The Enchanted Garden Cafe (South Side Stories Book 1)

by Abigail Drake

  “Did the hospital call?”

  She came to the doorway, stirring something in a bowl she balanced on her hip. “No, but Kate and Chad went to see him. They said he’s resting peacefully.”

  Peacefully. Moses had never hurt another living soul by word or by deed in all the time I’d known him. He didn’t deserve this. I stared around the quiet, sunny room with hollow eyes. I’d learned long ago life wasn’t fair, but this was so much worse than fair or not fair. This seemed senseless and intentionally cruel.

  When I looked at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, I realized I’d slept much later than intended. I shuffled into the kitchen and grabbed a cup of coffee. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “You needed to sleep. Last night was a terrible shock.”

  I frowned. “But . . .”

  “Hush, Fi. Enjoy your coffee. You work too hard.”

  I carried my coffee back to the window seat, one of my favorite spots in the house. We kept most of our gift items in this room, and I’d spent many hours curled up here with my nose in a cookbook. I had an unhealthy addiction to anything by Julia Child, but my favorite cookbook was actually the well-worn journal full of recipes left behind by Aunt Francesca. Mom told me she’d been a magical cook, and insisted I’d inherited her aunt’s talents. As much as I doubted either one of us had any magical cookie-baking ability, reading her journal felt like a visit with an old friend. We were kindred spirits, and I understood her somehow. If we ever had met, we would have liked each other very much.

  I pulled the journal out, needing some time with Aunt Francesca and a chance to focus on something other than my worry about Moses. I also grabbed my copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child and leafed through it until I calmed down. Julia Child always did that to me. My culinary anchor.

  As I looked over a complicated and detailed recipe for puff pastry, the bell rang above our door and Matthew strolled in. I wasn’t wearing a bra and awkwardly folded my arms across my chest. “What are you doing here?”

  Mom seemed surprised at my tone. “Matt came to pick up his jacket. He left it here last night.”

  I guess I sounded a bit rude, but he didn’t act bothered. We sat around the island in the kitchen, talking about the events of the night before and about Moses.

  “I still can’t believe it happened,” said Mom.

  The memory of Moses lying helpless in a pool of blood made the shaking start again. Needing to change the subject, I turned to my mom. “We’d better get ready. We only have a few hours left before our guests start arriving.”

  “Oh, that’s plenty of time,” said Mom as she handed Matthew a steaming mug of coffee.

  “What’s going on today?” Matthew asked.

  Mom’s eyes sparkled. “Our afternoon tea party. It’s so much fun.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  I opened my mouth to tell him no, but she answered before I could speak. “Fiona could use some help setting up the buffet tables. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not.” Matthew took a sip of coffee and watched me over the rim of his mug, waiting for me to respond. He enjoyed this.

  “I don’t need any help,” I said.

  “Yes, you do.” Mom smiled sweetly at me, but I could tell she didn’t intend to back down. Great.

  I rolled my eyes at her, acting like an annoyed teenager, but couldn’t help it. She brought it out in me. “Fine. I’ll get dressed,” I said, stomping up the stairs.

  After a shower, I took my sweet time getting ready. Matthew Monroe could wait. I didn’t like the way my mother had pressured me into accepting his help or how he showed up here unannounced, and I still didn’t trust him.

  It was too early for Scott to be awake, but I sent him a text telling him about Moses. I felt oddly fragile, like the delicate wineglasses Mom kept on the top shelf of her china cabinet. One small bump and I might shatter into a million pieces. I wasn’t used to feeling like this. I didn’t like it. I needed to talk to Scott but was fairly certain he wouldn’t be up for hours.

  I tossed my phone onto the bed. The best way to get back to normal was to keep busy and work, and there was always plenty to do at the café. Hopefully I could distract myself and stop picturing Moses lying motionless on the ground.

