by Cat Johnson
I moved inside, scanning the damage.
Some water had seeped in but only enough to flood the floor.
There’d definitely be some mopping to do. But it never rose as high as the motors on the refrigeration units. Thank God for that.
Christ, I hoped Mina had gotten me flood insurance. I didn’t have a mortgage on the place so it wasn’t a requirement, but after last night, I sure as hell wanted it.
This time I’d been lucky. I’d dodged a bullet since there seemed to be no damage to any of the equipment.
The fridge motor chugged along with a metallic rattle as a cold blast of air hit me when I pulled open the door.
I took out the gallon of milk and carried it over to the shelves of stoneware dishes. There I grabbed a bowl and splashed in some milk, barely getting it on the floor before Muddy shoved his face inside.
It looked like we had a diner cat.
I’d have to buy him a heated cat house so he could live outside and not piss off the health inspector. And I still needed to get him some real cat food. Was the store even open? It was Sunday night . . . after a flood.
It was looking more and more like I should take tomorrow off from work to take care of things here.
Josh could handle the office. It was his fault I’d ever come to Mudville in the first place so he’d have nothing to say to me about it.
Satisfied with my plan, I was deciding the possible ramifications of leaving Muddy inside when I left for the night, when I noticed the lights on at Honey Buns.
Was she in there? I let out a short laugh. Bethany was possibly as bad of a workaholic as me.
I bent down and picked up the bowl. Muddy followed me as I carried it outside and put it down next to the door.
“We’ll buy you that house tomorrow. Since I don’t have any kitty litter, and I doubt you’re toilet trained, I can’t leave you inside all night. So for now, you’ll have to sleep in your dumpster. Sorry for the short visit, but there’s somebody I have to go see.” I rubbed his head then stood.
That had been a pretty lengthy conversation for a man to have with a cat. I tried not to overthink that as I looked both ways, found there was, as usual, no cars coming, and strode across the road.
She wasn’t in the front but I could see movement in the back.
From where I peered in the door, like a kid with his nose pressed against the window of a candy shop, I could just barely see her through the doorway behind the counter as she moved around.
Her hair was up in a messy bun on top of her head. It looked like she was kneading something. Her hands worked, fast and sure.
This was Bethany in her element. Unaware of her surroundings. Immersed completely in the world of food.
I’d seen her like this before, confident and bold, single minded in her task to the point of oblivion. It had been that day at the Otesaga when she’d identified every taste and ingredient. Taking almost sensual pleasure from the flavors in her mouth.
It was the opposite of how she’d been since I’d come to Mudville. Unsure. Unhappy. It gutted me to think I was the cause of the change.
I wanted this Bethany, the one I saw now working the dough. The question was, did she want me?
TWENTY-ONE
Bethany
I glanced up and nearly had a heart attack when I saw someone pressed against the glass watching me make honey buns.
But Brandon’s outline was becoming an increasingly familiar sight in Mudville and it took me only a few seconds to realize that’s who it was.
I couldn’t continue to work with him standing there like that watching me, so I grabbed a towel and tried to clean the dough and flour off my hands as I walked toward the door.
“Should I just get you your own key?” I asked, opening the door wide enough for him to step inside.
“Don’t joke or I’ll take you up on that offer.” He’d shaven, I guessed when he’d been at Agnes’s. Gone was the scruff, though actually I didn’t mind his beard at all.
He must have slept a bit at Agnes’s too. He looked refreshed and ready for another round of man versus river.
Luckily the weather forecast was for mostly clear skies for the rest of the week.
“Everything all right at the diner?” I asked, knowing that’s why he was awake and here.
It was the same reason I couldn’t sleep any longer. I’d wanted to check on the bakery.
Once I was here, I’d decided I should get a jump on tomorrow’s baking. I’d already lost a full day of sales today. Tomorrow I needed to recoup that lost income.
“I’ll have to buy a mop and bucket but otherwise, I’m considering myself lucky. Actually, where can I buy all that stuff?”
“The variety store at the other end of Main Street, just past Agnes’s house, will have that. Or you can travel a bit farther and get it probably cheaper at Home Depot.”
“I’d rather support the local store.”
Of course, he would. And I, as a small-town merchant, respected that. But it needled me every time he said or did something that proved how gosh darn perfect he was. And how horribly wrong I had been about him.
“I also need a doghouse, or actually a cat house. Do you think that’s something they would have?” he asked.
Save the cat. Harper’s words echoed through my brain, like a tire iron to the knees of any remaining doubt about Brandon.
I couldn’t deny it any longer. I’d been wrong. He wasn’t a bad guy. But I certainly was a bad judge of character.
God, I hoped I was a bad judge of character, because if I was wrong—again—about Brandon and he ended up betraying me, it was going to hurt. Badly.
I drew in a breath. “Are you hungry?”
His brows rose at my sudden change in topic. “Now that you mention it, yes. I could eat.”
