Jane pulled a cup from the stack and reached for the bottle of syrup. “Coming right up.”
Suzy took off her sunglasses to inspect the dining room. “What a mess. Bless your heart. I’m surprised you’re even open.”
Jane tamped the shot with a little more pressure than was strictly necessary. “Actually, the crew’s been very considerate.”
Before Gabe left on Friday night, he’d cleared away the chunks of old drywall, tearing down the temporary frame he’d built to support the weight of the roof. But the raw wood stood out like a wound in the smooth-skinned walls, the wiring exposed like bare nerves.
“How long are they going to take?”
“End of the week,” Jane said, steaming the soy milk. “You’ll have to come back and see our new patio space.”
“It’s a wonderful view,” Emmalee said. “Is that Marta Lopez’s boy outside? My, he’s grown up fine. Who’s that with him?”
Jane resisted the urge to look. “Gabe Murphy.”
Suzy’s eyes swiveled like a ghost crab’s, dark and beady. “The convict?”
Her voice was loud enough to attract attention. Lauren Patterson, behind her in line, raised her head from her phone.
“He’s a friend of Luke Fletcher’s,” Jane said. “They served in the Marines together.”
“I heard he killed a man out West someplace.”
Jane snapped the lid on Suzy’s latte. “He was acquitted.”
“Well, you know what they say. No smoke without a fire. I wouldn’t have him around my place. I’d be afraid I’d be murdered in my bed.”
“I’d like him to come around my bed,” Emmalee said. “Look at those arms.”
That long, lean body, those rippling arms, those hard, competent hands.
Bang bang. Jane flinched. Pop pop pop. Like nails on a chalkboard, but much, much louder.
“Let me give you a hand,” Lauren said, sliding behind the counter with a loaded dishpan. “Hi, Emmalee. Suzy. How was your walk?”
Jane took advantage of the interruption to serve the next customer. By the time she’d bagged their order—one cheese Danish, one chocolate chunk scone, and half a dozen cupcakes—Lauren had loaded the tray of dirty dishes into the dishwasher and was checking the levels in the milk pitchers.
Lauren had worked part-time at the bakery last summer, when she was supposed to be writing a follow-up book to her first bestseller about her experience as a hostage in a bank robbery. According to Marta Lopez at the police station, Lauren was actually sort of famous. She didn’t need to work for tips and wages.
“You don’t have to do that,” Jane protested.
“I enjoy it. And you’ve got your hands full.” Lauren shook the thermos of half-and-half before unscrewing the top. “I didn’t think the season started until Memorial Day.”
That’s right, Jane realized. This was Lauren’s first spring on the island. “Things start to pick up around Easter. I’ve already hired more help.”
“Thalia?”
Thalia Hamilton, Josh Fletcher’s girlfriend, had worked for Jane last year.
Jane swept crumbs from the counter, running an eye over the tables. “I e-mailed her. She’s not sure yet if she’s staying in France this summer. So I hired another girl for the front of house, and someone to help me in the kitchen. He’s a dishwasher at the Brunswick now, but he wants to train as a pastry chef. I’m really flattered he’s leaving the restaurant to work here.”
“Of course he wants to work with you.” Lauren refilled the sugar dispenser. “You’re the best. Don’t you make all the desserts for the Brunswick?”
Jane flushed, pleased and surprised. She was competent. In her whole life, nobody had ever called her the best at anything. “Except for the gelato. And the crème brûlée.” She watched as Lauren grabbed a rag and the bottle of sanitizer from under the counter. “Here, I can do that. You go home to Jack.”
“Jack’s directing traffic out of the Methodist church parking lot.”
“In that case . . .” Jane wiped her hands on her apron. “Do you have a minute to stick around? I did want to talk with you. If you have time.”
“Absolutely.”
The bakery bells rang as more customers straggled in, a father with three little kids, a young couple stuck together at the hip.
As Jane filled the father’s order, the boy behind him in line hooked one arm around his girlfriend’s neck, pulling her closer. She leaned into his side, tucking her fingers into his back jeans pocket. Something about the way they touched each other, so casual, so confident, so young, made Jane’s throat ache.
