The Last Chance Cafe

by Linda Lael Miller

  A chuckle got past Hallie’s swelling sorrow. “He’ll like that,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Katie agreed. Sighed again. “Well, I’d better get back to work. It’s story day at the bookstore.”

  “Right,” Hallie said. “Thanks for calling.”

  “Keep in touch, Hallie.”

  Both of them knew it wouldn’t happen. Their phone calls and e-mails would become few and fewer, until there was nothing left of their friendship but a memory. It was inevitable, given how busy they were, and how far apart.

  Hallie said good-bye and hung up, but she stood there in the living room for a long time, alone, listening to her children argue in the kitchen, and crying for a cowboy who would have been infinitely better off if he’d never so much as heard her name.

  Chance scowled at the tray of food before him, gray rice, a chunk of shoe-leather, a little heap of peas that were probably grown in a Petri dish somewhere. “I’d rather starve,” he said. “Nonsense,” Jessie said, with a patience he knew was hard-won. “If you ever want to get out of this hospital, you’ll have to build up a little strength.”

  “You could reduce this stuff to molecules and never come across a single vitamin,” Chance grumbled. “How about bringing me some real food? Like a hamburger with bacon and extra cheese?”

  “In your dreams,” Jessie replied, arms folded, lips curved into a gentle smile.

  “You said it,” Chance said, and gamely took a bite of the rice. For the first few days after Hallie left, he’d done his darnedest to just go under and die, but it hadn’t happened. Now, after a few of weeks of being hog-tied with wires and tubes, he just wanted to go home to Primrose Creek, work with his horses, try to grope his way, somehow, through the rest of his life.

  Jessie had been leaning against the windowsill. Now, she came to sit on the edge of his bed. “How are you?” she asked. “Really?”

  He laid down the fork. “I’m coping,” he said. It was an overstatement, but Jessie didn’t need to know that. It would only make her fret more, and she was already on overload in the worry department, when it came to him. Thank God, things had settled down a bit between Katie and Jase, or she’d be a wreck. “Looks to me like you and Doc are pretty thick these days.”

  She smiled. “That old coot,” she said, fondly.

  “You’re crazy about him,” Chance teased.

  Jessie laughed. “I never could fool you,” she said. Her expression turned solemn. “And you’re not fooling me, either. You’re pretty broken up inside, aren’t you?”

  He sighed, settled back on his pillows. God in heaven, he was tired of being bedridden, tired of being cheered and fretted over and just generally pestered. “I’ve been in this place before,” he allowed, studying the ceiling, and he didn’t mean the hospital.

  Jessie took his hand. “When your folks died,” she said.

  He nodded, without looking at her. “And when Katie fell in love with Jase,” he admitted, never meaning to let the words out. “Sweet Jesus, I thought nothing could hurt more than either of those things, let alone the two of them put together, but this does.”

  “It will pass.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You could go after her, you know. Just go to Phoenix, gather Hallie up, and bring her home to Primrose Creek, where she belongs.”

  “She’d never agree. She’s got ‘responsibilities’ there.”

  “She’s trying to do the right thing.”

  “The hell she is. The right thing is to marry me. She’s running. She’s scared shitless of what she feels for me, and what I feel for her, and she’s come up with a bunch of excuses for staying away.” He reached resolutely for the tray. “Running,” he repeated, with scornful emphasis.

  Jessie ran a thumb over his knuckles. “Maybe one of these days, Hallie will run this way,” she said.

  “I couldn’t get that lucky,” Chance replied. And he forced himself to eat.

  Hallie stood in the center of Princess and the Pea, looking around, remembering. There was the table where she and Lou had celebrated her first profitable month with a prime rib dinner. There was the antique tapestry she’d bought on eBay, and there were the mismatched dishes and glasses that gave the place a French country café feeling, the crockery coffee mugs, the copper utensils. The real estate agent, Mr. Elwyn, spun one of the stools at the short counter and looked at her closely. “Are you sure you want to sell?” he asked.

