I wasn’t certain what he saw that made him ask the question, since I was usually better at hiding my emotions. The concern in his amber eyes had me blurting out what was weighing on my mind. “I like walking around barefoot.”
“Okay,” he said slowly, a question in his tone.
“Do you walk around your house barefoot?”
Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on bent knees. “All the time. Why?”
I tucked a zucchini into the basket. The plant’s leaves had grown to the size of dinner plates, and I couldn’t pick fast enough for what the plants produced now that they were healthy and happy. “I know somebody who doesn’t. Who, because of the way she was raised, feels it’s improper to go around in bare feet. Even in her own home.” I looked at my toes, but all I could see was Seelie’s blush-colored nail polish.
“Seems old-fashioned and a little sad in a way, but it’s not a big deal. Why is it bothering you?”
It was bothering me. A lot. I tried to push it out of my mind, but it kept finding its way back.
I didn’t want to think about how the way a person had been raised could influence them throughout their whole life to the point where they were seventy years old and still wearing shoes in the house because they didn’t want to break protocol.
Because if I dug deep to see the bigger picture, then I might have to consider that a person who had been nurtured under those kinds of strict rules and archaic wisdoms wouldn’t consider getting to know someone they deemed beneath them. Someone like the daughter of a free-spirited café owner, even if that young woman was dating their son. It simply wouldn’t cross their minds to care. Oh, they’d be polite. Civil. All surface and no depth. Because that’s just who they were. How they were raised. Undoubtedly, they believed their son would tire of the girl he was dating and move on to someone more suitable. Someone from an upper-class background.
Who probably never walked around barefoot.
Shaking my head, I said, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m just … I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. I have a lot on my mind and haven’t had near enough coffee this morning.” I stood up, slipped my flip-flops back on, and held out my hand to him. “Let’s fix that, shall we?”
Looking at my hand, he hesitated only a second before putting his palm on mine, and then he wrapped his fingers around my wrist. He rose in one fluid motion, but once on his feet he didn’t let go of me. “If you ever want to talk about it, Anna Kate…”
“Thanks, Gideon.” I pulled my hand free and started up the steps. “Are you hungry?”
“Coffee’s just fine.” He surged ahead to open the back door for me. I washed up, and we fell into our usual routine.
“What’s today’s special?” he asked.
Last week, I’d taken over creating the day’s specials. I enjoyed coming up with the recipes. So much so that I wished I could spend all my time in the kitchen, but three cooks in here was a bit much. “Sausage and ramps mini-frittatas.”
“Ramps? How very southern of you.”
“Not true. I simply discovered some growing at the back of Zee’s garden and thought I’d try them. They’re good. I’m going to start incorporating them more often in my cooking. When, you know, they’re in season.” I wrinkled my nose. “I wonder if they grow in Massachusetts.”
“Next thing you know, you’ll be cooking up collard greens and grits.”
“I already cook those—my mom taught me when I was little. You can take the woman out of Wicklow, but not Wicklow out of the woman.”
Which was especially true for the women in our family.
“It’s what I’ve been telling you,” he said. “Wicklow has a way of holding on.”
I clutched the handle of the coffee pot. “Yeah, but it always sounds like a warning when you say it, even when you’re joking.”
He smiled over the rim of his mug. “Does it?”
“Are you saying it isn’t?”
“That depends.”
“On what?” I set the pot back on its warmer.
“On whether you want to be held.”
Out the side window, I saw that some of the birders were already awake and milling about. Zachariah Boyd, Sir Bird Nerd, was walking around the yard with a trash bag picking up litter. I was starting to wonder if Wicklow had gotten a hold on him, too.
“Do you, by the way?” Gideon asked.
I looked over my shoulder. “Do I what?”
“Want to be held?”
I turned to face him fully, wondering if the flirtation I picked up on was real or if I was imagining it. He looked perfectly relaxed, his hips resting against the counter, his ankles crossed, his hands holding his mug to his lips. It was his eyes that gave him away. There was heat in them, making that amber look like molten lava.