She swallowed and looked away, focusing on the father’s order. “Sorry, we’re all out of bear claws. How about an apple fritter instead?”
Pay me in muffins, Gabe had said. Or chocolate chip cookies. Or dog food. Whatever you want.
What she wanted apparently wasn’t on the table.
She bagged the apple fritter along with the last two cinnamon buns and a chocolate chunk scone and handed them across the counter. “Have a nice day. What can I get you?” she asked the young couple.
“What do you want, babe?” the boy asked.
She snuggled closer under his arm, pressing her breasts to his side. “Whatever you want, babe.”
Jane gritted her teeth. It wasn’t Gabe’s fault he’d stirred her up and then refused to do anything about it.
Okay, yes, it was.
But he was right about one thing. She wasn’t some teenaged girl hanging on to her boyfriend. She was a grown woman. She had enough going on in her life without getting her panties in a twist over Gabe Murphy.
She rang up the couple and then counted her remaining pastries. Two apple turnovers, three berry muffins, four scones.
“Are you all right?” Lauren asked.
It was almost time to flip the OPEN sign to CLOSED. Should she risk running out? Or bake another half dozen Danish and risk throwing some away?
“What?”
“You seem distracted,” Lauren said.
“I’m fine.” She could always give the leftovers to Lauren. Or to the crew outside. Eat that, Gabe Murphy.
Which sounded vaguely dirty. Sexual. She flushed.
“You need to take something home with you,” she said to Lauren. “What about the lemon ricotta tarts? Jack likes those.”
“Sweetie, I would never say no to your tarts. But you don’t have to pay me in pastry.” Lauren smiled. “Contrary to what you may have been taught, help doesn’t always come with strings attached.”
Jane opened her mouth to explain. Shut it again. She wasn’t paying Lauren back, exactly. Feeding people made her feel good. Made her feel valued on a deep, human, fundamental level. Everybody needed to eat. Why shouldn’t she be the one who got to feed them?
The bell over the bakery door jangled, and Gabe walked in, bringing the scent of the outdoors into her warm, fragrant bakery: sea air and sweat, freshly cut wood and machine grease. Man in tool belt. Ridiculously hot. Whatever he’d been up to last night had not involved shaving, because the sexy pirate stubble was back, tempting her to test it with her thumb. Her breath came faster. Beneath her apron, between her breasts, a sheen of perspiration formed.
He nodded to Lauren. To Jane. “Heard you’re closed tomorrow.”
The simmering inside her bubbled over into speech. “It’s Monday. We’re closed every Monday. It’s usually a slow day anyway, and I need the time to catch up on paperwork. Plus, you know, it’s nice to have one day off a week.”
Lauren glanced at her, clearly wondering what provoked her babbling. Why are you talking? Shut up, shut up.
Gabe sent her another long, level look. “Forecast is for rain. Sam’s pulling the crew to install cabinets on some upfit in town.”
Ashley Ingram’s coffeehouse. Jane clamped a lid on her boiling emotions, fighting to match his cool delivery. “All right. I appreciate you letting me know.”
“I told him I’m taking a personal day. Got some business in t
he morning. But I can be here in the afternoon to do your drywall.”
Oh. Her knees just melted. “I . . . Thank you. That’s really nice of you.”
He gave her a long look. “Just finishing what I started.”
Her heart quivered.
“Really?” she asked sweetly. “Because I thought that wasn’t happening.”
His eyes shuttered. He turned without another word and walked away.
“Wow,” Lauren said as the door closed behind him. “What’s up with you? That was almost snarky.”
Jane opened the cash drawer, hoping Lauren wouldn’t notice her hot face. “Nothing’s up. Why would you think anything was up?”
“You said you wanted to talk.”
“About Aidan,” Jane said. “I was wondering . . . That is, I hoped . . . Did you have a chance to talk with his teacher yet?”
