Last Chance at the Someday Café

by Angel Smits

Tara felt an arm slip around her. “Do what you always do,” Addie said softly.

  “What’s that?”

  “Ignore us completely.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  TARA’S INSPIRATION FOR the Someday Café had come from the kitchen where she’d grown up. Mom’s kitchen had been the warmest, most wondrous place in all the world—the center of the house and the center of Tara’s life. When Mom had died, Tara had grieved nearly as much about losing her safe place as she had about losing the woman she’d loved.

  Now, with the café’s walls painted the soft, robin’s-egg blue, the wood floor newly refinished and all the counters and appliances fixed and cleaned, the large room sat empty.

  Not for long.

  She’d spent the past few months—in between meetings with Jason about the legalities, real estate and staff—roaming yard sales and flea markets to find the perfect things to decorate her new space. Now all those things were coming out of storage.

  First, though, she purposefully went out to the truck and gently lifted the dining room chair that she’d taken from Mom’s place the day after the funeral.

  Each of her siblings had the chair that meant the most to them. None of them matched, actually. Mom and Dad had bought the dining room set, the thick table and six chairs, at a garage sale when they were newlyweds. Six kids had done a number on nearly every chair in the house.

  Tara wasn’t even sure if any of the ones they had taken were originals. The final set was a mismatched bunch of wooden chairs. Some with ladder backs. Some with straight backs. Some with curved wooden arms. Some without.

  All precious and familiar.

  Wyatt had the big captain’s chair with its curved arms and sturdy back that had been Dad’s. The finish on both arms was thin from Dad’s movements, rubbing the wood when he was deep in thought, and later from when DJ had had to use the arms to stand after he’d come home injured.

  This one had always been hers. As the youngest, she’d been the smallest, so the Jenny Lind style had fit her best. She’d loved it. Still did.

  Carrying it in, she set it near the long diner counter that was lined with the only seating places at the moment. Perfect.

  “Where do you want this?” DJ’s voice echoed in the empty space. He easily carried the square wood table over his broad shoulders. She smiled and pointed to the corner.

  She’d planned where every single piece was going to go. She’d imagined it all.

  Wyatt and Lane came in with an oval dining table. “Right here.” Smack in the middle of the room. The biggest table, it would be the centerpiece for larger parties and events.

  “I got this one, Aunt Tara.” Tyler had a lone chair—his enthusiasm warmed her. He had the same determined look as his father had carrying the table.

  “Put that by the table your dad just set down.”

  For the next hour, they all carried furniture and arranged to her directions the assorted, mismatched tables and chairs. Then finally, once the room was full, they brought in the boxes of knickknacks and decorations.

  DJ started hanging pictures where she indicated. Tyler watched and handed him nails from a bucket.

  Finally, as the sun slanted through the French doors that looked out over the wide stone patio she hadn’t even started on yet, she stepped back and admired their handiwork. She smiled with pride and anticipation. Things were finally coming together.

  Wyatt came to stand beside her and slipped his arm around her shoulders. “You did good. It looks great. Mom would love it.”

  For the first time since Mom had passed away, Tara felt at home. She smiled at her brother and hugged him. “Thanks for helping.”

  “Anytime.”

  Tyler walked over and grinned. “So, when do we get to eat?”

  The room filled with laughter and Tara couldn’t resist joining in. Everything was falling into place, just as she planned, just as it was supposed to be.

  * * *

  MORGAN CRANKED THE stereo in the semi’s cab. The windows practically rattled, and he was certain he’d lost at least a couple years of hearing in his old age. He didn’t care. He needed something to get this anger and frustration out of his system. Geddy Lee’s voice with a screaming guitar at full volume was the perfect solution.

  Outside the windshield, the sun fell behind the horizon, a fiery ball of light that painted the west Texas hills with a wide, red brush. This was normally what he loved about driving. But tonight? He just wanted this trip to end. He wanted this chapter of his life done. He was ready to move on.

