Last Chance At The Someday Café

CHAPTER FOUR

MORGAN’S CURSES FILLED the air. Where the hell had the guy gone? As he’d talked to Tara, he’d watched the vendor behind her react. Something—recognition or realization—had dawned on the man’s face. Looking up the side street now, Morgan didn’t see a trace of him.

Half a dozen people came and went around him. A couple women stood on the corner, chatting in the sunlight. A boy played in the dirt with one of those yellow toy trucks Morgan had wished for as a kid.

But no shaggy-haired T-shirt vendor in sight. Morgan walked for a couple blocks, looking down alleys and casually glancing into whatever window he could without turning into a Peeping Tom. Nothing. Nowhere. It was as if the guy had vanished into thin air.

Finally, resigned, Morgan headed to the street fair. If nothing else, the guy had to come back and get his merchandise. But when Morgan returned to the booth, an older, worn-out-looking woman was there. He tried to question her, but she was too busy to talk.

“You wanna buy a shirt? I got customers.” She held up one of the rumpled garments. To any other questions, she just shook her head, focusing on the seemingly endless line of customers.

“Then tell me where the man went. Your partner?”

“I don’t keep track of no one but me.” She turned to a couple women on the other side of the booth. With a sigh, Morgan settled under the oak to wait, though he wasn’t really sure what he was waiting for.

Sitting there in the mottled sunlight, with nothing to do but think, Morgan wondered why he was even here. Was he just wasting his time? No. This was the best lead he had, and he couldn’t walk away. The idea of leaving wasn’t even an option. He had to find Sylvie and Brooke.

He had no choice.

As he watched people moving around the spacious park and shopping at the varied booths, it was with a calculated eye. He was studying. Looking—but not hoping. He never let himself go there.

He’d given up on hope a long time ago. Losing it was too painful. But where else could he look? Who else should he talk to? He thought about calling Jack, but he was tired of calling his brother with no news. Tired of failing.

Tara Hawkins must have gone to the diner. Despite himself, he looked around for her. Damn it. He didn’t see her anywhere. Maybe she’d know more. Should he go back there?

Turning toward the T-shirt stand, he forced himself to focus. This was his mission—Brooke was his responsibility.

Throughout the rest of the day, the woman at the booth did a brisk business. Nothing unusual. Just busy. She cast Morgan several furtive glances, which made him more determined to stay put. The man didn’t return.

Finally, as the sun set low, the woman pulled boxes from under the table and packed the remaining stock. No one came to help, and she glared at Morgan.

If he didn’t want to have an up-close-and-personal meeting with the sheriff, he knew he had to be careful about how he approached her.

When she taped the last box closed, Morgan moved closer for one last try. He didn’t say anything at first, simply stood, watching, trying not to intimidate her too much. She, on the other hand, had no hesitancy in glaring at him.

Slowly, deliberately, Morgan pulled out his wallet. Not to get money, but to slip out the familiar, worn picture. He hesitated. Was this a good idea? He had no clue, but he didn’t know what else to do. Praying he was making the right choice, Morgan put the picture on top of the last box. “She’s mine,” he whispered around the lump in his throat. “She’s a year older than that picture.”

The woman paused and looked at Brooke’s grin. Recognition flashed in her eyes an instant before she shut the reaction down.

“Yeah?” She hefted a box onto a metal dolly. “Cute kid.”

“She is. I haven’t seen her in a year.”

The silence hung thick in the twilight. “Whatcha want me to do ’bout it?” The woman moved another box, more slowly this time.

“Have you seen her?”

“Maybe.” Another box moved. It barely fit on the dolly, but she put it there anyway. It’d be awkward as heck to move, but he doubted that would stop her. And it didn’t.

“Can I help you with that?” He reached for the handle and the woman lifted an elbow to push him away.

“I got it. Thanks.” She stepped behind the dolly, shoving her foot against the bottom rail and tilting it. She grunted briefly as the big box fell onto the rail and her shoulder.

“Do you know her?” Morgan asked.

The woman met his gaze, and the sadness in her eyes surprised him. “Don’t know her. I seen her, I think, but lots of people come through here.” She tilted her head toward the now-empty booth.

