Sweet Surprise: Romance Collection

by Wanda E. Brunstetter, Kristin Billerbeck, Kristy Dykes, Aisha Ford, Birdie L. Etchison, Pamela Griffin, Joyce Livingston, Tamela Hancock Murray

  “But if we all got out and used our elbow grease—”

  “That won’t cut it—”

  “It would help…and if we’d put on things like…like craft festivals to draw people… and if we’d erect historical markers and then promote them so people would come see the landmarks and shop at our businesses—”

  “But Nine Cloud doesn’t want to draw hordes of people—”

  She rolled her eyes. “People equal money.”

  “I know that. I’m a businessman. But you need to attend a town-council meeting sometime. Nine Cloud doesn’t want to attract people. They think developers would start building scores of new neighborhoods and shopping centers, and we’d lose our small-town atmosphere if that happened—”

  “That’s not necessarily so.” She went on and on with other ideas, not missing a beat. “And if everybody would bring their businesses up-to-date…” She looked around the restaurant.

  Cyril’s eyes followed hers. With a sweeping glance, he noticed things he’d never focused on before—dilapidated furnishings, peeling wallcoverings, brown water-stained ceiling tiles.

  “…and up to par.”

  He squelched the bah, humbug rolling up his throat but couldn’t prevent the low tsk-tsk escaping his lips. Who did she think she was, to move to Nine Cloud and two weeks later tell folks their town was archaic? And then, to top it all off, to tell them they needed to change it? Oh, yes. She was Miss Pushy.

  And I’m drawn to her like a magnet to metal!

  As Angel drove home, she couldn’t keep from thinking about Cyril. Correction. His Lordship. She’d looked up the meaning of his name last night. Lord. That’s what it meant.

  At lunch today, when she’d mentioned her innovative ideas for improvement and growth for Nine Cloud, His Lordship resisted every one. And like a cloud blotting out sunshine, a coolness had settled over them.

  “You’re behind the times, Mr. Cyril Jackson III—just like your town. And just like your old-fashioned name.”

  Chapter 3

  M y, we served a lot of people today.” Angel ate the last bite of her signature side salad—apples, celery, pineapple, and pecans served on Ro-maine with a tangy dressing drizzled over it. She leaned back in the Bentwood chair, enjoying the delectable flavors. “We must’ve had forty in here.”

  “The day will come when we’ll have forty paying customers.” Across the table, her mother stood up and gathered her dishes. “And more.”

  “And I don’t think that day is too far off.” An eternal optimist, Angel knew Rue de France was about to explode with success.

  “Me neither.”

  Work awaited, and Angel raked scraps of food from her dinner plate onto her salad plate.

  “With the way you’ve decorated this place, and the good food you’re serving, and the excellent service you give to customers, well, you’re going to have a thriving business.” Her mother added Angel’s dishes to her own stack, then made her way toward the kitchen.

  “I can’t wait to see that happen.” Angel looked around at the French-style décor she’d created. Yellow walls. Blue and white striped tablecloths made from fabric bought at the Marche St. Piere in Paris. White lace curtains at the tall Palladian windows. Blue and white plates on wall shelves here and there. A blue and yellow tapestry rug in front of the door.

  She sighed. The place had a soul, or âme, as the French called it. It was the most important thing to get right in any venture, French people were noted for saying. And she believed she’d gotten it right. Rue de France seemed to reach out and hug a person.

  Her thoughts shifted to a year or two down the road, and the home she would buy, and the new car she would give her mother, and the other amenities in life that success would bring—all because of Rue de France. Life was grand. And would get grander.

  She stared out the windows that fronted Main Street, watched people ambling by, saw the tattered awning over White’s Hardware Store, noted the peeling paint on the bookstore. If only Nine Cloud would do some downtown renovation, like what a lot of other small towns were doing. Forget reconfigured streets for more convenient parking and lush landscaping for beauty, and park benches for ambience—things that needed doing and would certainly bring in more customers. Just do some cleaning, painting, and fixing.

