Jane's Gift

by Abby Gaines

JANE’S CELL PHONE rang at five-thirty Saturday morning. She fumbled on the nightstand, thumbed the right button more through good luck than design. “Hello?”

  “Jane, it’s Margaret.”

  Huh? Oh, yeah, Micki’s assistant.

  “What’s up?” Jane wasn’t due at the café until seven-thirty—the Eating Post opened at eight on the weekend.

  “I’ve been up and down since one o’clock this morning, with food poisoning.” Margaret groaned. “I went to my niece’s wedding yesterday—I knew there was something strange about that shrimp.”

  Jane’s brain started to resume normal service. “You want me to open the café. No problem.”

  Margaret groaned again. “Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.”

  “What time do you think you’ll get there?” Jane pushed her covers aside and got out of bed. “Sounds like you need at least a couple of hours’ sleep.”

  Silence. Then Margaret said, “Jane, I can’t go near the Eating Post. Health regulations forbid anyone with food poisoning cooking or serving in a food premises.”

  “But...I can’t do it on my own,” Jane protested.

  “I’m really sorry, but you have to,” Margaret said. “Micki always leaves a list of instructions a mile long, so you’ll have no trouble getting the hang of it. And I know she assembled the muffin mixes before she left yesterday afternoon. Her cell is switched off, but I left a message—with any luck, she can come back by lunchtime.”

  Jane knew Micki’s phone was out of range—she’d warned Jane she and Charles would be unreachable.

  Not that Jane would want to break into their time together.

  “Don’t worry,” she told Margaret. “I’ll handle it.”

  Margaret couldn’t get off the line fast enough.

  Around the same time as Jane realized there was no way she could handle the breakfast rush at the Eating Post, she realized she was alone in her bed. For the past week, Cat had occupied the space next to her.

  Where was her sister when Jane needed her?

  And who else could she call on at this hour? There was only one answer to that question.

  She padded down the hallway and tapped on Kyle’s door. Quietly, so as not to wake Daisy.

  No reply, so after a moment’s hesitation she went in. Kyle lay sprawled across the bed. Topless. In the gray dawn light that filtered through the gap in the curtains, Jane discerned a muscular chest with just the right amount of hair that tapered as her gaze moved lower....

  Get a grip.

  She advanced to the bed and touched his shoulder. “Kyle?” His skin was warm, like raw silk.

  He didn’t stir.

  She shook his shoulder. “Kyle?” she said louder.

  His eyes opened. “Ducks,” he said with a lazy smile.

  Of course, she was wearing those pj’s.

  Before she could tell him she had more important things on her mind, his arm snaked out and wrapped around her waist, tugging her down.

  “Oof.” She landed on him, on his unyielding frame. “Kyle...”

  “Mmm, so you said.” He hooked a finger into the neckline of her pj top. “I was just dreaming about this.”

  She slapped his hand away. “We don’t have time—I need your help at the Eating Post.”

  “Whoa.” His voice sharpened; his eyes opened fully. “What?”

  She told him about Margaret. “So I’m wondering if you can help out?”

  “Sure.” He pushed the covers aside, giving her a moment of thrilled alarm. Only to discover he was wearing boxers.

  “Maybe you could get Daisy up and take her to Gabe’s place,” Jane said, trying not to look at the boxer region, “then get to the café as soon as you can....”

  “I’ll be right behind you.” His gaze traveled over her, more leisurely than it should, given the emergency. “Especially if you keep wearing those pajamas.”

  “I’ll go change,” she assured him.

  Downstairs, she found a note from Cat on the dining table.

  Running an errand in Frisco, hitching a ride on the milk truck, back by lunchtime.

  No use to Jane at all. She scribbled a note of her own at the bottom of the page, asking Cat to come to the café as soon as she arrived back in town.

  A pot of yogurt later, Jane headed out into the fog-wisped street and walked the five hundred yards to the Eating Post.

  She just hoped Micki’s instructions would prove as comprehensive as Margaret promised.

  She let herself into the café with the key Micki had given her and disarmed the alarm.

  A flick of the light switch revealed the immaculate café. On the counter sat two sets of two stainless-steel bowls. One set was labeled blueberry and pear muffins, the other cheese and onion. According to the neatly typed instructions on the counter, all Jane had to do was combine the wet mix and the dry mix for each variety. Pour into greased pans, stick the pans in the oven and voilà.

  “Easy,” she said, startling herself in the quiet.

  Once she figured out how big a spoonful was needed to fill the muffin pans three-quarters full, preparing them took just a few minutes.

  Jane opened the oven door, ready to cook.

  “Damn!” No welcoming heat or helpful light. She’d forgotten Micki’s first instruction, handwritten at the top of the page and underlined in red: before you start, turn the oven on to four hundred.

  Jane turned the dials now, and the light came on and the reassuring whir of the fan started. But what about her muffins? Micki’s notes said it was essential the wet and dry mixes weren’t combined until just before the muffins went in the oven. So Jane wouldn’t be able to allow the oven twenty minutes to heat, as per the instructions. Fearful that even as she dithered, the uncooked muffins were in some way spoiling, she slid the pans inside and shut the door. She’d give them a few minutes’ extra cooking time, to allow for the cold oven. Not ideal, but she didn’t have much choice.