  I sighed and opened the door of the antique wardrobe in the corner of my room. We always wore dresses for Sunday afternoon tea. Today, I chose a pale blue vintage one with tiny white polka dots. It had a sweetheart neckline with spaghetti straps and fit tightly around my waist, flaring out above my knees. It showed a bit more cleavage than I usually displayed, but it was a safe choice for a garden party. I put on a touch of makeup, pulled my hair into a tight chignon, slipped on a pair of flats, and went back downstairs.

  I hoped Matthew had given up and left but no such luck. He sat at the island, eating breakfast with Mom. Her eyes lit up when she saw me. “Oh. I love that dress. You look like Grace Kelly.”

  I doubted Matthew knew who Grace Kelly was, but he surprised me. “High Society. That’s it exactly.”

  “Did you know Grace Kelly was a friend of Aunt Francesca’s? I mean before she moved to Monaco and became a princess and everything.”

  I shook my head. “I had no idea.”

  “Aunt Francesca was quite the progressive. A single lady who traveled the world and had all kinds of adventures,” she said with a wistful look in her eyes. “Sometimes I feel like she’s still here. Looking over us. Don’t you feel that way, Fiona?”

  I couldn’t tell her I didn’t. That would seem cruel. Instead I just shrugged. “I guess so.”

  My mom, nonplussed, turned her radiant smile onto Matthew. “And do you know who you look like, Mr. Matthew Monroe?” she asked.

  He wiggled his eyebrows. “Cary Grant?”

  I shook my head. “No. He was in the original with Katharine Hepburn. Not the remake,” I said, getting a little flustered. “And you don’t look like him. Not at all.”

  “Who do I look like?” he asked softly.

  “A pirate,” I answered before I could stop myself. He laughed.

  “She’s right,” said Mom. “You do look like a pirate. Like that Orlando Blooms.”

  My eyes met Matthew’s, and we shared a smile. She’d gotten the person right but not the name. “Bloom, not Blooms,” I said.

  She lifted her hands in defeat. “I’m a gardener. I can’t help it. Go set up the tables, you two.”

  We put the long buffet tables on either side of the garden and covered them with pretty lace tablecloths. We’d come to an unspoken agreement not to talk about Moses anymore or what had happened the night before. I hung on by a tiny emotional thread. Surprisingly, Matthew proved to be extremely good company and very distracting. He lightened my mood, but I chalked it up to the fact it was a beautiful, sunny morning. At this point I operated on only a tiny bit of sleep and lots of coffee.

  “Are you a student?” he asked as we straightened the cloths on the buffet tables. Mom brought out the linens for the individual tables, and we covered them as well.

  “I graduated with a double major in accounting and finance a few years ago. I’ve been working on my MBA, and I’ll finish next semester.”

  “Accounting, huh? Do you keep the books for your mom?”

  I froze. “Why do you ask?”

  Matthew looked surprised at my tone. “Just curious.”

  I handed him another tablecloth, and we spread it over a table. “I’ve been doing the books since I was ten.”

  I could take care of the taxes, too, but a sweet old man named Mr. Jenkins had done them for years. It didn’t cost much, and I didn’t have the heart to take the job away from him.

  “That’s a lot of responsibility.”

  I shrugged. “I like numbers. They make sense.”

  “Unlike people.”

  I stared right at him. “Some people.”

  Mom brought out the plates, and we worked together. We had the afternoon tea down to a science
. It was a reservation-only event and always fully booked. Mom had worked in a teashop in England once during her misspent youth. She knew how to do it right.

  We set each table with a fancy assortment of mismatched china and silverware. Mom made flower arrangements, and we put the vases full of fresh flowers in the center of each table. The elegant porcelain teapots were ready and waiting in the kitchen. Mom had already mixed up several varieties of tea and kept them warm in giant pots on the stove.

  We loaded up the tables with a variety of finger sandwiches and savory snacks. There were cheese boards with an assortment of English cheeses, slices of fresh apple, and mango chutney. Plates full of scones sat next to bowls of fresh cream and homemade jam. Tiny cakes decorated with edible flowers and miniature fruit tarts looked too good to eat. I was in charge of cookies and usually baked several different kinds. We set plates of those on each table as well.

  “What are the teas today?” I asked as we put on the finishing touches.