  She shook her head, sniffled. She wasn’t sure of anything, except that there was a broken place, in the deepest part of her heart, that was never going to heal, no matter what she did. In the weeks since she’d left Primrose Creek, she’d fended off dozens of reporters, cleaned out Lou’s house, put it on the market, settled his bills, given half a dozen different depositions at the prosecutor’s office.

  Mr. Elwyn took in the small place in one sweeping glance. “Shouldn’t have any trouble getting a good offer,” he said. “This is a great location, and the notoriety alone—”

  “Notoriety?” Hallie asked, with an edge to her voice.

  The middle-aged man had the good grace to blush a little. “Well, you know,” he said awkwardly, “any sort of publicity is valuable.”

  “Not to me, it isn’t,” she said. “I want the asking price, and not a penny less.”

  He nodded, put out his hand. “I sold your dad’s place for top dollar, and I can sell this one.”

  “Thanks,” Hallie said, and led the way out. The sun was dazzlingly bright, the sky was a heartbreaking blue. It was a classic Arizona winter, drawing visitors from all over North America, and here she was, wishing for snow. She gave a rueful little smile, locked the restaurant, and headed for her car, which was parked at the curb.

  “You’ll be hearing from me soon,” Mr. Elwyn called, as he got into his Cadillac.

  Chance stood leaning against the corral fence, his arms resting on the top rail. The Winslow mare, Sugar, ambled over and nuzzled him, pushing off his hat, and he smiled. Since the shooting, since losing Hallie, he’d come to understand this horse, and all other suffering creatures, on a whole new level. Evidently, Sugar knew that. “Think you could ride her?”

  Chance turned to watch as Doc came toward him, dressed in his Sunday finest. He and Jessie were getting married that afternoon, in the Presbyterian church in town, and he looked the part of a bridegroom, all right. They were honeymooning at Jessie’s place, since she’d had her fill of traveling, and there was an old-fashioned shivaree scheduled for midnight.

  “Ride this mare?” Chance asked, with a note of false surprise in his voice. “In my sleep, old man. In my sleep.”

  Doc grinned. “Five bucks says she throws you in under a minute,” he challenged.

  “You’re on,” Chance said. He picked up his hat, hung it on a fence post, and scrambled over the fence. It only hurt a little. Sugar moved away, nickering and tossing her head. Chance approached the horse, eyes averted, one hand out.

  The mare stood her ground, flared her nostrils, ducked her head.

  “I’ll get the saddle and bridle,” Doc called.

  “No need,” Chance answered.

  Jessie was running across the yard. “Chance Qualtrough!” she whooped. “Don’t you dare—” He swung up, Indian style, and the mare quivered from withers to flanks, her hind end bunched to spring. “—get on that horse,” Jessie finished, reaching the corral.

  Chance leaned down, patted Sugar’s sleek neck. “Easy, now,” he said. “You throw me, and I’ll not only have to fork over five bucks to that old fart over there by the fence, I’ll wind up back in the hospital into the bargain. I don’t think I can take any more of that grub they serve down there.”

  Sugar shuddered, blew. Chance knew she was debating whether to endure the indignation of being ridden or throw him over the barn roof. He was counting heavily on the former.

  “Thirty seconds,” Doc called.

  Using his grasp on the animal’s mane as a bridle, Chance turned the mare, walked her around
in a circle. She played along, and he tipped his hat to Doc when they went by the second time, grand as Roy Rogers at a rodeo.

  “Damn,” Doc snapped, slapping his wristwatch as though he thought something was wrong with it. “You did it.”

  “Idiot,” Jessie cried. It was hard to tell who she was talking to, for she simultaneously elbowed Doc hard in the side, and glared up at Chance.

  He swung down, winced at the pain that seized his midsection. “Pay up,” he said, walking toward Doc with one hand out.

  The envelope arrived the first week in April, with Katie’s name above the return address. Hallie, seated beside her computer, took it from Kiera with a little smile. “Mrs. Clarence brought it,” her daughter explained. The elderly woman, who lived nearby, was a helpful soul, and often picked up Hallie’s mail when she fetched her own. “It’s from Katie.”