“Caught her in the break room on Friday. I should have told you first thing. The good news is, he’s doing well in class. Sylvie says he’s paying attention and following directions.”
“I check his homework. His grades are good.”
“His grades are great. Socially, he’s on the quiet side, but he has a couple of friends he usually plays with at recess.”
Jane nodded. “Chris Poole and Hannah Lodge. But what about the fighting?”
“Sylvie hasn’t seen anything that concerns her. Some roughhousing on the playground, but that’s not unusual.”
“Bullying?”
“Not that she’s observed.” Lauren hesitated. “Of course, teasing is common at this age. Sometimes it’s a way for children to cement their own social status. Boys especially are very conscious of their rank within the group. So they look for weaknesses, things that may set another child apart.”
Jane’s stomach pitched. “Like not having a father.”
Lauren’s eyes were warm and sympathetic. “Or having a father in prison.”
“I read that book you gave me. We talked about it. But Travis left us right after Aidan was born. It’s not like his dad was part of his life before.”
“I know it doesn’t seem logical. Or fair. But kids don’t always react logically. Have you seen any change in Aidan’s behavior at home? Acting out, difficulty sleeping, or issues with eating? New fears? Bed-wetting?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Well, that’s good,” Lauren said, her tone encouraging. “Kids are pretty resilient. It might do him some good to talk with someone, though.”
Which was the nicest possible way to say, Your kid needs a shrink.
“Would you talk with him?”
“If that’s what you want.”
“Will the other kids tease him? If you pull him out of class?”
Lauren patted her arm. “I’ll find a way.”
“Thanks.” Jane rubbed at a nonexistent spot on the counter. “My dad thinks I’m making a mountain out of a molehill.”
“Is that what you think?”
“I think Aidan keeps things bottled up inside. I think he needs to find a way to talk about what happened last summer.”
“When Travis tried to kidnap him.”
Jane winced. “Yes.” It wasn’t only Aidan who bottled things up inside.
“Maybe you need to talk about it, too,” Lauren said gently.
“I’m fine,” Jane said. Times like this, she missed Mom more than ever. She hadn’t had a mother’s care, a mother’s love, a mother’s guidance for such a long time. How could she know if she was doing the right thing for Aidan? “I just wish I knew how to help him.”
“You care. That’s the important part. Just listen. It would help if you could model good communication at home,” Lauren said. “Set an example. Talk about your feelings.”
Jane thought of her dad in his recliner watching ESPN. “I’ll try.”
“Aidan needs to know he can come to you to talk about anything. Even if it’s scary or hard to say.”
“Okay.”
“Good communication doesn’t just happen. It takes timing and practice. Sometimes you have to start by sharing the small stuff and work your way up.”
“Small stuff.” Jane nodded. “You bet.”
“Want to give it a try?”
“Now?”
“No time like the present.” Lauren leaned against the back of the counter, helping herself to a cookie sample. “Why don’t you tell me about you and Gabe?”
Jane smiled. “Nice try.”
“Come on, this is practice,” Lauren reminded her.
Jane felt her color rise. She glanced around the nearly empty bakery. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“You’ve been seeing a lot of each other lately.”
“I see all the crew.”
“Jack says you and Gabe were alone together last Friday night.”
Which meant Dad had been complaining to the chief of police. Jane winced. “He was just being nice. He installed that patio door.”
“Was that all he did? Because when he came in a minute ago, you could cut the tension with a knife.”
Dear Lauren. Jane was willing to share her failings as a parent. Anything to help Aidan. But her crappy love life? Not so much.
On the other hand, Lauren had every reason to be suspicious, every right to be concerned about the consequences of Jane’s poor choices, man-wise. When Travis came around the bakery last summer, demanding money and threatening to take Aidan away, Lauren had been hurt trying to stop him. Jane owed Lauren.
She owed Gabe, too. Whatever he’d done—or not done—he didn’t deserve Lauren’s suspicions.
“It’s nothing.” Jane lowered her voice. “He just . . . He kissed me, okay?”