“If you see her again, would you let me know?” He tried to tamp down the emotion flaring annoyingly to life in his chest. He pulled a business card out of his wallet and put it on top of the boxes as he retrieved the precious photo.

“Maybe.” She took a couple of steps, struggling with the weight.

Midway through the gate to a dirt parking lot, she stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. She reached out awkwardly over the carefully balanced boxes and picked up the business card. She stared at it in the fading light. Morgan half expected her to toss it to the wind.

Instead, she slipped it into her back pocket, and he finally remembered to breathe. He stood there, watching her load her car, then climb in. Before she turned the corner, he snapped a quick photo of the license plate and car with his phone.

She hadn’t done anything wrong—that he knew of—but the information might be useful. If not now, maybe later. Who knew what a private detective could do with something like that? If television was to be believed, a lot.

Slowly, Morgan walked toward his truck. The streets were empty now, a few vendors still packing up, but no customers left.

Streetlights had come on and squares of gold fell out of the glass windows of houses he passed. He saw families sitting down to dinner. Couples in homey kitchens putting meals together. Something shifted in his chest. Envy. Longing.

If he walked these streets, glancing in windows, would he find Sylvie? Not likely. Sylvie had tried to cook a few times, and she’d been getting better, but she’d never liked it. There wouldn’t be any homey warm scene to watch. Or any chance to find them that way.

Loneliness settled in close, and he shivered to push it away. He didn’t have time to feel. He had too much to do. He headed toward the diner, telling himself it was only because that’s where his truck was parked.

It had nothing to do with the fact that Tara would be serving up warmth.

And maybe a little bit of belonging.

* * *

DESPITE THE HEAVY RAIN, the Saturday morning rush was in full swing. Tara stood on tiptoe to peer out the round window in the doors that separated the kitchen from the dining room. Nearly all the tables were full and her staff hustled back and forth.

She couldn’t help smiling. Just then, a customer gave Wendy one of the coupon flyers. Yes. Her work was paying off. She glanced around, hoping to see more.

Her gaze found the French doors to the patio where raindrops hit, then slid down the panes. The street fair would be hurt by the rain, but some of today’s crowd was likely due to the weather.

She wasn’t about to complain.

Then she glanced at the long counter and froze. Morgan sat at the far end. A newspaper was spread out in front of him as he absently sipped from a mug and read.

She should be surprised he was here after his abrupt departure from the park the other day. But she wasn’t. Not really. Briefly, she wondered what had happened at the fair. Not that he owed her an explanation, but she couldn’t help being curious about where the two men had gone.

For a brief instant, she watched him. Any moment, one of the waitstaff would come through the doors, but until then, she didn’t move. He really was something.

Most of the men in her life were like her brothers. Tall, rangy cowboys. Muscular, yes, but not like this. Their physique came from working with the cattle and riding horses; Morgan’s seemed more deliberate. More defined. Purposeful.

He had to work out. Suddenly, an image of him, sweat glistening on the hard curves of his bare chest, his arms straining as he lifted a bar with black weights on each end, leaped to mind. If her arms hadn’t been full of fresh linens, she’d have reached up to fan herself.

Forcing herself to stop this nonsense and get back to work, she stepped out of the kitchen, hugging the linens tight. She took her time putting them away in the antique wooden cabinet nestled in the corner.

She did not have time for this. Hadn’t she learned her lesson? Men—good-looking men—were a distraction she couldn’t afford right now.

Once the linens were settled, she headed to the cash register and pulled out the day’s receipts to prep the deposit. Robbie was here handling the kitchen, so she had a couple hours to get paperwork done.

“Mornin’, Morgan. Can I get you a warm-up?” Wendy’s voice, friendly, inviting and warm, came across the dining room, and Tara looked up again. A twinge of jealousy surprised her. The waitress stood across the counter from the burly truck driver, holding the carafe.

He didn’t respond at first and Tara paused, just as Wendy did, waiting.

“You okay?” Wendy touched his arm, giving him a tiny shake. “Morgan?”

He shook his head. “Guess I’m tired.” He rubbed his eyes. “I need to get some shut-eye.” Then he smiled. His eyes sparkled and a tiny dimple grew in his left cheek. Tara stared, frozen by the sight of him. What would it feel like to have that smile aimed at her?