  Hallie peered at Kiera over the rims of her reading glasses, trying to look stern. “Reading other people’s mail, are we?” she intoned.

  Kiera giggled. “No, silly,” she said. “It’s still sealed.”

  Hallie made a teasing face. “So it is,” she said, and slid a thumb under the flap. She hadn’t heard from Katie in a long time, except for the occasional e-mail, and she wondered what had prompted her friend to send a regular letter in this age of fiber-optic communication. “Where’s Kiley?”

  “She’s not finished with her lunch,” Kiera answered. “Shall I go and tell her to hurry up?”

  “No,” Hallie said. “Leave her alone and mind your own business.” She began to read, and to smile. Jase and Katie were expecting another baby. Doc and Jessie were married, and they’d set up housekeeping out at her place. One of Jessie’s weavings had been chosen as part of an American handcrafts display, and would be on view at the White House. Evie was expanding her school. Nothing about Chance.

  There was a clipping inside the envelope, and Hallie nearly threw it away before she spotted it. When she unfolded the scrap of newsprint, her eyes widened.

  A classified ad, in the center of the page, had been circled in red.

  For sale cheap, it read, Last Chance Café, Primrose Creek, Nevada. No decent offer refused. Madge’s phone number followed.

  “Mommy?” Kiera tugged at Hallie’s sleeve. “Mommy?”

  Hallie focused on her daughter’s concerned face. She summoned up a smile. “What?” she asked.

  “Is it bad news?”

  Hallie sighed, propped an elbow on the edge of her desk, rested her forehead in the upturned palm. In the past six months, she’d done everything she could to rebuild her life. She’d survived the investigations and the scandals. She’d settled Lou’s estate, and sold Princess and the Pea for a small fortune, and if she didn’t want to, she’d never have to work another day. She’d also lost fifteen pounds, stopped sleeping more than two hours at a stretch, broken out in periodic cases of hives, and completely failed to decide what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.

  “Mommy?” Kiera prompted.

  “No, sweetheart,” Hallie answered belatedly. “It’s not bad news.”

  “What then?”

  She looked down at the clipping again, bit her lip. “It’s just . . . news,” she said.

  And for some reason, she thought of Della, and the sealed note she’d given her that long ago night, at the Harvest Festival in Primrose Creek. Frowning, she got out of her chair, ambled into her bedroom, and dug through the purses and other paraphernalia on the top shelf of her closet until she came to the fanny pack she’d been wearing that evening. Sure enough, the envelope was inside, dog-eared and scrunched, still sealed.

  She carried it to the kitchen, sat down at the table, and opened it with all the solemnity of a high priestess performing a sacred ceremony. She unfolded the paper inside, her fingers shaking a little, a smile playing on her mouth, and read.

  Come home now, Della had written. You’ve stayed away long enough. Too long. Your future is in Primrose Creek, with Chance Qualtrough and all the rest of us. He’s waiting for you, waiting to love you, and to receive your love in return. You’ve done what you had to do. Now, come home.

  Hallie turned the page over.

  You have money now. You have time. You need to be here, where your heart lives, and so do your children. Chance will be waiting, I promise.

  19

  T he little bell jingled over the door of the Last Chance Café that April evening, and Chance might not have turned around, on his fancy, personalized stool, if everybody else in the room hadn’t drawn in a collective breath, a sort of community gasp. The place was crowded—it was a kind of last hurrah for the Last Chance Café, since Madge planned to close up indefinitely and do some traveling herself, instead of letting Bear and Wynona have all the fun—but all the noise and the familiar faces subsided into a kind of dim, flickering void when his gaze came to rest on Hallie.

  She looked beyond good, in white jeans and a lightweight, sleeveless blouse of printed cotton. Her hair had gotten longer since he’d seen her last, and she’d pulled it up into a spunky little ponytail, high on the back of her head. Kiera and Kiley, both of them grown a foot taller, he’d have sworn, stepped back out of the odd, thrumming channel that had opened between him and Hallie.