My stomach tightened with a need for something I’d never wanted before. Instantly I told myself to knock it off, because there was no arm’s length in those thoughts.
He quietly added, “Held by Wicklow?”
“By Wicklow,” I repeated, struggling against the disappointment of it all. I busied myself filling ceramic containers with sugar packets. “It doesn’t matter much what Wicklow wants. I’m leaving at the end of July.”
He set his mug on the counter and started helping with the sugar. “Then a warning it is.”
“Noted.” I took a sip of coffee. “I wanted to apologize for the other night. It was … dramatic.”
After the horrifying scene with Seelie, we’d quickly packed up and left the amphitheater. Gideon and I had walked back to the café in silence. Our goodbyes had been awkward. And later, I realized I hadn’t even had a chance to unpack the blackberry sweet tea before all hell had broken loose. If it had been a date, then it would have fallen under the “disastrous” category.
We reached for the sugar packets at the same time, our fingers tangling. Our gazes met, then we pulled our hands away.
“What’s family,” he asked, “without a little drama?”
Family. “You make a good point.”
His gaze went up to the soffit again. “Speaking of family, I’m surprised Zee never mentioned me to you.”
“She didn’t really talk about anyone from Wicklow when she visited. Is there a reason she should have? Mentioned you to me, I mean? Besides your friendship?” Because to my ears, it sounded like there might be something more.
“I thought she would. Considering.”
“Considering what?”
He was stopped from answering by a knock on the front door.
“You do have your fair share of early morning visitors, don’t you?” he asked, laughing. “I’m starting to think I had it all wrong, and it’s you who has the hold on Wicklow.”
Smiling, I turned, expecting to see Mr. Lazenby at the door. It wasn’t. It was Pebbles.
“I’m going to head out,” Gideon said, walking toward the back door.
“You don’t want to stay and talk? I’m sure I’ll only be a moment with Pebbles.”
“I’m sure. There’s a bike ride calling my name.”
“All right, then.”
He went out the back while I opened the front door. Pebbles had a smile on her face. “That Gideon’s a cute one, isn’t he?”
“Is he?” I asked as innocently as I could manage. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Pebbles chuckled, clearly seeing right through me. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here so early.”
“I suppose I am. Is everything okay?”
She looked left, then right. “I have a favor to ask.”
I stepped aside. “Come on in.”
* * *
Later that morning, I stopped by Mr. Lazenby’s chair at the far end of the community table to refill his coffee mug. He had Faylene next to him and Pebbles across, as usual.
He coughed into a handkerchief. He’d been coughing all morning. I said, “I can whip you up something for that cough, Mr. Lazenby. Help clear out those lungs. A little licorice root
tea will do you a world of good.”
“I don’t be needing none of that,” he stated as he tucked away his handkerchief. “I’m fine, just a tickle from the grass pollen. I mowed my lawn last evening.”
I eyed his uneaten, yet thoroughly dissected, piece of pie. It had been gutted, its berries mashed, the crust scattered like buckshot. He’d cleaned his plate of scrambled eggs and sweet potato hash, so I knew he wasn’t feeling too terribly. “Something wrong with the pie, then?”
He looked up at me, his rheumy eyes swimming with dismay. “Yes, ma’am. The blackbird pie has blueberries in it.”
“It’s a mixed berry pie. Blueberry, raspberry, and blackberry. It’s a new recipe I started making last week, since the blueberries are ripening.”
“Well, I wish you wouldn’t go changing what isn’t broken. I hate blueberries, and I hear tell from Jena that all the other—normal—pies are long sold out.”
“You aren’t goin’ to up and die, Otis, from not being able to eat a piece of pie,” Faylene said, then glanced my way. “Don’t be minding him, honey. You go on and keep that pie on the menu. Everyone else thinks the pie is delicious. Ain’t that so?” She stood up and asked again, much more loudly to the whole room, “Ain’t the mixed berry pie delicious?”