  “Earl Grey and an English Breakfast tea for the conservatives, a bright Orange Pekoe for the slightly adventurous, and my own Tea of Love for those who want to live on the wild side. It has cinnamon, spice, and everything nice in it.”

  “I’d like to try that one,” said Matthew with a grin, and she handed each of us a cup.

  I downed my tea, enjoying the complex flavors and the delicious rush of warmth, and turned to Matthew. “Are you planning on staying?” I wasn’t trying to be rude, but Matthew seemed to bring it out in me.

  “Oh, please stay, Matt. It’ll be fun,” said Mom, taking his arm and misunderstanding why I’d asked the question in the first place.

  “It’s all women . . .” I began, but she interrupted me.

  “Exactly. The tea ladies will love Matthew.”

  She was right. As the older ladies strolled into the shop in their floral dresses, hats, and gloves, Matthew charmed the silk stockings right off them. Most were in their seventies and eighties, but they shamelessly flirted and chatted with him, making him the star of the show. He kept the ladies entertained as we got them seated, and kindly agreed to play the guitar as they ate.

  We put him on a stool in the back of the garden, and I had to admit it was a nice view. He’d pulled his dark hair back into a ponytail and wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, which showed off his tanned forearms. He had the yin and yang necklace on again and several bracelets made of random bits of leather and string. He looked as tasty as the scones on the buffet table, if a person was into that whole sexy bohemian musician thing.

  While he played, people stopped talking and listened. He had that effect. Even someone who knew nothing about music could tell from the minute Matthew touched the guitar he was something special.

  He played older music that suited the crowd, and some of them hummed and sang along. He also played classical pieces, which came as a pleasant surprise and fit the mood of the tea party perfectly. The old ladies smiled, enjoying themselves.

  Mom stood next to me. “He really is something, isn’t he?”

  I nodded but couldn’t take my eyes off him. He did that to me when he played, and he was so focused on his music I could watch him unnoticed, a bonus. Unfortunately, it didn’t last very long. He looked up and his eyes found mine, and suddenly it felt a little hard to breathe.

  “This is a song I started working on last night. It isn’t finished yet.”

  Matthew played, and the sounds of our fountain resonated in his song. As the music swelled, horrible sadness overtook me, and I realized that after last night and what happened to Moses, nothing would ever be the same again.

  I put down my serving tray and left the garden. Mom gave me a worried glance, and I felt Matthew’s puzzled gaze on my back, but I kept going. By the time I reached the interior of the shop, tears rolled down my cheeks. I forced myself to pull it together. We didn’t have time for this today.

  Mom followed me into the shop. “Are you all right?” I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I’d dried my tears, but she could tell something was wrong. “You were crying.”

  I shook my head. “Something flew in my eye. A bug. Or dust. I’m fine.”

  She placed a gentle hand on my cheek. “You don’t always have to be so strong, you know. You’re allowed to cry and feel and have moments of weakness. The world won’t fall apart without you holding it together.”

  A group of tea ladies, full of good food and tea, came in, ready to shop. One of them, a sweet, little old thing in a blue dress with a matching hat, approached us. “I’d like to buy some of that tea we had today. It was wonderful.”

  “The Tea of Love?” asked Mom with a warm smile. “I’ll get some for you.”

  When Mom went to get the tea, Old Blue Hat pulled me aside. “I have to know, how does she do it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her teas are incredible. I’ve never tasted anything like them. And they work.”

  “Work?” I frowned, confused.

  “When I first started coming here, my joints ached constantly. She gave me a tea that took all the pain away. I can walk and bend and even do a little dancing.” She demonstrated with a little wiggle of her hips. “And after she gave us the Elixir of Youth tea, I honestly feel ten years younger.”

  “That’s nice,” I said, not sure where this was going.

  “Today’s Tea of Love was fantastic. I feel . . . romantic. I know you must have had some too. I saw you cry when the nice young man played his guitar.”

  “I had dust in my eye. And a bug.”

