The New Hope Cafe

by Dawn Atkins

  “Talkative?”

  “Yeah, like now. They’re half up, half down and curvy. Just trust me. They talk.” He felt like an idiot saying so and noticing in the first place.

  “You want me to duct tape them?”

  “If I have to keep you from cheating.”

  “I won’t cheat. It’ll be a true test. We seem busier today,” she said, nodding at the packed booths. “Do you think it’s the French toast?”

  “I think it’s the new waitress. The place is full of men.” She looked so hot in short white pants and a yellow top that shivered over her breasts that he wished she’d worn a full apron again. And that pink smell was killing him.

  “That can’t be it…can it?”

  Absolutely. Before he said that, he noticed the light in her eyes had faded. “Nah. You’re right. It’s gotta be the toast.”

  “Told you!” She beamed, then danced off, sashaying those hips of hers. She had no idea how sexy she was. She acted friendly, not flirtatious, but she had men hanging on her every word, tying up the booths forever, joking, laughing, showing off.

  Smiling, he absently sipped more coffee. Mocha notes…definitely....

  The bell clanged and Evan walked in. Automatically, Jonah scanned him for signs of inebriation. Steady stride…solid posture…clear gaze. Sober still. Ninety days this time. He knew because he’d slipped into the back of the meeting to see him get his chip. He was proud, but it was too soon to say so.

  Evan took a counter stool.

  “You hear back on that job?” Jonah had set him up with an interview about a marketing job for a national home-improvement chain.

  “Could you grill my eggs before you grill me?”

  “Coffee?” CJ asked, holding out a mug, a carafe in her other hand. She seemed to appear out of nowhere just in time to take an order or refill a mug.

  “Please.” He watched her pour. “You’re the new Darlene, right?”

  “Her name’s CJ,” Jonah said. “This is my brother, Evan.”

  “I’m so glad to meet you!” She shook Evan’s hand vigorously. “We love your toothpick sculptures. My daughter’s in your room.”

  “She’s what? Wait. You’re staying at Rosie’s?”

  “Our car broke down and she was kind enough to let us stay.”

  “Rosie was kind?” He turned to Jonah.

  “Don’t worry. There was something in it for her. She conned CJ into working here while she’s waiting for her car.”

  “Now that sounds like Rosie.” Evan sipped the coffee, then did a double take, sipping more. “What did you do to the coffee?”

  “You like it?” CJ shot Jonah a look. “It’s a medium roast from Costa Rica. We ground the beans ourselves.”

  “Damn.” Evan sipped more. “This beats the house blend at Coffee Stop easy. You should offer it to go. You’d steal customers.”

  “Really? You think so?” She was so excited you’d think she won the lottery.

  Jonah groaned. “I can’t believe my own brother betrayed me.” CJ would carry on about this all day now.

  “What?” Evan looked puzzled.

  “We had a bet that no one would notice the coffee,” CJ said. “And I just won.”

  “Way to go.” Evan held out a fist for a bump.

  “I like the to-go idea,” she said. “It would be easy to set up a station with carafes, cups, lids and condiments.”

  “Too much hassle,” Jonah said. “People buy coffee by habit.”

  “Not these days,” his brother said. “But then maybe my marketing degree was a waste of time.” He studied Jonah over his cup.

  “Whatever,” he grumbled.

  “What can I get you to eat, Evan?” CJ asked, pulling out her order pad.

  “I hear you make killer French toast.”

  “You heard that?”

  “Jesus. Don’t encourage her,” Jonah said.

  CJ huffed a breath. “You are such a p—”

  “Don’t say it.” If she called him a poop in front of Evan, he’d never live it down.

  “I was just going to say party pooper,” CJ said. She tore off the slip with Evan’s order and held it out. “Give him double berries, okay? For the coffee tip? Thanks, Evan.” She topped Evan’s mug, then waltzed away.

  “Party pooper, huh?” Evan grinned at him. “Look at you, big brother, all red and flustered. She’s cute, for sure.”

  His face did feel hot. “She’s gone as soon as her car’s fixed.” Hurry up, Rusty. He started Evan’s order, then turned back to him. “So what about the job?”

  “No word yet. It was a long shot. Plus, it’s in Columbus. I don’t know the music scene there.”

  “The last thing you need is a music scene.” That had been where the trouble started. “It would be a stepping stone. From there, you could—”

  “You might as well know I took the job at the Wash-Bowl-N-Brew.” He locked his jaw like he would as a kid when he’d done something dumb, but wouldn’t admit it.

  Jonah tensed. “Doing what?”

  “Whatever they need. Work the car wash, the bowling counter.”

  “The bar?” Jonah snapped. “You’re not working in the bar.”

  “If they need me to, I will. I’ll be fine. It’s time to rejoin the world.”

  Uh-oh. He sounded too confident. “What does your sponsor say?”

  “If I stick with the program, keep up with meetings, he thinks I’ll be good. Unlike you, he has faith in me.”

  “I don’t want you to get lost again.”

  “I won’t. I promise you.”