Wendy repeated her offer.

“No, thanks.” Morgan set down the cup. “I’ve gotta run. Good breakfast. Thanks.” He nodded, tossing the folded newspaper onto the counter for someone else to read. A ball cap sat at his elbow. He settled it over his close-cropped hair, the wide brim hiding his eyes from Tara’s view and shadowing the rest of his face.

Before turning to leave, he flipped a couple bills on the counter, then stood and shoved his wallet into the back pocket of a worn pair of jeans. Her gaze followed.

Tara watched every move. Moments ticked by until she realized she was staring openly at his backside. Shaking her head, she forced herself to look away. Focus on something—anything—else.

“See you tomorrow?” the waitress asked hopefully, her gaze darting meaningfully to Tara.

Tara tore her gaze away from them, forcing herself to focus on the deposits. And to try to control her breathing. It should be against the law for a man to wear a T-shirt that fit so well. Wasn’t there some kind of ordinance?

“Maybe. Depends on my load.” His voice dipped low. How the hell did he make it reach deep inside her?

He looked up then, his gaze reaching out beyond the shadowed hat brim and finding hers. Tara stared back, knowing she should look away, but unable to do so.

Her breath caught, and she tried to release it.

Then he was gone, the glass door closing quietly in his wake.

“Wonder why he’s in such a toot?” Wendy asked, sidling up to Tara, as if she knew more than she was saying.

Tara shrugged, forcing her face not to show her own curiosity. Wendy didn’t need any more encouragement.

“He doesn’t owe us any explanations.” Tara cringed at the breathy sound of her own voice.

“Maybe not you.” Wendy grinned. “I need to know.”

“Why is that, exactly?”

“I’m determined to fix him up with you. It won’t work if he’s not here.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Tara turned away, her hands full of receipts, her cheeks warm for a reason she refused to identify. “Don’t start that. We’ve been over this. I’m not interested.” She headed into the kitchen.

Wendy followed her. “Your words say that, but I saw the way you looked at him.”

“You’re imagining things.” Tara shoved open the office door with her hip, hoping Morgan hadn’t seen her gawking at him. Which she hadn’t been doing. Not really. It was her job, after all, to keep an eye on things. “We’ve got work to do.” She set the papers on the desk, ignoring the raised eyebrow from her waitress.

Thankfully, Wendy took the hint—this time—and went back to work.

It was easy to decide to focus on work, but while her hands separated the receipts into neat little stacks, Tara’s mind wasn’t as easily distracted. Where was he going? What was he doing here? She’d noticed on her walk back from the street fair that his truck didn’t have a logo that told her where he was based. That wasn’t unusual. Lots of the truckers who came in were independents. But none of them came in more than a day at a time.

Truckers didn’t stay in one place for long, always on the way to or from someplace else. He’d been here the last couple days and spent time at the street fair. Why was he sticking around?

“You’re thinking about him,” Wendy said softly from the doorway.

Besides being startled, Tara was irritated with her employee. “Cut it out. And stop pushing me at him. I’m. Not. Interested.”

Not sure who she was trying to convince more, she booted up the computer and stared at the spreadsheet. That would surely keep her busy for the next hour or more. She had to do something.

The loud crash in the alley sent both of them rushing to the back door.

“Ricky’s back,” Wendy said unnecessarily. The staff had christened the pesky raccoon, and the name had stuck.

“In the middle of the day?” She and Wendy stepped into the alley. Raccoons were nocturnal animals. “Not likely.”

“Then what?”

“Meoooooww!” A big gray tomcat, its fur matted, dirty and soaking wet, sat on the top of the brand-new, tipped-over trash can, pawing on the—thankfully—still-latched lid.

This was not happening again. What was with all these animals?

Tara rubbed her forehead. At this rate, she was never going to get the bills paid.

* * *

MORGAN LEFT THE diner before he ended up staying there all day. He couldn’t. It would be a mistake.

He walked slowly through the rain, across the worn flagstones of Tara’s patio. Even though he knew the stones had been there since well before Tara had bought this place, he thought of them as hers.