A concerto of agreement rose to the rafters, and I smiled. Faylene was anything but subtle.
She sat back down, set her napkin on her lap, and picked up her mug. “Told you so.”
Mr. Lazenby wore a black-and-white polka-dot tie today with his short-sleeved white dress shirt. “What’re you going on about, Faylene? You haven’t even had a piece of that pie. You don’t know how delicious it is or ain’t.”
Pebbles said, “Well, I ate it, and it’s mighty good pie, Anna Kate. One of the best pieces of pie I ever did have.”
Mr. Lazenby scowled at her.
“Don’t be looking at me like that, Otis Lazenby. A little change never hurt anyone.” Pebbles sipped from her mug, her pinky in the air.
“It’s hurting me right now, isn’t it?” he snapped back.
She set down her mug and glared. “Don’t you go takin’ your bad mood out on Anna Kate. She’s been doing nothing but running herself ragged all morning taking care of everyone, not even having one day off since she opened the café. Where’s your grace? If you wanted a particular piece of pie, you should have gotten here right at eight, like always, not two hours late, expecting there to even be pie left.”
Her head bobbled as she gave him what for, and her beehive hairdo wobbled back and forth. For a second there, I was afraid it was going to topple over, but whatever hairspray she used worked miracles.
Pebbles knew firsthand that Mr. Lazenby wasn’t here right as the doors opened, because she had been. And she’d been sitting in that exact chair, nursing a cup of coffee and keeping a worried eye on the door, until he came inside and sat down.
She also knew there wouldn’t be any pie left but the mixed berry, because she’d bought every last one of the others and delivered them to the birders camped outside—as a gesture of hospitality, she’d said, feeding me a line of how appreciative she was of the birders for bringing her extra income just as her property taxes were coming due.
I slid her a look, and she blinked innocently at me.
I realized now that her act of kindness had nothing to do with hospitality and everything to do with keeping Mr. Lazenby from his pie. She had to have known he didn’t like blueberries and that was why the mixed berry pies were the only ones she didn’t buy.
I gave her a pointed look, and she simply smiled at me and sipped her coffee, the sneaky woman.
“Two hours late?” Faylene repeated. “That isn’t like you, Otis. Did you sleep in? Did you have an appointment? Did you forget where you put your wallet? Did you lose your way here and end up on the other side of town?”
“That last one only happened once,” he said, “and I wish you’d stop reminding me of it. As you know, I had started a new allergy medication that made me lose my bearings.”
I turned and filled the mugs on the table behind me, while still listening to the conversation. It had been strange not to see Mr. Lazenby at the door first thing that morning, but I’d been so busy I hadn’t had a chance to really think about why.
“And that’s not what happened today?” she asked.
He sent her a withering look that fell flat. “No,” he grumbled, dragging the word out as he shoved plump berries around the plate.
I swapped out my nearly empty pot of coffee for a fresh one and cleared a newly emptied table, a two-top. I wiped it down and reset it fast as I could, so I could keep an ear on the conversation.
“Now you’ve gone and piqued my curiosity,” Pebbles said. “Why were you late this morning?”
He set down his fork and sighed. “Not that it’s anyone’s business but mine, but Rosemarie told me I should come in at nine today.”
Pebbles leaned back and sighed. I might have been the only one to see her roll her eyes, because Faylene was already patting Mr. Lazenby’s arm while saying, “Well, bless your heart.”
“Rosemarie?” I asked, shamelessly inviting myself into the conversation as I cleared the plates from the spot next to Faylene.
“My wife,” he said wistfully.
His dead wife. “Her message to you from yesterday’s pie was to come here two hours later than usual?”
“That’s right,” he said, his shoulders stiffening. “What about it?”
“I just … I thought the messages being sent would be more…” I searched for the right word.
“Affectionate?” Faylene offered.
“Well, yes. I always thought they were love notes.” I gestured to the soffit. “Under midnight skies, Blackbirds sing, Loving notes…”
“What is love?” Faylene said, reminding me of Aubin Pavegeau.