  He’d promised more than once.

  “I saw you at the back of the hall when I got my chip,” Evan said. “Ninety days. I’m good.” Yep, he wore that I-got-this look that came right before he tumbled off the wagon.

  “So far.” Ninety days was barely a dent in all the days ahead.

  Anger crackled in Evan’s eyes. “Can’t you be happy for me?”

  Jonah tried a different approach. “Come with me to New York. We’ll find a place to rent together, get you a job.”

  “I have a job, Jonah,” Evan snapped. “Leave it alone.”

  Frustrated, Jonah went back to the grill and cooked up the waiting orders. He plated Evan’s with extra fruit and brought it to him.

  His brother dug in and Jonah went back to work.

  When he returned, Evan was wiping his mouth. “That was amazing. I hope you get the recipe from her before she leaves.”

  Jonah shrugged.

  “You set for New York,” Evan said. “It’s soon, right?”

  “Six weeks. End of June. I’ve got a couple pieces to finish still.”

  “Rosie said someone wants to mass-produce your furniture.”

  “The gallery owner set up a meeting with a manufacturer while I’m there. We’ll see. Think about coming with me, Evan. I mean it.”

  “Your grill’s smoking.”

  Jonah turned back to the stove and saw the French toast would be a pinch too brown, as CJ put it. He flipped it over. He should stick with what he could control—the food on his grill and the wood in his shop.

  People were too damned difficult.

  He kept his focus all day until he found himself cleaning up with CJ, just the two of them. She’d sent Ernesto home early for some family deal. “I’ve almost got him talked into waiting tables,” she said to Jonah, shoving plates into the dishwasher.

  “How’d you manage that?”

 
“I found out the reason he didn’t want to. His sisters told him his accent was bad and people would think he was illegal. Can you believe that?”

  “That’s why?”

  “So I told him his English is as good as mine, which it is, and that his sisters were messing with him the way siblings do. Anyway, did you know he cooks?”

  “He does?”

  “Yeah. I sent him home so he can make the tamales for his cousin’s quinceañera tomorrow. He makes his own tortillas, too. You should use him more.”

  “Yeah.” The woman had been in his kitchen three days and found out more about Ernesto than he’d learned in eight months.

  “Your brother was nice,” she said. “Easy to talk to.”

  “He’s everybody’s best friend, all right.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being friendly.”

  “There is if you’re a drunk. His best friends are drinking buddies, okay?” He did not want to get into this with her. Already, he had a knot in his gut. “Look, could we just…work?”

  “Sorry. Just making conversation.”

  He turned away to wipe down the front of the oven. He’d been harsh.

  When he turned to apologize, though, she was happily bobbing her head, dancing as she carried pots to the sink, earbud cord leading to her back pocket. Guess she’d gotten over her hurt.

  Damn, could she move.

  He forced himself back to work, scraping the French toast crusts off his grill. That was her fault, too. She’d done nothing but make more work for him and—

  She shimmied past him and his hand slipped and he jabbed his thumb with the scraper, drawing blood. “Dammit!” He shook the injured hand.

  She whirled, her eyes huge. “Did I bump you? I’m so sorry. Is it bad?” She reached for his hand.

  “I’ve got it.” He squeezed the cut to stop the blood. “Just…don’t be so…disruptive.”

  “Disruptive?” She stared at him.

  “All that…” He made two fingers dance. What the hell was he saying?

  “Hold it.” She put her hands on her hips. “You’re saying my dancing made you cut yourself?”

  He cleared his throat, his face hotter than it got when he had every inch of grill firing up beef. “You distracted me, okay?” he said in a low voice.

  “Well, you distract me, too, but I don’t blame you when I goof up.”

  “I distract you?”

  Their eyes met and held. “You do.” Her blue eyes sparkled, her lips parted and she heaved a sigh.

  The hot pop of oil in his chest became a splash. In the steamy kitchen, he wanted to shove the soup-crusted pots to the floor and pull her onto the steel table and kiss her senseless.

  What the hell? He shook his head to break the trance.

  She stepped back, watching him. “Sorry you got hurt.”

  “No big deal.”

  “About your brother, I know how hard it is when someone you love has demons to fight and you’re stuck on the sidelines.”

  Exactly. A connection snapped between them like a flicked switch. It wasn’t sexual. It was personal. He felt less alone. Damn. “Yeah. Anyway, I need to finish up.”

  “I’ll try not to be so disruptive. Wouldn’t want you to lop off a limb.” She grinned and hip-swayed away.

  He turned and scraped the grill so hard he expected to raise curls of stainless steel. He should have let her shake her moneymaker until she wore it out. Torturing his libido was one thing.

  Touching his heart was something else entirely.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “TOO BAD ABOUT Rusty’s unit,” Rosie said cheerfully over the supper dishes that night. “We’ll just make the best of it.” The woman wasn’t even trying to hide her delight.

  Cara felt glum. They were stuck another day. What if he had to order parts? It made her heart race to think about it.