“I defrosted some tomato sauce and meatballs. I was going to go home and cook up a pot of pasta as soon as I was finished prepping these for tomorrow. Would you maybe want to come over and eat?”
“Yes.” His answer came so fast I had to laugh.
“I’m mostly done here. I just have to wrap these trays and put them away for tomorrow morning.”
“Okay. Take your time.” He was smiling.
In a surprise turnaround for me, I found myself doing the same as I reached for the industrial sized plastic wrap on my worktable and pulled a long sheet over the large bakery tray.
“As for your cat house, we can try the variety store, and I can text Red too. She gets the strangest things in her shop. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she had something you could use as a home for Muddy.”
“Good. I just don’t want him to be outdoors without any kind of shelter. I figure I’m not allowed to keep him in the diner with the food. But maybe once I close on the hotel, I could install a pet door so he can let himself in and out of the office there.”
I shook my head, amazed. “You really are a softy.”
He laughed. “Only when it comes to animals. In business I can be a real shark.” He narrowed his eyes and looked comically intimidating.
I laughed. “Oh, I’m sure.”
He might be joking but I had no doubt he spoke the truth, and that had been part of the source of my suspicions to begin with.
I slid the tray onto the rack where it could rest until tomorrow morning and then turned back to him. “Ready?”
He let out a short laugh. “I’ve never been more ready.”
Somehow, I wasn’t sure we were talking about food anymore. He’d gone from silly to sultry and I felt the change right down to my core.
I swallowed the sudden dryness from my throat. This was just a dinner, I reminded myself, right before I mentally called myself a liar.
The invite might have technically been for a plate of pasta, but it felt bigger than that. As if this was so much more. Like I was standing on the edge with this man, about to dive into that bubbling crock pot full of sauce.
No doubt about it, things were about to get messy.
/> Brandon followed me to my place in his own car.
I hated that we had to cross the train tracks to get to my tiny rental house. I lived on the literal other side of the tracks from the fancy Main Street houses like Agnes’s or even Red’s.
I’d never felt the change in status once those tracks were crossed as keenly as I did now with Brandon following me in his shiny black Land Rover. I was afraid to look up the sticker price for the vehicle he was driving.
As I pulled into my driveway with my used Kia, I had a feeling I wouldn’t like what I’d find in those search results.
Meanwhile, I hoped I’d remembered to make my bed after crawling out of it after my few hours of sleep today.
Not that Brandon would be in my bedroom to see my bed . . .
I tripped over the rubber soles of my bakery shoes at that thought.
Crud. There was no denying it. We were both pretending the past month hadn’t happened. We’d moved right back to where we were that night at the Otesaga. And now, just like then, I wanted to sleep with this man. But not actually sleep.
So much more than sleep . . .
I knew Harper making me get these Honey Buns T-shirts with the naughty sayings printed on them was going to be my downfall.
We’ll leave you sticky . . . Indeed. That was all I could think about. Getting sticky with Brandon.
My cheeks burned as I waited by my door, key in hand, for him to park behind my car and meet me on the front steps.
Luckily it wasn’t a moment that required conversation. I’d sound like an imbecile, I’m sure, since I’d totally freaked myself out with my own thoughts.
My hand shook as I turned the knob. I opened the door while picturing Brandon scooping me up and carrying me to my bed.
I stepped inside and he followed me in as I hit the light switch on the wall and illuminated my humble abode.
He glanced around. “This is nice.”
Nervous, I rolled my eyes at the compliment. “You don’t have to be polite. You were in Agnes’s house so I know this pales in comparison.”
“Victorians are impressive, but I always had a fondness for bungalows and the simplicity of the American Craftsmen period.”
“Oh, is that what this is?” I let out a laugh and realized talking to Brandon about architecture was going to be a lot like talking to Harper about books.
All I knew about my house was that the rent was cheap and it was close enough to Honey Buns I’d only have a two-minute commute.
“You know a lot about architecture and stuff, don’t you?” I asked.
He turned from where he’d been studying the built-in glass-front cabinets and shrugged. “Hobby of mine.”
I didn’t know one style from the next but to be fair, I did know a lot about food so I guess we all had our own thing.
“I have to get dinner going in the kitchen. You can sit here and get comfortable—”
“I’ll come with you to the kitchen,” he said before I finished my invitation. He smiled. “I like to watch you interact with food.”
“Okay.” I laughed. But as I turned on the kitchen light and saw the table, I couldn’t help but groan.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I forgot I’d left these here.” I glanced from him to the table and my counter, both covered from one end to the other with Rose’s letters.
I’d completely forgotten about them in the pocket of my jacket as we all scrambled to save everything from the rising water. When I arrived home this morning, I’d stuck my hand in my pocket to get out my keys and instead found the damp bundle.
“What’s all this?” he asked, taking a step toward the table to get a better a look.
“They’re hundred-year old letters that I should never have been given because I obviously can’t even manage to keep them safe. They got damp during the storm. I hope I didn’t ruin them.”
“They look like they’ll be fine.” He bent to look closer. “Who wrote these?”