  The past week had brought nothing. No new info. No more sightings. Nothing. Damn it, Sylvie was still screwing up things.

  Was he a bad father for even wondering if he should quit looking for her and Brooke? He wouldn’t, and he couldn’t, but some days he flirted with the idea of letting go. Of just giving up.

  He didn’t think Sylvie would ever really hurt Brooke. In her way, she loved their daughter. But Sylvie thought of the girl as a mini-adult, expecting her to do things a kid had no clue about. Brooke took care of Sylvie more than Sylvie took care of Brooke.

  No, Sylvie wouldn’t ever intentionally physically hurt her, but she’d easily neglect and emotionally scar Brooke with her expectations.

  That was worse—if there was such a thing as worse—abuse.

  He’d promised himself this was his last serious run. Didn’t mean he would stop looking, he just had to do it differently. Despite good intentions, the police were too overwhelmed to focus on a year-old case. He’d already talked to a private investigator who could take on the search. But Morgan knew no one would put the heart and energy into the hunt like he had.

  Like that had gotten him anywhere. Sylvie and Brooke were still missing. Maybe it was time to hire someone who actually knew how to do this. All he needed was the money to pay for it.

  Morgan didn’t hear his phone ring, but the lit-up screen caught his eye. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, but Jack rarely called. And when he did, it was usually business-related.

  Pausing the pounding beat, Morgan answered, “Yeah?”

  “Hey.” Jack’s voice was soft. Strange.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Silence. Heavy and thick. “Nothing’s the matter.” Another long pause. “We got a lead on Sylvie.”

  “What?” Big rigs did not stop on a dime, but Morgan couldn’t drive. Not now. He wanted to hear every nuance of this conversation. “Let me pull over.”

  Time stretched out as Morgan slowed and eased the eighteen-wheeler to a safe place along the side of the road, a spot barely wide enough for the trailer, but enough for him to feel safe on this deserted highway should anyone drive by. When he geared down the big engine, the empty countryside moved in close.

  “Tell me,” he finally demanded.

  “We got a call from one of Ben Walker’s drivers. He said there was a woman matching Sylvie’s description at a street fair over in Haskins Corners last week.”

  “That’s it?” Why did that fill him with disappointment? Because a week had passed, and she could be anywhere by now. “Does he know for sure it was her?”

  “No.” Jack was silent for a moment. “She had a little girl with her.” Another painful pause. “A girl carrying a purple dragon.”

  Jack’s voice faded into the approaching night. Morgan stared at the emerging stars just above the hills and vaguely wondered why they blurred. He scrubbed a hand down his face. He wanted to scream and cry and curse all at the same time.

  He’d been in Haskins Corners yesterday.

  Close. So, close. He stared at the clock in the dashboard. Only a few hours away. In the opposite direction of where he was headed. Pulling a U-turn was a bitch, but doable.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Jack said. “Deliver that load, Morgan. Le
ave the trailer. I’ll get Kyle to pick it up. Then you can head back to Haskins Corners in the morning after you’ve slept. You’re gonna need a clear head.”

  “I’m going now.” He had to.

  “It’ll be nearly midnight before you get there. You won’t find them. And if Sylvie sees that truck? She’ll get spooked. You could lose them again.”

  Morgan hated it when his younger brother was right. He pounded his fist against the oversize steering wheel. “I know you’re right. But—” Why hadn’t he seen them? Why hadn’t he found them? “Okay,” he reluctantly agreed.

  Jack ended the call, and Morgan turned the rig onto the highway, forcing himself not to floor the gas pedal, his heart and mind screaming for him to follow them instead of Jack’s common sense. But Jack was right. Morgan had to be smart about it. This time.

  How many times had he driven all these small towns scattered around the Texas countryside? Dozens? Felt like hundreds. He knew the locals as well as if he was one of them.