  “Now that green sauce you put on the spaghetti,” Rosie said, drying a plate. “What was it again?”

  “Huh? Oh. Pesto. Throw basil, pine nuts, Parmesan, garlic and olive oil into the food processor and flip the switch. Really easy.”

  She’d brought up the food processor from the café pantry, where she’d found the coffee grinder, as well as an industrial citrus press she’d used to make fresh lemonade. People had loved it, which had really boosted her confidence. Rosie had inspired her.

  “Too much fuss for one person.”

  “The basil’s right in your garden.”

  “The garden’s too much fuss, as well. I’m too old to be crawling around in the dirt.” She sounded depressed all of a sudden.

  “You’re not that old,” Cara said.

  “I’m sixty. That’s plenty old in my family.”

  Rosie said it so ominously that Cara stopped washing and turned to her. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “’Course I am.” She slammed the cupboard door hard enough to rattle the china inside. “And when I’m not, there’s nothing to be done about it.” Rosie dropped into a chair at the table, tossing the red-checked dish towel over her shoulder. “Let the rest air dry.” She sounded weak.

  Like Grandma before her heart attack.

  Cara put down her sponge, dried her hands and sat across from Rosie.

  “Quit eyeballing me like that,” Rosie said. “I’m fine. I’m about done with the café, too. Writing’s on the wall. No one wants to sit down to a meal anymore. It’s all fast-food, rush, rush, gulp it down. When a café’s done, it’s done.” She shrugged, then tried to smile, but failed. “Besides, closing the place is about the only way I’ll get rid of Jonah.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He came here to sort out Evan. Evan’s sorted, but Jonah’s still here.”

  “I get the feeling Jonah doesn’t think Evan’s okay.”

  “That’s Mr. Doom and Gloom for you. His divorce ran him down and he hasn’t peeled himself off the tarmac yet.”

  Rosie reached for the jelly bean bowl on the counter and set it in the center of the table. She fished out two black ones and popped them in her mouth.

  Black meant bad luck will befall you.

  “What happened? Do you know?” Cara ate a green jelly bean to reverse it.

  “Hardly. The man’s secretive as a spy. I have to think it started with the miscarriage.”

  “His wife lost a baby?”

  “Two of ’em. Twin girls. Seven months along, I think.”

  “How devastating.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Rosie ate a yellow jelly bean, then tossed in a blue one. You’ll come into money.... You’ll take a trip.

  “You should have heard him when she got pregnant. He was so amazed. It was like he’d won the lottery and a trip to the moon, like he couldn’t believe his luck, even though millions of people have babies every day.”

  “But then he lost them.” Cara couldn’t imagine that heartbreak.

  “He sent me a card. Couldn’t face the phone, I guess. Wrote that the babies were gone. Gone. That was how he put it.”

  Thinking of Jonah, Cara ate an orange jelly bean, which meant your wish will come true. “When did that happen?”

  “Two years ago. The divorce, I have no idea. When he offered to come out to help Evan and me, I said, What about your business? What about your wife? Know what he said?”

  “No.”

  “Same thing he’d said about those babies—They’re gone.”

  “His wife and his business?”


  “That’s all he would say.”

  “He seems to be a private person.”

  “And no good comes of that. Bottle it up and it just ferments. We have enough trouble with things that ferment in this family. He’s still moping around, expecting the worst from Evan.”

  “Healing takes time.” Cara knew that firsthand. She’d recovered quickly from her head injury, but the trauma to her soul had lingered for months and months. She’d been strong for Beth Ann, but inside she’d been a shaky mess. College had helped, given her a mission. She’d just begun to feel whole when the news of Barrett’s release came and tore her apart again.

  “Yeah, well he’ll heal right quick if I close the café out from under him.” Rosie picked up a few candies, frowned, then threw them back into the bowl. “Hell, we’re eating up Bunny’s poker pot.”

  She rose to set the bowl beside the deck of cards on the counter, then dropped heavily into the chair, staring out the window for a bit. “Forty years is plenty long to keep a promise, don’t you think?” She searched Cara’s face.

  “You mean to Eddie? About the café? He’d want you to be happy. If you don’t enjoy the café any longer, then—”

  “Oh, I love the place. That’s not it. Like I said, when the end’s upon you, you surrender. I don’t have time to—” She stopped abruptly. “It’s just time,” she finished, though that wasn’t what she’d started to say, Cara could tell.

  Rosie clearly didn’t want to close the café, but she felt she had to. “It sounds like you lost customers to the fast-food places and maybe the bistro, but you can get them back. The French toast was a hit—receipts were up, Jonah said—and Evan had a great idea about selling the new coffee to go.”

  “You sound like Eddie. He was Mr. Never Say Die. The man saw what he wanted to see. In a way that’s what saved me. He saw fire and spirit in me when I felt as dead and cold as a rosebush in winter. He loved me like I was worth it. After a while I felt like I was.”

  “That’s how love is supposed to work,” Cara said, her throat tight at the thought. It was what she’d naively hoped for when she’d married Barrett.