A pause, while she pretended to count the twenties in the cash register. Her heart measured the time in beats. Thud. Thud. Thud.
“Did you want him to kiss you?” Lauren asked at last.
Her blood got hot even thinking about it. “I don’t know. Maybe.” No, that wasn’t fair to Gabe, either. “Yes.”
Lauren made an interested hum. “And . . . ?”
“And nothing.” Jane slapped the cash drawer shut. Ping. “It was a mistake.”
“Why do you say that?” Lauren asked gently.
Because that’s what he called it. The memory stung heat to Jane’s face. “Because I’m no good at it. I don’t have any experience. I send out the wrong signals or something.”
Lauren’s dark eyes were concerned. “Jane . . . did he pressure you? Because you need to feel comfortable setting boundaries with a new partner. It’s important for you to feel satisfied and safe.”
Jane wiped her hands on her apron. “Are you talking about sex?”
Lauren smiled. Shrugged. “Occupational hazard. I’m a therapist. We’re always talking about sex.”
“Because I’m fine with sex,” Jane said. At least, she thought she would be, if she ever got the chance. “He didn’t push. It was the opposite of pushing. He kissed me”—the memory of his mouth, warm and sure and urgent, surged through her like a wave—“and then, for a week, nothing.”
“Ah.”
Jane flushed. “What does that mean?”
Lauren took another cookie. “That maybe you’re ready for more than kisses?”
“I don’t know what I’m ready for,” Jane muttered. And now she would never find out. Darn it.
“Mm. I call bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“When Gabe stopped, how did that make you feel?”
This was so humiliating. “I don’t know. I don’t go around analyzing my feelings. I just want to hit him with a sauté pan.”
“You’re angry.”
“Oh, no,” Jane said automatically. She didn’t get angry. She was too afraid of driving people away.
Anger was unproductive and volatile. Dangerous. Expressing anger only made other people mad at you. Made Dad withdraw deeper into himself and his recliner, made Travis explode. It was better, safer, not to feel at all.
“You sound angry,�
� Lauren observed.
“Well, I’m not,” Jane snapped. “I’m . . .” Hurt. Disappointed. Frustrated. “Furious,” she blurted out.
Oopsy. Maybe she was a little mad after all.
She stared at Lauren, waiting for the sky to fall. Outside, the nail gun rattled against the sheathing of the house.
“Well, that sounds honest. And perfectly healthy to me,” Lauren said.
Jane blinked. “It does?”
“Absolutely. You’re both single, healthy adults, with adult needs. You have every right to be up-front with him and expect him to be up-front with you.”
“He was up-front,” Jane said. “He told me he wasn’t interested in a relationship.”
“After he kissed you.”
Jane nodded. She understood the brain chemistry of pleasure and reward, how to tempt a sweet tooth with sugar or tease an appetite with salt. But Gabe’s kiss was like chocolate, smooth, rich, dark, delicious. The cravings it provoked were almost unhealthy.
“So you’re not the only one sending mixed signals,” Lauren observed.
“He . . . I . . .” She swallowed. “He kissed me like . . .” Her hands, her capable, scarred hands, fluttered in the air, helpless to describe his kiss. “He’s a really good kisser,” she said lamely. “I thought, if he wants me . . . Well, why not? Let him do it. And instead . . .” She drew a sharp breath. “He backs off and tells me I have too much going on in my life already. Like I’m too stupid to decide for myself what I want.”
Lauren raised an eyebrow. “‘Let him do it’?”
“It. You know.” Jane flapped her hands again. “Let him sweep me off my feet.”
“Mm. Are you angry because you wanted him to take control so that you wouldn’t have the responsibility of making the decision?” Lauren asked. “Or are you angry because he did take responsibility and you didn’t get what you want?”
Yes. Darn it. “Both,” she admitted.
“You do understand that those are incompatible positions?”
Jane looked at her hands. Oh, look, another burn. She rubbed at it absently. “I guess.”
“So, what are you going to do about it?”
Carolina Dreaming: A Dare Island Novel Page 12
