people were buzzing about the glamorous, prodigal daughter come home. But he’d driven out to the farmhouse countless times. No one was there and no phone had been hooked up.
It wasn’t as if he assumed they had a big thing going. He didn’t. But she distinctly hadn’t called him. It’s not as if he were hoping for the earth and the sun. He just wanted to find out if she could possibly, conceivably, want to turn his nights inside out ever again in this century.
The wind whipped around his neck, slapped his cheeks red. That’s how his heart felt. Slapped. Obviously he hadn’t turned
He hiked on, his ears freezing because he forgot his hat-he always forgot his hat. He was headed for Karen Brown’s store, a place called Inner Connections. He’d never been inside the decorating place, never planned to, never wanted to. But he’d taken out a wall in John Cochran’s house, and they wanted a bay window, and Mrs. Cochran was housebound because of some recent surgery and she wanted some swatches.
Teague had no idea what a swatch was, but the interior decorating store-Karen Black, or whoever, did curtains and upholstery stuff-was supposed to have them. Lately he couldn’t seem to escape this kind of exasperating problem. All his clients weren’t as sweet and frail as Mrs. Cochran, but lots of women wanted decorating ideas to go with their carpentry and rehab projects.
Ask him, the whole thing was dumb. When you had a good-looking window, why cover the thing with a bunch of fabric?
He trudged past the barber shop, then Lamb’s Feed Store, then the cleaners. First place on the next block was the Marble Bridge Cafe. In the spring and summer, the cafe set Adirondack chairs outside so the locals could sip brew and fight about politics, Vermont-style. Teague wouldn’t mind popping in for a fast coffee-and to warm his hands-but he wanted to get this torturous swatch thing over with. Maybe after. Assuming he survived the decorating store. Assuming someone was there who could explain about the swatch thing. Assuming…
He stopped dead, then backed up three paces.
Something was odd. He wasn’t sure what snagged his attention, but walking down Main Street was invariably like listening to his own heartbeat. He knew how it was supposed to sound. He knew how it was supposed to look.
The Marble Bridge Cafe was one of those places that never failed to be predictable. By this time in the afternoon, George’d be sipping free coffee at the counter, his sheriff’s hat on the hook inside the door. The place would smell like something burned, because Harry Mackay-who’d owned the cafe for the past forty years-invariably started talking and forgot what he was cooking. People didn’t come for the food unless they were desperate, anyway. The cafe was primarily a breakfast and lunch place that Harry kept open through the afternoon because he had nothing better to do. In the early part of the day, it was a place to hang out, to fight about politics, to read the paper. It was tradition. And traditionally, by late January, Harry hadn’t taken down the Christmas lights; tired garlands were sagging from the windows; and the linoleum was muddy from people charging in with boots all day.
The garlands and lights were there.
The floor was the color of dirty snow.
The sheriff was sipping free coffee.
Teague couldn’t fathom what was different-and then realized there were people inside. By this time in the afternoon, the clientele had usually thinned out. Today at least half the booths and tables were occupied. Maybe Harry had a sale on burned food?
The thought struck his funny bone, but Teague would still have continued on if he hadn’t suddenly spotted a woman behind the counter. Not Janelle or the other part-time waitress who worked for Harry. Not anyone he’d ever seen in the cafe before. And he immediately pushed open the door.
Several called out greetings. He answered or nodded, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off the woman. Her back was to him, but he could still tell that she wasn’t a normal woman-at least not normal by Marble Bridge Cafe standards. Her height clocked in around five-seven and she had glossy dark hair, worn shoulder length, the kind of hair that swayed when she moved and sifted colors in the right light. She wasn’t wearing jeans and an L.L. Bean sweater, which was the winter indoor uniform in White Hills. Not that he’d know designer clothes if they bit him in the butt, but he guessed the silky blue shirt and slacks cost the moon and then some.