  She looked unconvinced. “Your mom has some kind of special magic. I’m sure of it. I can spot someone with the gift a mile away.”

  I wanted to groan but controlled myself. “She knows a great deal about herbs, and some teas have anti-inflammatory properties . . .”

  “Then how do you explain the inflammation to my libido? My Harry is going to be a happy man this evening.”

  The idea of Old Blue Hat and her husband getting it on was more than I could handle. I wanted to erase that image from my mind forever.

  “And you have to admit he is a looker,” she said.

  “Who?” I hoped she wasn’t talking about Harry. I didn’t want to know what Harry looked like. The name was enough.

  “The boy with the guitar. If I were forty or fifty years younger . . .” She fanned herself with a white-gloved hand.

  Mom brought out the tea, and I rang up her order. We packaged the specialty teas in sheer silk bags tied with satin flowers like pretty little sachets.

  I decided to clarify things. “There is nothing going on between the guitar guy and me. Nothing at all.”

  Old Blue Hat gave me a knowing wink. “It didn’t look that way.”

  “I have a boyfriend, and I’m happy, so happy I can barely stand it.”

  “You’re a lucky girl.”

  “Yes, I am. Thank you. Have a nice day.” I forced a pleasant smile onto my face. Old Blue Hat meant no harm, but she annoyed me.

  When I turned to restock the shelves, I slammed right into a wall of solid muscle. Matthew stood there with a strange expression on his face. “That guy last night was your boyfriend? The suit?”

  “His name is Scott.”

  Matthew looked like he was about to speak, but one of the women came up with a stone phallus. “Is this a dildo?” she asked in her sweet little-old-lady voice.

  Matthew choked back a laugh and walked away, leaving me to answer her question on my own. I found nothing humorous about the situation. “No, ma’am, it’s a fertility charm.”

  “Oh,” she said, comprehension dawning in her bright-blue eyes. “A virility charm. I’ll take two.”

  Mom came to the counter, and I pulled her aside. “What did you put in their tea?”

  She noticed the crowd gathering around the stone phalluses and grinned. “Cinnamon, spice, and everything nice. I told you that already. Have some more. It’s delicious.”

  “No, thanks. We’ve all had enoug
h.”

  We sold half our inventory of stone phalluses in one afternoon to a bunch of senior citizens. I wouldn’t have been surprised if there was some kind of aphrodisiac or hallucinogen in Mom’s tea. Another thing we could get into trouble for and yet another thing to worry about.

  It wasn’t until much later, long after the sun had set in the sky, when I finally went up to my room and had a chance to check my phone. I had a bunch of messages and missed calls, but Scott never texted me back, and oddly enough, I didn’t even care. I had no desire to talk to anyone tonight, not even the boyfriend who supposedly made me so blissfully happy. I decided not to read into that. Not at all. Instead, I turned off my phone, set my alarm clock, and went straight to bed.

  Chapter Five

  Mondays require excessive amounts of coffee.

  ~Aunt Francesca~

  Monday, my favorite day of the entire week, always felt like a fresh start. A new beginning. Since the shop was closed, I usually spent the day making cookies for the next tea party, relaxing, and hanging out with Mom.

  I called the hospital while still in my room. There was no change in Moses’s condition, and visiting hours wouldn’t start for a few hours. I cradled the phone in my hand, knowing I couldn’t do anything to help him right now. I had to be patient and wait.

  The Monday newspaper contained the easiest crossword puzzle of the week, another great thing about Mondays. I planned to have a leisurely breakfast and a giant mug of coffee, finish the crossword, and spend the rest of the morning baking in my nice, quiet kitchen.

  I already felt the summer heat filling the house, even with all the windows open, and it would get even warmer once the ovens started. I put on a white cami and a tiny pair of shorts and skipped down the steps, about to run out to get the paper, when I realized something odd. All the blinds were still closed, and the shop seemed dark. Mom normally awoke at dawn and always opened them as soon as she came downstairs. It had something to do with the sun god Ra and welcoming him into our house, or some such nonsense. She never, ever left the blinds closed. Something weird was going on.