“Rose. She’s an old lady who used to live in Mudville. They were found in the attic of her house.”
“Did you see the dates on these? It looks like they start right in the middle of the US involvement in the first world war.” He glanced up, looking excited. “These are actual World War I letters.”
“Not just letters. Love letters.” I drew in a breath. “I read one and had to stop. They’re heart breaking. The separation. The agony she writes about, missing him. Not hearing from him. Wondering if he’s alive or dead. It was horrible.”
His gaze met and held mine as we were both silent for a moment, before he walked the length of the table and then the counter. Finally he backtracked to the table and reached out toward one letter.
“May I?” he asked.
“Of course,” I nodded.
He pulled out a chair and nudged the letter closer to him. “This looks like the earliest of them, judging by the dates.”
Clearing his throat, he began reading . . .
May 30, 1917
Dearest Charles,
Momma and Daddy are still enforcing what they call ‘normalcy’ in our house. I’m to continue my piano lessons as if nothing has changed, when in truth everything has. The whole world has. With you gone to war and my dearest eldest brother John gone with you, life will never be the same. At least not until you both return safely. Yet, somehow, I am to sit before Master Bruin each Tuesday and play in time to his tapping of his wand as if I hadn’t another care in the world. It’s maddening. I have always loved music, but it is ruined for me now. All I can think of is you and the peril you face daily. If only I were eighteen, as you and John are. I would leave here. Become a nurse. Do some good in the world. As it stands, for now, I am not the ruler of my own destiny. My only solace is that when you return, we will be together again. I cannot wait for that day, my love.
Yours forever and always,
Rose
Brandon glanced up. “Wow.”
I was biting my lip to hold in the tears.
“I know,” I breathed.
He stood and moved around the room again, finally picking up another letter and carrying it back to his seat.He began reading again.
June 14, 1917
Dearest Charles,
It is Flag Day here in Mudville and not even the war has prevented the annual parade. I remember last year when you and I shared an ice cream cone and watched the fire department and Boy Scouts march down Main Street. How we laughed and waved to my friends as the Mudville High School band walked by playing their one and only song so very badly. That all seems like another lifetime now, rather than just a year ago. How I wish you and John had never enlisted to fight in this war. Now I know what Hell truly is. It is life without you beside me. Will this sadness never end? My birthday is today, and for the first time in my sixteen years on this earth, I feel no joy at the prospect. I love you still.
Yours forever and always,
Rose
Putting down the letter, Brandon stood.
He had to search but finally he found the one he wanted. He returned to his seat to read aloud one more time as I stood frozen in place as Rose’s words and Brandon’s voice transported me back to a time over a hundred years ago.
July 1, 1917
My dearest Charles,
I must beseech of you not to share this letter with my brother. You must keep it private for the news I have to share is as wonderful as it is devastating for its poor timing.
I am nearly certain, and have suspected for some time now, that I carry your child.
A baby would be a blessing were you here. We’d be married. You’d work with your father. I’d make our house a home. I picture a small cozy house. There’d be a room full of books since you know I love them. You and I would read together at the end of an evening, our baby having already been put to sleep. Eventually we will have two, or maybe three children. A mix of girls and boys because how sad I would be to not have a girl to spoil and how disappointed you would be to not hav
e a boy to carry on your name.
I so wish I could have told you in person but that, of course, is impossible. I so hope you find this news as amazing as I. To carry a tiny piece of you in me makes me feel close to you.
Please, please, Charlie boy, write to me and tell me your thoughts and feelings. Relieve that one small worry I carry and tell me that you are happy too. I love you more than I thought possible.
Yours forever and always,
Rose
“Oh, my God.” I covered my mouth and the tears started to well in my eyes. Brandon put down the letter and looked up and me.
The chair scraped across the floor as he slid back and stood. He was beside me in seconds. His arms wrapped around me as I leaned against him.
“Jesus. Bethany, I’m sorry I made you cry.”
I felt his warm hard chest through the thin cotton of his shirt beneath my cheek. “No. I’m sorry. I’m silly for crying.”
“No, shhh, you’re not.” He pulled me closer and rested his head on top of mine.
Finally he pulled back and looked down at me. “I won’t read any—”
I didn’t let him finish the sentence. I don’t know if it was the effect of Rose’s letters or just the natural progression of events between us but I didn’t hesitate. I lifted on tiptoe and pressed my lips against his, then leaned away.
He drew in a sharp breath through his nose and looked down at me. I watched his throat work as he swallowed.
Then, as if he made a decision in some internal debate, his eyes narrowed, he leaned down and kissed me.
Not a soft gentle hesitant kiss like mine had been. But rather an all-consuming, possessive claiming of my lips that left no mistake this was just the start of something more to come.
I groaned at the thought, which had an answering sound rumbling through him.
He lifted me up and moved to rest me on the edge of the table before I stopped him, just in time. “Wait. Not on the letters.”
“Fuck.” He spun in the other direction, still carrying me, right through the doorway, across the living room and to the sofa.