I hadn’t seen him since the day I stopped by his cottage, but I’d become addicted to his blackberry tea.
“Once,” Faylene said, “one of my notes from Harold reminded me to pay the county taxes. Another time, he went on and on about the importance of changing the oil in the car after I burned out the engine. If you’re asking me, that message would’ve been real helpful before the engine burned out, but who am I to nitpick messages from the dead?” She took a deep breath, blew across the top of her coffee mug. “He sent those notes because he loves me and doesn’t want me to lose the house or blow up the car. Taking care of me is how he always showed his love.”
“That’s kind of sweet,” I said. “But I don’t think I’ve seen you eat any pie since I’ve been here. Do you not want messages anymore?”
“It’s been some time now that I gave up the pie. I’d like to fall in love again at some point, and I don’t think I’d ever be able to fall for someone else if I’m still talking to Harold all the time, never able to truly mourn him. Sometimes it’s best to let the past go, know what I mean?”
“No.” Mr. Lazenby thumped the table with a closed hand. “I’m not ready to be lettin’ anything go.”
Faylene elbowed him. “You don’t ever think of falling in love again, Otis? Have someone to share your twilight years with?”
“I have someone,” he said. “Rosemarie.”
Pebbles groaned softly.
I thought I was the only one who heard her, but then I saw Mr. Lazenby give her the side-eye and wondered if he knew more about how Pebbles felt than he let on.
Mr. Lazenby said, “I know Rosemarie nags sometimes—”
“All the time,” Pebbles said, cutting him off. “She nags you all the time.” Her voice went up an octave. “Get a haircut, weed the flowers, throw out the expired crackers in the pantry, get to church early, watch your cholesterol, eat more vegetables, cut back on the sweets…” Pebbles thumbed away a drop of coffee sliding down her mug. “And Otis always does what she says. Always.”
Pebbles pressed her lips together as though holding back what she truly thought of the matter of Mr. Lazenby and h
is wife’s messages. It was probably wise of her, considering his hackles were already raised, blinding him to why Pebbles would care so much.
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s darn good advice.” He handed me the pie plate. “Take this away, please. Blueberries. Blech.”
Faylene stood up. “I best be on my way. I have a grandbaby to see. Chin up, Otis. There’ll be more pie tomorrow.” She paid her bill and with a wave, she was gone.
Mr. Lazenby started coughing again, and I said, “Are you sure about that herbal tea? It wouldn’t take any time at all to brew.”
“I’m sure.” He threw his napkin and a ten-dollar bill on the table. “I’m going home. I’d appreciate it if you saved me a piece of apple pie tomorrow, Miss Anna Kate.”
Pebbles shook her head vigorously, and the beehive swayed. “Anna Kate only saves pie for family, remember?”
“Daggummit,” he said.
He might not be blood related, but for some reason it had started to feel like he was family. A grumpy old grandpa. “That’s true,” I said, “but I’ve decided not to sell the pies in bulk anymore, so there should be plenty left when you get here tomorrow, Mr. Lazenby, no matter what time that is.”
He beamed. “I appreciate that. See you tomorrow morning.”
Pebbles pouted as he left, and I said, “If you want him, you can’t trick him. He has to come around on his own.”
She stared into her mug. “It’s been years. How long am I supposed to wait, Anna Kate?”
Unfortunately, I didn’t have an answer for her.
17
The reporter glanced over at the older woman at the next table. Pen in hand, she was focused on a leather-bound portfolio spread open on the table. But she wasn’t writing. A full glass of iced tea sat untouched, and condensation slid down the glass into a napkin placed under its base.
There was something in her intensity. The way she stared at the paper as if willing the words to come. The stubborn set of her chin. The white-knuckled grip on the pen. From a quick look, he pegged her as someone who was used to getting what she wanted. She had an air of power about her, evident in the way she held herself. Shoulders low, chin up, back straight.
Midnight at the Blackbird Cafe Page 21