  She picked up her stemmed water goblet, made her way to the kitchen, and opened the broom closet to get an apron. Way in the back, behind several, was the apron she’d purchased in Dallas at the National Restaurateurs’ Convention, the one with the cute words on it.

  KISS THE COOK.

  She recalled HAM—her three new friends, Haley, Allison, and Monica—a thought as pleasant as a bite of Charlotte au chocolat. They were a barrel of laughs. When Haley found out the gift shop didn’t have anymore KISS THE COOK aprons, she begged Angel to pass the apron around until they all got a turn to wear it. HAM was in agreement. They said they were all needing help finding romance.

  She pulled out the apron and ran her fingers over the words on the front.

  I sure haven’t been kissed in a long time.

  For some reason, Cyril Jackson appeared in her mind’s eye. Because he’d been here for lunch today? But it was more than that, she had to admit, despite her earlier feelings about him. He is handsome, and he is a Christian, she thought with a little thrill as she envisioned his dark hair and eyes and his tall, regal bearing and his upstanding reputation. Everybody liked him and looked up to him.

  Her mother was wiping the stainless-steel island with a wet cloth. “Cyril Jackson went out of his way to talk with me today. Several times, I might add.”

  “He did?” Angel’s heart fluttered. He talked to me several times, too.

  Her mother nodded. “He’s a nice young man.”

  Angel smiled as she leaned against the doorway and looked into the dining room, her gaze wandering to the front of the restaurant. A warmth seeped into her soul, and she knew it wasn’t from the sunshine streaming through the sparkling windows.

  What if Cyril turns out to be Mr. Right?

  She certainly hoped to get to know him better. And see where things would lead. A childhood song fluttered through her memory.

  “ ‘Qué será, será, whatever will be, will be,’ ” she sang. “ ‘The future’s not ours to see. Qué será, será.’ ”

  Her mother gave her a knowing look. “Whatever will be, will be?” Her eyes gave off their familiar twinkle. “ ‘The future’s not ours to see,’ ” she sang softly. “ ‘Qué será, será.’ ” She paused and looked toward the ceiling. “Lord, please bring about Your will for Angel in the romance department, whatever it is.”

  Angel sighed as she put the Kiss the Cook apron over her head and tied the strings at the small of her waist. In her heart a hope grew, as surely as the magenta-colored phlox were growing in their window boxes outside.

  Late that afternoon, Cyril sat in his office that was housed in the building beside Main Street Café, working on his books. To offset an expected downfall in business at his café due to Angel’s free lunch today, he’d come up with a good plan. Early that morning he’d faxed outlying businesses and offices and offered free delivery for lunch.

  His manager had just informed him that his idea was a smashing success. Though they’d had few customers in the café during the noon hour, his profits were excellent. In fact, the profits were better than they’d been for a single day in a long time.

  Figuratively, Cyril gave himself a pat on the back. “Maybe I’ll do that every day.” But delivery help was hard to find in the middle of the day. All the teenagers were in school. On second thought, maybe he’d do it once a week, maybe twice.

  He smiled. “I need to go thank you in person, Angel Morgan, for the extra money in my cashbox.”

  Ten minutes later, he walked down the sidewalk to Rue de France. He couldn’t wait to see the sunshiny woman in her sunshiny restaurant—even though he’d eaten lunch there less than three hours ago.

  And he stepped up hi
s pace.

  Angel looked at her watch as she dried her hands on the colorful kitchen towel. Three thirty. Her mother was probably getting into Orlando now. Good. Mom would be home before the bad traffic started.

  She hung the towel on a rod, then made her way into the dining room and straightened the chairs from the lunch crowd.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  Who could that be? Hadn’t she displayed the CLOSED sign? A glance that way showed her it was in the window. A peek at the front door showed Cyril Jackson standing there, smiling at her.

  “Cyril…I’m coming.” She dashed across the dining room, zigzagging around tables, her heart as light as a cheese soufflé. She swung the door open wide. “What brings you here for the second time today? Come on in.”