  Having done that, Jane read down the list of instructions.

  Take toast bread out of freezer. Precook sausages. Make scrambled egg and omelet mixes, using recipes on the counter. All three tasks were quickly accomplished, giving her confidence a boost.

  Make sandwiches.

  No problem. The rolls and paninis had been delivered by the Frisco bakery and just needed bringing in from outside the back door. Jane pulled butter from the fridge, along with Micki’s neatly labeled canisters of fillings. Turkey and cranberry, smoked chicken salad, ham and mustard, egg salad. She set to buttering and filling the sandwiches.

  By the time she was done, it was six-forty-five. An hour and a quarter until opening. That sounded reasonable. Jane read down her list.

  Chocolate cake out of freezer. Oops, she probably should have done that earlier. Still the cake was easily found, and it wouldn’t take long to thaw on its cake stand, now that the oven was heating up and transmitting some of its warmth to the kitchen.

  Blast! The muffins were still in the oven. Jane grabbed a mitt and pulled the door open. They weren’t burned—the oven must have taken a while to heat up. On the other hand, nor were they the beautifully risen creations Micki produced every day.

  Jane set the trays on the cooling rack for a couple of minutes while she turned on the coffee machine and filled the filter. She put out cream and skim milk for the coffees she’d make later and filled carafes of water. Then she twisted the muffins out of their tins, thankfully without difficulty. At least they would be
ready for opening time. Which was more than she could say of the quiche.

  Micki had left two empty quiche shells in the fridge, along with instructions on how to prepare the filling. Jane decided one quiche would be enough for now. She could fill another later in the day, during a quiet moment.

  She smirked in self-satisfaction as she remembered to turn the oven down to three-twenty-five. Then she caught sight of the clock—ten minutes until opening! Where the heck was Kyle?

  She worked like a maniac, beating eggs, adding milk, chopped onion, mushrooms and ham. She poured the filling into the crust and got it in the oven just as the big hand moved to the twelve and a knock sounded at the door of the café.

  Who the hell turned up at 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday?

  Jane forced herself to smile as she opened the door. Kyle. Phew. She dropped the fake smile as she turned the sign to Open. “About time.”

  “Sorry.” He headed to the counter. “I had no idea how hard it is to get Daisy up and ready in a hurry.”

  “Welcome to my world.”

  He snickered. “Tell me what you need from me.”

  A promise you’ll never hurt me. A few more kisses wouldn’t go amiss, either. “You know a lot more about this place than I do,” she said. “If you can see anything I’ve missed, just do it.”

  He rolled up the sleeves of his plaid shirt, baring tanned wrists. “I’ll put out a stack of cups, like Micki does. It’ll save time when we’re busy. And I’ll crank the dishwasher up.”

  “Sounds good,” she said, distracted. That chocolate cake must be thawed by now, the kitchen was sweltering. Jane found a batch of frosting in the fridge, and set to icing the cake. There, that didn’t look too bad. Micki had said it should be cut into a dozen slices. Jane selected a broad-bladed knife, chose her starting point and sliced into the cake.

  The cake resisted.

  “Something wrong?” Kyle asked, watching.

  She shook her head, gritted her teeth and pushed the knife down harder. This time, it sank half an inch into the dense chocolate surface before it stopped.

  Kyle edged forward to observe. “Maybe you should—”

  “I’ve got it.” She lifted the knife, clamped her other hand around it, too, so she was holding it more like an axe, and whacked it down on to the cake.

  The rock-hard cake shot off the tray and over the side of the counter, landing with a thud on the floor.

  Jane swore.

  She went around the other side of the counter and picked up the cake, which was still in one solid piece—she wasn’t sure if that was cause for gratitude or not.

  Behind her, the door from the street opened. “Morning,” called Wayne Tully.

  “Damn.” Jane shoved the cake into Kyle’s hands before wiping up a smudge of frosting from the floor. “Hi, Wayne, take a seat and I’ll be right over.”

  She gathered up a pen and notepad, and headed for the table by the window where Wayne was pouring salt from the shaker on to his fingers and licking them. “What can I get you, Wayne?”

  He looked at her doubtfully. “You got eggs?”

  “Sure do.” Fried, or donor?

  “I’ll take eggs, sausage and hash brown.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Back at the counter, she found Kyle looking decidedly stealthy, hunched over something she couldn’t see.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’m dusting off the cake and reapplying some frosting as needed. Thankfully Micki keeps a pretty clean floor.”

  “We can’t serve cake that’s been on the floor!”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Three-second rule. It didn’t do me any harm when I was growing up. More important, you can’t not serve Micki’s chocolate cake. There are people who drive out from Denver on Saturday just for a slice.”