  “I heard this place was up for sale,” she said, and though she must have been speaking to Madge, who was behind the counter in her usual pink waitress regalia, she never once looked away from Chance’s face.

  Madge said something, and Hallie slapped a hand down on the smooth, well-worn counter top, standing so close to Chance as she did so that he could feel the heat of that delectable little body of hers.

  “Sold!” she said, and a round of cheers rocked the Last Chance Café.

  Chance was dazed. Oh, he saw flashes of other people’s faces, a sort of strobe-light effect, heard them greeting her, but he was still almost completely focused on Hallie. He wondered if he were really there, eating cherry pie and drinking coffee, or if he were at home, in bed, and all this was just a dream. God knew, he’d had several like it since Hallie went away, though they usually just included him and her, with nobody wearing clothes.

  He watched, still trying to decide if he were awake, while she went over to the jukebox and dropped some coins into the slot. By the time she’d made her selections, the café had nearly emptied out, which just about cinched it, as far as Chance was concerned. This was a dream.

  She crossed the room as an old Emmylou Harris ballad began to play, and put out a hand to him.

  “Dance with me,” she said. The words were softly spoken, but they were a command, nonetheless, not a request.

  He stood, took her into his arms, knew, knew it was all real. She was real. Solid and warm. “What are you doing here?” he asked, but he danced, one hand resting on the small of her back, the other holding hers.

  “I live here,” she said. “Now that I own a business.”

  Madge took the kids, smiling, and sneaked out.

  The conversation went on. “Yeah?” Chance asked. “Where are you planning to stay?”

  She wriggled against him. “With you,” she said. “We can get married. It’s time you made an honest woman out of me.”

  He chuckled, unable to pretend for another second that her coming back wasn’t the best damn thing that had ever happened to him. “I think we ought to do some more sinnin’, ma’am,” he teased, “before we go to repentin’.”

  She threw her head back, laughing, and he kissed her throat. They waltzed, bathed in the flashing lights of the jukebox. Some romantic must have switched off the overhead lights during the mass exodus, because the room itself was full of shifting shadows.

  “You’re sure you’re back to stay?” Chance asked, pulling her against him at the end of the song, holding her there. “Because once we say those words, neither one of us is going anywhere. So if you won’t agree to be my wife—and I’m talking right away, Hallie, not next year or the year after—we’d better just step back, both of us, right now
.”

  She smiled. Slipped her arms around his neck. “I’ll marry you,” she said, “any time you say. Just set the date, Cowboy.” She pulled a face. “I don’t see why we can’t start the honeymoon early, though.”

  “We’ve got a lot of things to talk about, Hallie, before we go to bed,” Chance heard himself say. He wondered if he’d suffered an undiagnosed head injury somewhere along the line.

  She tasted his mouth, took her time at it. “Like what?” she said, on a breath.

  “Like whether you’re really staying.”

  “I’m staying. I said I was.”

  He weighed the promise. “What about kids? I’d want some.”

  “Me, too,” she said.

  He put his hands on her hips and set her away from him, out of simple self-defense. She was a witch, casting spells, and although he knew he was already lost, he guessed he wanted the illusion of having at least some power over his own destiny. “You bought the café,” he reminded her. “That’ll mean putting in a lot of hours right here.”

  Her eyes were dreamy. “You don’t want a working wife?”

  He leaned in, until they were nose to nose. “I’ll take you any way I can get you,” he said. He swatted her shapely bottom. “And right now, I have some very innovative ways in mind.”

  She trembled, to his delight, and flushed a little. Her eyes were sparkling, though, and a courtesan’s smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Your place,” she crooned, “or mine?”

  “Neither,” he answered, and took her by the hand. He led her outside, hoisted her into the passenger side of his truck, got behind the wheel. Didn’t even bother to see that the Last Chance was locked up. He figured it would still be there when they got back.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. People honked their car horns and waved as they drove down the main street of town, and Chance hoped it wouldn’t turn into a parade. The scenario unfolding in his mind called for one man, one woman, and no audience whatsoever.