  He didn’t think Sylvie would immediately recognize this rig. They’d bought it after she’d taken off, and he’d purposefully not put the company logo on it. But she’d be suspicious of any eighteen-wheeler since he’d always driven.

  And that was part of why they’d grown apart. The steering wheel survived another pounding—barely.

  * * *

  TARA GREW UP in a house full of brothers and sisters. One of six. As the youngest, she’d been the “cute” little sister. From the moment at Dad’s funeral where everyone looked at her with that “poor little baby” look, clear up until last week when she’d gotten her final permit from the city for this restaurant, she’d struggled to be taken seriously.

  Now, standing in the center of the unoccupied dining room, she wondered if she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life. Every penny, every drop of sweat and several drops of blood were invested in this place.

  She’d finally sent everyone home. She’d hired a good crew and they’d all worked hard to put in the final touches and last-minute cleaning.

  She loved the result. Loved just standing here, soaking up the sense of homecoming this place exuded.

  Tomorrow, she and her staff would return and start on what they all wanted to do. Cook and serve amazing food.

  Slowly, Tara walked behind the counter, through the prep area, then through the big, metal swinging doors into the spacious industrial kitchen. She turned and frowned at the nondescript door at the back of the kitchen. The door led to the tiny closet she’d converted into an office. An office that held a small desk, just big enough for her computer and printer, a small two-drawer file cabinet and her chair. The chair from her mother’s house.

  Tara had been only two when their dad died, so her memories of him were vague and little more than flashes. Her brother, Wyatt, was more dad to her in her mind, though he’d been only fifteen when he’d stepped into that role.

  Mom, however, was strong in her memory. Tara had been the last to leave home and had gotten the most time alone with their mother after the others had left the nest. She hadn’t realized how precious that time was until Mom was gone.

  Tara walked to the door and opened it. The desk lamp lit up the room, barely. Pulling out the chair, she settled in the well-worn wooden seat. It felt so good. “I think you’d like this place, Mom,” she whispered.

  She often talked to her mom’s spirit, feeling, like now, that her mother was nearby. Hoping so anyway. “I’m going to use most of your recipes.” She knew her mother wouldn’t mind. Helen Hawkins had loved to cook, loved making big batches of food. Tara had inherited that love, and Helen had been more than willing to share the kitchen with her youngest child.

  Tara remembered standing on this very chair, its back pushed against the counter, to stir a mixing bowl of something with a big wooden spoon. Those had been the happiest times of her life.

  For a while, she sat there, letting the contentment and sense of accomplishment settle over her. She’d done it. She’d finally done it.

  Tomorrow, the doors would open and peace and quiet would vanish. Tara stood, flipped off the light and turned to leave. Closing the office door, she headed across the kitchen toward her purse and the jacket she’d draped over the rack by the door.

  Her fingers curled around the fabric the same instant a horrendous crash broke the quiet of the peaceful night.

  “What the—” After she’d jumped nearly a foot, she yanked open the back door, realizing too late how stupid that was. It could be anything—or anyone—out there in the darkness.

  The megawatt spotlight above the door shone bright as daylight, and she blinked to adjust to the glare. One large trash can was on its side. The lid was open, half the contents scattered on the pavement.

  Great, just great. Now she had a mess to clean up before she could go home. Hopefully, the new Dumpsters would be delivered soon so this wouldn’t be a common occurrence.

  Sounds of something moving near the trash can made her pause. What was it? The idea of being bitten or attacked by an animal did not thrill her. “Okay, whatever you are, come out and shoo.” More rustling inside the trash can.

  Whatever it was didn’t seem too scared of her. She moved closer and tried to peer inside. “Hey. Scat!” There was no way she was reaching inside. She looked around for a stick or a broom or something to use to poke at it. Nothing.

  “That’s what I get for making everyone clean so thoroughly,” she mumbled. “Okay, whatever you are, go away so I can clean up and go home.” More rustling but nothing came out. Now what?