  Jane had quoted the three-second rule to Daisy a couple of days ago. It would be hypocritical to reverse her position now. “Fine,” she said. “But I don’t want a speck of dust left on that thing.”

  The door opened and two men came in for coffee. Simple filter coffees, thankfully. Jane poured two cups, then got to work on Tully’s breakfast. She hadn’t asked him how he wanted his eggs for a very good reason. Sunny-side up was the fastest, easiest way of doing them, so that’s all she was offering today. She hoped Micki wouldn’t mind.

  Jane got the sausage and hash browns into the pan just as the oven timer dinged. The quiche was ready.

  Uh, no, it wasn’t. While the crust was the perfect golden color, the filling was still semi-liquid. When Jane set the tray down, an eggy wave splashed over the side onto the stove top.

  “What’s that?” Kyle abandoned his Herculean attempt to slice through the frozen chocolate cake to inspect Jane’s handiwork.

  “Quiche soup,” she said.

  He inspected the quiche. “You must have put too much milk in. This is supposed to have set.”

  “If only I’d asked your advice earlier.”

  He grinned. “My mother always said not everyone can make quiche—there’s a knack to it.”

  “This is so interesting...and I have so much time to discuss it.”

  “A knack,” he continued, “that I happen to possess.”

  It took her a moment to process that. “You?”

  He nodded.

  She couldn’t resist. “Real men don’t make quiche.”

  “Are you doubting that I can make quiche or that I’m a real man?”

  She pressed her lips together, teasing him with her eyes.

  “I’m happy to demonstrate either,” he said.

  “I’m gonna have to choose the quiche,” she said regretfully. She waved at the refrigerator. “Eggs are in there.”

  She delivered Wayne Tully’s breakfast to him. He’d been joined by two other men—his campaign workers, going by the gist of the conversation.

  “Anyone with half a brain can see our plans for the town will bring prosperity that will make Everson’s scheme look like small change,” Tully was saying. He glanced at Jane. “And you can quote me on that, little lady.”

  “I would, if I was remotely interested,” she assured him.

  “That’s the other thing,” he told his colleagues. “The other towns around here have had low voter turnout in their recent elections. Like this little lady here—” he thumbed at Jane “—a lot of younger people don’t take an interest. The people who do vote will be the older folk, who remember the good times the town enjoyed when I was mayor. Folk who don’t believe in global warming and aren’t going to vote based on greenie issues. We’re offering those people a repeat experience—did you get that, Jason?” he asked the younger of his two colleagues, who was scribbling in a notebook.

  Jason nodded.

  “Put the comment about Everson’s scheme being small change in your press release, too,” Tully told him. “Just how I said it, don’t mess with it.” He glanced at Jane. “You still here?”

  She returned to the counter to greet fresh arrivals. Who would have believed so many people in Pinyon Ridge could want feeding all at once? Several people canceled their food orders and settled for toast when they saw how much trouble she and Kyle were having. But others didn’t see why they should back down simply for her convenience. One man ordered a cheese and onion muffin, and stared at the offering Jane presented.

  “Did it shrink?” he asked, with apparently genuine bewilderment.

  Kyle stepped in. “These are our new mini-
muffins, Ed. Half the price of the regular ones, but bigger than half the size.”

  Ed brightened. “I’ll take three. And one of them berry ones, too.”

  Great! Now Jane would have to make another batch of muffins from scratch. And she was probably losing money on every single one.

  “Is it normally this busy in here?” she demanded of Kyle, once ten o’clock came and went and the rush still showed no signs of thinning.

  He eyed her with concern. “You need to sit down for a minute. Just until someone else wants to place an order.”

  Jane looked at the mess on the counter, the dishes piling in the sink. “I can’t.”

  “You can.” He pushed her into a seat at the table where she’d sat that first morning with Micki. Kyle grabbed a cup of coffee off the counter and set it in front of her.

  “That’s Dave Clark’s coffee.”

  “I’ll pour him another one.”

  She let out a little sigh as she wrapped her hands around the cup. “Before I forget, Tully’s telling his staff he’ll win the election because not enough younger people will get out and vote. You might want to do something about that.”

  “Noted. Though I’d very surprised if Tully knew anything at all.”

  Jane sniffed the air. “Is something burning?”

  “The quiche!” Kyle practically vaulted the counter in his rush to the oven. Too late. The quiche had set all right, its blackened surface was positively crispy. He scraped it into the trash in disgust.

  “What did I tell you?” Jane demanded, triumphant. “Real men don’t make quiche.”

  He threw back his head and laughed, the sound rich and warm.

  Somehow, they survived the next couple of hours. Jane was even able to make two more batches of muffins, which came out the right size. Plus the chocolate cake finally thawed enough to cut.

  At ten to twelve, Kyle stuck a handmade sign on the door—Back in 10 minutes—and they collapsed into a booth, one each side.

  “Lunch won’t be so bad,” Kyle said. “I read through Micki’s instructions. Other than preparing more sandwiches, everything’s already made. Chicken salad is in the fridge. The chili is heating on the stove, and so is the soup—it’s tomato and onion.”