  He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “I could easily say your food drew me back.” He touched his midsection. “That was some kind of eating at lunchtime. What’d you call that dessert you served us?”

  “Charlotte au chocolat.”

  “It was delicious.” He looked at her apron and smiled.

  She glanced down and realized she still had on her KISS THE COOK apron. Her face grew warm, and her heart turned a flip-flop. Did he think she was on a hunt for a man? Hadn’t Haley said people would think that?

  “Interesting apron.” He chuckled.

  She whisked it off and slung it over her arm. “Would you…um…like a piece of pie? I…um…just pulled three out of the oven. For tomorrow’s lunch crowd.”

  “I’ll have to run some extra laps tonight if I do.” He touched his midsection again. “That Charlotte stuff at lunch, and now pie?”

  “It’ll be worth it. It’s my mother’s recipe. It’s not fancy but it’s good. It’s called chocolate chip pie.”

  “You talked me into it.”

  “Come on back.” She waved for him to follow her as she turned and headed for the kitchen. They made small talk as she scurried around. She brewed a fresh pot of coffee, placed two wedges of pie on the Eiffel Tower dessert plates she’d purchased at the Paris Chinatown, and garnished them with dollops of whipped cream and fresh mint leaves.

  Cyril helped her carry mugs and silverware to the dining room, and they set the table together.

  Shortly, they were seated at a table that overlooked a lace-covered window, Angel’s heart singing.

  Cyril put two tiny sugar cubes in his coffee. “Does each piece equal one teaspoon of sugar, or what? We don’t use these things at Main Street Café.” He grinned.

  “Umm…it’s supposed to, but you might need to add an extra cube. I don’t think they’re quite a teaspoonful.”

  He added another cube, then heavy cream from the dainty-footed pitcher. He stirred until his coffee reached a light golden color. “You know the proverbial saying…” She giggled and nodded as she shook out her cloth napkin. “I’ve heard it a million times in the restaurant business—”

  “Me, too.”

  “You like your coffee like you like your women—”

  “—blond and sweet.” He finished the saying for her, his eyes roaming her long hair.

  She could feel her face heating up, like it did when he’d caught her wearing her KISS THE COOK apron.

  “I came by to say thank you, Angel.”

  “Thank me? For what?”

  He told her about his business plan at lunchtime and how successful it was.

  “That’s a great idea,” she exclaimed, when he finished telling her the details. “I’m always on the lookout for new things to try. The PR classes I took in college help me think along those lines. You know. Promo for the business and all.”

  “I think it goes way beyond classes. I think it’s inborn in you.”

  She shrugged. “I admit I’m full of ideas. My mother calls them daydreams.”

  “You want me to pray?” He looked down at his pie. “I don’t think I can resist any longer.”

  She smiled. “Sure.” She bowed her head as he led in a blessing for the food.

  He put his napkin in his lap, took a bite of pie, and swallowed it slowly, like he was savoring it. Then he became animated. “Angel!” His eyes widened. “This”—he tapped the plate with his fork—“should be your signature dessert!”

  “It’s good, isn’t it?” She ate a bite and took a sip of her coffee.

  “It’s fabulous.”

  “But I wanted something French sounding.”

  He ate another bite, then another. “This pie’ll make you want to slap your grandmaw.” He chuckled.

  She laughed at the Southern euphemism. “My father used to say that all the time. Except when my mother fixed chocolate chip pie. Then he’d say, ‘This is lip-smacking good.’ ”

  “I’ll agree with that. And it makes you want to…kiss the cook.” He was looking right at her, all traces of amusement gone from his eyes.

  She averted her gaze, stared down at the table, noticed his plate was empty. “You want more?” She made a movement to stand, but her legs were Jell-O.

  He gestured for her to stay seated. “Much as I’d like to, I’d better not.”

  She sat back down.

  “But I’ll sign up for another piece real soon, okay?”