Today they were washed clean by the raindrops, but a year ago? An article in this morning’s paper had commemorated the wildfire that had raged through this valley last year.

He remembered hearing about the damage and the efforts that had gone into helping the people who’d lost so much. Some of his crew had trucked in loads of relief supplies. He’d been too distracted with his own loss to be any good to anyone.

Had these stones been blackened with smoke and ash? Had they escaped damage simply because they were stone that couldn’t burn?

Looking up at the rooflines of the buildings along the street, he realized they were old, as well, so perhaps the fire hadn’t touched this area.

A year. So much had changed in that year. The fire. Tara buying this place. Sylvie stealing Brooke away. The knot in his chest that never seemed to go away grew just a little bit tighter.

Time had dulled the pain, but nothing would erase it, not until he found Brooke.

Brooke.

She’d had another birthday since he’d last seen her. Surely last year’s gift, the purple dragon, was worn out by now. He’d bought her another gift, which was nestled in the lower cabinet in his truck. He carried it everywhere, just in case he found her.

So close. He was so close. He could feel it. The jerk at the street fair yesterday had led Morgan on a merry chase through town. Twice he’d thought the guy was going to stop and lead him to Sylvie or Brooke. Instead, it had been nothing more than a wild-goose chase.

Cold rain slipped down the back of his collar, reminding him that he didn’t have time to slide down this rabbit hole. Morgan glanced at his watch. He had a phone conference with Jack in an hour. He might be on the road, but he needed to do what he could to help the business, if nothing else to make sure he still had a livelihood to return to once he found Brooke. He needed to get to the truck, get online and work.

As he hustled across the parking lot, Morgan thought about his brother doing the majority of the office work. Morgan tried to step up and do his own work when he could, but his mind was elsewhere.

In this weather, there wouldn’t be many people out anyway. Even Sylvie was smart enough to get in out of the rain. He glanced down the street toward the park. At least, he hoped so. The idea of Brooke out in this made him shiver.

Maybe the woman from the T-shirt booth would call him today. He’d gladly stop by the booth again, but what good would that do? Frustration made him edgy. He kept walking to burn off energy.

He could go back and talk to Tara. Maybe she had more info about Sylvie from her application? An address maybe? But then she’d wonder why he needed it. Friends kept in contact.

He wasn’t going to explain to anyone here about Sylvie. He couldn’t risk it. He’d trusted before and been betrayed when they’d tipped Sylvie off. She’d run, and he’d had to start his search all over. He wasn’t sure he could go through that again.

He certainly couldn’t afford to.

Inside the cab, Morgan booted up his laptop and used the diner’s Wi-Fi to get online. He had nearly a hundred emails to get through; instead, he did a quick search that resulted in nothing. Who was that guy at the T-shirt stand? There was something there. He just didn’t know what it was.

Rubbing his eyes in tired frustration, Morgan sat back on the bunk, pulling the laptop with him.

The article about last year’s fire still stuck in his mind. Curious, he did another search. The Someday Café had a fairly good internet presence. The pretty owner, Tara, had paid decent money for the website. Hmm...they had takeout. He’d have to remember that.

Might be safer than sitting at that counter watching her move around...

There were promo photos of the diner, one of her in full chef regalia. She smiled at the camera, stirring a big pot in an obviously posed photo. A pretty picture.

Who was she? Really?

She hadn’t grown up in Haskins Corners, but a good chunk of the inhabitants knew her. He stumbled across an article from a small, regional culinary magazine. It referred to the fire and talked about how the volunteers had created meals for the fire crews in a school kitchen.

There, in the middle of the group, laughing in pure abandon was Tara Hawkins. She wasn’t dressed to cook, but in shorts and a tank top that left her arms and legs bare. Tanned and bare.

He liked the way she looked in this picture. At the diner, she’d looked pretty but stressed. In this picture, her hair hung loose and wavy past her shoulders. Not pulled tight against her scalp.

Reading on, he found her connection to this community. Her brother owned a ranch nearby. Had it been damaged in the fire? That wasn’t the focus of the article, so Morgan didn’t learn any more. If nothing else, it made him more curious about her.