It wasn’t remotely a wild outfit, but for White Hills, the cut and fancy lines were always going to draw attention. More to the point, he’d have known that glossy dark hair, that elegant little rump, anywhere.
He was halfway to the counter when she suddenly turned around. The instant she spotted him, the instant their eyes met, she froze. She was carrying a plate of cookies, and someone was talking to her from the kitchen-an open transom window led to the back room-but for a moment she just stood there, looking back at him.
Teague knew hurt pride could affect a guy’s imagination, yet he swore he saw a willful rose tint her cheeks, a sweep of yearning shine in her eyes. She looked just plain happy to see him-but anxious, too. Still she stood there. Still she didn’t move, as if she’d sucked in a sudden deep breath and just couldn’t seem to let it out again.
By then both the sheriff and Harry glanced up. It’s not as if anyone had a choice about being a stranger in White Hills.
“Hey, Teague,” Harry greeted him. “Rare for you to stop in on an afternoon. You playing hooky?”
“Everybody deserves a vice,” he said.
“Hey, Teague.”
“Sheriff.” He had no reason to know George Webster well, but it was the same with everyone there. They knew of him, or well enough to extend a greeting.
By the time he’d shed his jacket and wasted those few seconds on hellos, Daisy had disappeared back into the kitchen-whether she had a good reason or just wanted to avoid him, he couldn’t guess.
Either way, sitting down gave him a few minutes to analyze the situation. The more he looked around, the more he had the feeling that the Marble Bridge Cafe had turned into an alternate universe. Instead of smelling like old grease and burned food, scents wafted in the air that could make a guy throw himself on the ground and grovel- like the scent of fresh, warm bread. Blueberry muffins. Pastries. Cookies. Delicate, delectable stuff.
Maybe Harry owned the cafe and was given credit for feeding people, but he wouldn’t know “delectable” if threatened with ptomaine.
But it was seeing Daisy-finding Daisy-that kept stunning Teague. She belonged in that cafe like a Monet belonged in a hardware store. Boots in Vermont meant, well, boots. But she’d paired the blouse and snug black slacks with high-heeled boots so calf-hide soft they weren’t meant to ever walk in harsh weather. Silver glinted from her ears and wrist. A tiny towel had been slung around her waist, apparently auditioning as an apron, but she still looked elegant from the ground up.
Daisy? The town’s infamous exotic flower and favorite wild girl, cooking in an aging cafe? Ms. Five-Hundred- Dollar-Boots Campbell, wearing an apron?
“Cold out there,” the sheriff said. It was George’s standard conversational opener. Since the town rarely needed law for much of anything, there was no reason George shouldn’t hang out here, gaining weight on pastries and shooting the breeze and casting moony eyes at Daisy.
More to the point, he was usually good for information, so Teague tried pumping him. “Well, it’s sure warm in here, with a crowd like this. I don’t get it-I’ve never seen this many people in the cafe since I came to live here. What’s going on?”
“Daisy’s French baking, that’s what’s going on. About a week ago, Harry let her wander into the kitchen, and ever since then she’s been coming out with stuff nobody ever heard of. And before it’s gone, you better be asking for the lavender sponge cake. Trust me, you’ll never taste anything like it again. I forget what all else she came up with today. You could try the lavender-custard ice cream.”
“Lavender ice cream,” Teague echoed.
“I know, I know. Sounds like pansy food. In fact, that’s what she says, that there’s lavender in it. I swear, though, it doesn’t taste like any sissy flower-”
Someone tapped on the sheriff’s shoulder, and when he got embroiled in that conversation, Harry hiked over from the cash register. “What can I get you, Teague?”
“I’ve barely got a minute, but I could sure use a fast coffee. And some…” He was going to ask for a piece of the lavender sponge cake, but he spotted the empty cake platter on the counter. “Just coffee,” he said.
Seconds later his hands were snugged around a mug of hair-curling coffee, but Daisy still hadn’t shown back
