis and Paul’s living room walls had been “decorated” in permanent marker and their toilet had been plugged up with stuffed animals. How was it easier to walk six dogs than it was to supervise the same number of rambunctious children?

“His son is awfully cute, though. Don’t you think?” Belle arched an eyebrow.

Yes, she definitely thought so. He had such a quiet way about him. So serious, just like his dad. Something about the way he’d held on so tightly to his red dinosaur made her want to cook up some comfort food for him. Macaroni and cheese, topped with a thick layer of toasted bread crumbs, maybe—followed by a creamy coconut pie. Her nieces and nephews loved her coconut pie.

She glanced at Belle who was watching her as if she knew exactly what Amanda was thinking.

“Stop looking at me like that.” She rolled her eyes, but Belle’s grin widened, so she added, “You’re fired again, by the way.”

Belle winked. “I think the words you’re looking for are thank you.”

* * *

“Look at that.” Ryan pointed his fork at the empty plate sitting in front of Dillon. “You ate every bite.”

His son nodded and smiled a crooked smile that hit Ryan dead in the center of his chest.

He hadn’t been flirting when he’d told Amanda Sylvester that barbecue was Dillon’s favorite food. It was the truth. He’d simply been carrying on a normal conversation. It didn’t have to mean anything, and it definitely didn’t have to mean that he found her attractive or that the gentle way she’d spoken to Dillon had made him feel oddly emotional for some reason.

Except he did find her attractive, and the soothing tone of her voice as she’d talked to his son had done something to him—something strange and calming. For a split second, his worries had slipped away and he’d felt like maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay. Which meant flirting with her hadn’t been meaningless, although he didn’t want to think about that right now. He wanted to enjoy the unexpected lightness he’d felt as he’d left the Main Street Grille. Hell, he would have bottled that feeling if he could.

“Want some of mine?” Ryan slid his plate toward Dillon.

The boy shook his head. His face and hands were sticky with barbecue sauce, as was the red dinosaur toy, which was now standing on the table, poised to strike at Dillon’s half-full glass of milk.

Ryan’s in-laws would have been horrified. Annabelle and Finch Brewster would never have allowed Dillon to bring a toy to the table, and the head shake would have been deemed wholly unacceptable.

Say “no, thank you.” Where are your manners, Dillon?

Ryan could practically hear the voice of Maggie’s mother in his head. No matter how many times he’d told Annabelle and Finch about what the child psychologist had recommended about not trying to force Dillon to speak, they continued to press him about please and thank you, yes sir and no ma’am.

It irritated Ryan to no end. He was doing everything he could to protect his son’s fragile emotional state, and whenever they were around, they sabotaged him at every turn. Sometimes he felt like it was intentional, like they were trying to prevent him from fully bonding with Dillon.

Surely that wasn’t true. Annabelle and Finch were Dillon’s grandparents, and in their own dysfunctional way, they loved him. Ryan did his best to chalk their misplaced interference up to grief. Maggie had been their only child.

But they were also lifelong members of the country club set, so their world revolved around appearances and social niceties. They’d liked Ryan better when he was a political editor at one of the most esteemed newspapers in the country instead of a journalistic one-man show in the Deep South. And sadly, they’d liked their grandson better back then too. They acted as if his refusal to talk was a form of rebellion. Couldn’t they see he was grieving?

“How about a movie before you wash up and get ready for bed? Lion King?” It was one of the few things Dillon liked better than barbecue. He knew every line and every song of the movie by heart, and sometimes Ryan liked to put it on just so he could watch his son’s lips move, mouthing the words—times like tonight, when happiness seemed almost close enough to touch.

Ryan didn’t want to think about Amanda’s part in making him feel that way. He just wanted to enjoy the faint stirring of hope before it slipped away. But as Dillon climbed down from his chair and carried his dinosaur to the den, Ryan’s new phone rang, punctuating the hopeful silence with a grating reminder that nothing had changed. Not yet anyway. A newsman couldn’t ignore a call. The Spring Forest Chronicle was a far cry from the Post, but Ryan was the editor-in-chief. He had a responsibility to his job, just like he had back in DC.

He glanced down at his cell, where Annabelle and Finch’s contact information lit up the small screen. Of course.

His thumb hovered over the green Accept button, but he couldn’t bring himself to answer the call. The conversation would be the same as it always was—awkward small talk, followed by a request to talk to Dillon. Once again, Ryan would have to admit that his son still wasn’t speaking.

No.

Just...

No.

Not tonight. He’d deal with Maggie’s parents later. For now, he’d watch a movie with his son, and if his thoughts wandered every so often to Amanda Sylvester, her bright smile and the subtle sprinkle of freckles across her rich complexion, then so be it.

Why fight it?

There was no harm in thinking about her when nothing whatsoever would come of it. Other than brief interactions at the Grille, he had no intention of seeing her again. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. There was no room in his life whatsoever for a relationship—not even with a woman who made him want things he hadn’t even thought about in months...maybe even years. Things he wouldn’t, couldn’t have.

At least that’s what Ryan told himself as he followed Dillon into the other room and let the call roll to voice mail.