  Real soon held promise. She nodded and took another bite, fancifully envisioning the real soon appointment with Cyril. A picnic by a pond? A private, candlelit dinner for the two of them in Rue de France? Nothing could please her more. Perhaps the real soon appointment would grow into frequent appointments. Dates was the better word.

  There I go again. Daydreaming.

  As Cyril made his way down the sidewalk after leaving Rue de France, there was a spring in his step. A thought hit him, an old saying he’d heard his grandfather say many times. In the spring, a young man’s thoughts turn to fancy.

  No. That wasn’t it. In the spring, a young man’s fancy turns his thoughts to love.

  That wasn’t quite it either, but it was close. And so were his sentiments. He smiled.

  And it’s not even spring.

  Chapter 4

  A ngel picked up her cell phone on the first ring and smiled. It was Cyril. “Hi.”

  “Hi, Angel.” For several minutes, they talked—about everything and about nothing.

  If she were a cat, she would be purring. He asked how her day had gone. She asked the same.

  “Are you free on Saturday afternoon?” he asked. “Would you like to get a bite to eat with me?”

  She was so excited, she could’ve reached through the phone and hugged him. He’s asking me for a date. And a date leads to dates. And dates lead to a relationship. There she went again, daydreaming. But that was the only way to succeed in life, in her opinion. Daydreaming led to goals. And goals led to plans. “A man with a plan” went the business adage for success. Only she was a woman with a plan, both for her business and for finding Mr. Right.

  “I thought about driving over to the beach and eating some seafood. Jack’s Crab Shack isn’t fancy, but it has some goooood”—he drew it out Andy Griffith-style— “food.”

  “I’d love to go.”

  “Great.”

  “What time? And is it casual or dress?” Slow down, Angel. She laughed. “I guess shack tells it all.”

  “Oh, it’s informal all right, but it’s as good as all get out.”

  “I love seafood.”

  “We might walk on the beach after dinner. Is that okay with you?”

  She took a deep breath to steady her heart. “I’ll look forward to it, Cyril.” Will I ever!

  Angel checked her appearance in the full-length mirror one last time. Twisting this way and that, she knew her attire was perfect for their date at the beach. Red cowl-necked shirt. Red and black print cropped pants. Black open-toed heels that could easily be removed when she and Cyril walked in the sand.

  She pulled out her lightweight black sweater and put it by her purse so she wouldn’t forget it. She might need it. Even though it was July, brisk breezes could stir up quickly
on any given evening on the beach and particularly tonight. It had been rainy the last two days, bringing the soaring temperatures down.

  Twenty minutes later, she was sitting beside Cyril in his car as he drove toward the coast. In the backseat was a basket holding wedges of chocolate chip pie in plastic containers. She’d brought along his real soon request.

  “What’s in the basket?” he’d asked when he picked her up.

  “A pique-nique a la Provencale,” she’d said with a French accent.

  Now she glanced over at him as they drove along, the soft FM music filling the car. She liked his hearty laughter. And his winsome ways. And…and…him. Period.

  Cyril, are you Mr. Right? She hoped so. It had nothing to do with a quick decision. Though she’d known him only a little over a month, she’d waited her entire adult life for the right man to come along, someone whose goals and morals matched hers. She felt good about Cyril—despite their awkward beginning. In fact, she felt more than good. She felt…wonderful.

  After Angel and Cyril finished eating at Jack’s Crab Shack—both of them ordering fried shrimp and finding out it was their favorite seafood—they did just as he’d said. They walked on the beach, the waves lapping gently at their bare feet, creating a pleasant sound.

  As she expected, the weather turned a little cool. She untied her sweater from around her neck and pulled it on to ward off the chill. But her heart was as warm as brownies pulled from the oven.

  “Cold?” He rested his hand lightly on her shoulder.

  She thought her heart would jump out of her chest. “No, not now.” Not after his warm touch. For long minutes, neither said a word. She was glad. She was reveling in what was transpiring between them—a pleasantness, and maybe something more.

  “Thanks for dinner,” she finally said.