  “Okay, buddy.” She stomped back into the kitchen. Maybe by the time she returned, the stupid thing would be gone. Mop in hand, she shoved open the door again, making as much noise as she could to hopefully scare the thing away. She approached the spilled trash can.

  When she stopped, everything was silent. No rustling. No little feet scratching against the plastic can. Nothing but the normal night sounds that came from a distance. She smiled. It was gone.

  “Hello?” Another step. “Yoo-hoo, little critter.” Another step. “Are you gone?” Nothing but silence. Slowly, she pushed the end of the broom handle into the dark interior of the trash can.

  The animal came out with a screech and something furry and disgustingly wet flew past her bare legs. She screamed. She couldn’t help it. It was done before she could stop it.

  Her heart pounded so hard against her ribs, it hurt. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath. “Damn it!” was the first thing she managed to say. “Ewww,” was the second. She did not want to know what was now drying on her leg. She’d find out when she got home and showered. Besides, she still had to clean up everything scattered on the new asphalt.

  At least once she righted the trash can, she could see what she was doing. She did peer inside carefully, just in case. No beady little eyes looked up at her, thank goodness—just smelly, slimy trash. Finally, she had everything cleaned up and the lid securely in place.

  After closing the diner’s back door, she headed to her car. As she walked across the parking lot, she swore she could feel eyes staring at her. Beady little eyes giving her the stink eye. “Sorry, no free meals,” she called into the night, laughing. “I’m tougher than I look, you know. I’ve got three older brothers.”

  Climbing into her car, she flipped on the headlights, and the beam found a small furry form at the edge of the lot, near the creek that meandered past the property. A fat raccoon glared at her.

  Tara laughed. She was exhausted. And punchy. And dirty. But she’d survived. Tomorrow—she glanced at her watch—today was going to be a piece of cake.

  * * *

  MORGAN’S STOMACH RUMBLED as he hit the outskirts of Haskins Corners just after dawn. He needed to find a safe place to park, grab some grub and figure out his next move.

  It was ea
rly. Nothing much was open. But a familiar, ancient diner came to mind.

  The parking lot was big enough to park the truck now that he was bobtailing. This time of day there would be plenty of room, even if he’d had the trailer.

  Except, this morning the parking lot was more than half-full. He pulled to a halt. What the heck? Dozens of cars filled the upper half of the lot, though there was still room in the lower.

  What was going on? He’d never seen this much traffic here, even at breakfast time.

  Slowly, he turned the rig into the lot, stopping at the outer edge along the creek side, underneath the trees. The silence of the air when he shut off the engine still amazed him. He climbed out and made his way across the newly paved parking lot. Nice. Smooth. There wasn’t even the hint of a pothole in sight.

  And landscaping? Bushes and trees in the median? Daisy was moving up in the world. The now-elderly woman who’d run the joint since the 1970s must have come into some money.

  Approaching the front door, however, Morgan paused. This couldn’t be Daisy’s domain any longer. A menu was posted in a fancy metal box on the wall. Different, but if the scents coming out of the kitchen were any indication, good. His stomach rumbled again in response.

  Inside he froze. The layout of the place was the same, but run-down had given way to kitsch, and utilitarian to almost pretty. The clunky vinyl booths and Formica tables were gone. In their place sat tables and chairs that looked better suited for a dollhouse than a diner.

  He wasn’t especially tall, but his years of bodybuilding workouts had made that type of furniture totally off-limits. He knew better than to sit on any of those chairs. He’d probably end up on his ass with splinters beneath his butt.

  Morgan frowned. He was here and he was hungry. The perky little hostess was new, too. Since when did diners have hostesses?

  “Just one?” she asked.

  “Uh, yeah.” Where exactly would she put him? He resisted the urge to retreat instead of following her. The lace curtains and tablecloths didn’t help with the feeling he had of stepping into a woman’s boudoir.