by Hillary Avis
Bethany trudged over to the station and waved to Olive through the bakery window, pointing to the door questioningly. Olive saw her and waved her inside. Bethany helped her carry Marigold’s leftover soup out to her car, a green station wagon that was nearly the same color as the split peas.
“We have to make it snappy. I left Garrett at the register again.” Even Olive looked tired after today’s events.
“He’s not a fan of dealing with customers, is he?” Bethany settled into the passenger seat and closed the door as Olive started the car.
“He doesn’t mind that so much.” Olive nosed the car out of the parking lot and headed downtown. “He’s just put in a lot of time today already, and he’s not feeling great these days.”
These days. Meaning it wasn’t just a passing cold virus. “Is something wrong? Is he OK?”
Olive kept her eyes trained on the road. It was Newbridge’s equivalent of rush hour, and while the town never backed up with traffic the way New Haven did at this time of day, enough cars were on the street that driving seemed to capture her full attention. “He’ll be fine.”
She was usually so chatty and open. Why wasn’t she explaining Garrett’s health situation—was she hiding something? It’s probably just something embarrassing like hemorrhoids, Bethany chastised herself. Still... “Is that why you were gone today during the lunch rush?”
“Yes and no.”
“What were you up to? Garrett said you had errands, but usually you run your errands later in the day.”
Olive pulled the car into the small lot behind the homeless shelter. “Here we are.” She practically jumped out of the car, leaving Bethany to wonder if she was just eager to get back to Garrett or if she was avoiding the question. Maybe she’s just not ready to talk about it, yet. It could be something serious—Alzheimer’s, maybe.
She scrambled out of the car and helped Olive carry the soup into the building. They entered through a low doorway into a sterile, tiled hallway.
“This way,” Olive said, turning to the left, and Bethany followed her into a large kitchen. Everything in it, from the floor to the countertops, was white, and rows of gleaming steel utensils and pots and pans hung from hooks on the walls. The air was filled with the smell of chickens roasting in the massive pair of ovens.
Bethany stopped and marveled at the space. “Wow, I wish I had a kitchen like this.”
“The kitchen at the café is lovely!” Olive said. “On three. One, two...”
They hefted the stock pot onto the range, and Bethany clicked the knob until the burner came on, then turned it down to the lowest flame. “It’s great, but Café Sabine isn’t my kitchen. I’m just lucky Kimmy works there and doesn’t mind me taking up space during her prep.”
A woman poked her head out of a doorway Bethany hadn’t noticed. “I couldn’t help overhearing. If you want to cook here, we’d love to have you. We can always use more volunteers!” She emerged from the room—the pantry, Bethany realized—lugging a ten-pound sack of rice.
“Hi, Sister Bernadette,” Olive said, smiling. “We had a big pot of leftover soup at the station, and I thought you might be able to use it.”
“We made sure it stayed at temp,” Bethany added.
Sister Bernadette clasped her hands. “Wonderful! I take it you’re the soup genius Olive is always talking about?”
Bethany looked at Olive. “I guess so. This isn’t mine, though.”
“Well, it’s one of your recipes,” Olive said wryly.
“Either way, we are happy to have it. And I’m not joking about you cooking here. We could use someone with expertise to help with menu planning, too, so we’re eating more seasonally and wasting less food. Come see the rest of the place.” Sister Bernadette, a fiftyish woman with plain features and graying hair swooped into a low bun, didn’t seem prepared to take no for an answer.
“Olive really has to get back,” Bethany protested as the sister herded them into the dining room across the hall from the kitchen. If Garrett was experiencing dementia or another serious illness, she was sure Olive would be anxious to return.
“Don’t be silly, we can take a few minutes,” Olive said, her face smooth and unconcerned.
Maybe Garrett just had arthritis or an ingrown toenail, Bethany mused. But if his health problem wasn’t serious, why wouldn’t Olive have waited until after the lunch rush to run her errand? Even a couple of hours later would have been a better time to leave the bakery. Maybe the “errand” wasn’t about Garrett’s health at all. She quashed her suspicions and gave her full attention to Sister Bernadette as she showed them around the dining room.
“We set the dining room up like a restaurant. Our guests order from a short menu—just two entrée choices, usually. It gives them some dignity to sit down at tables with real tablecloths instead of standing in line.” Sister Bernadette smiled at a trio of women who were setting the tables for the evening meal. “Some of the guests work as wait staff, but we’re mostly volunteers. Oh, Ryan!” Sister Bernadette called to a man walking by in the hall. “We’ll have to add bowls to the tables tonight. Olive’s friend brought soup!”
“Really?” The man came into the dining room. Tall, with dark olive skin and brilliant green eyes, the man had one of those inscrutable ethnicities. His hair was twisted into short dreadlocks and his T-shirt clung to his fit frame, making Bethany rethink her whole “abs are gross” thing. He stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m Ryan, but I guess you know that.”
Bethany took his hand automatically and a jolt of electricity zipped up her arm that nearly took her breath away. “Bethany,” she said. “I have a soup kiosk down at Newbridge Station. It’s not my soup, though. I mean, what we brought.” Her face flushed, and Olive gave her a smug look.
“I’m sorry to hear about what happened at the station today. You must be shaken.” Ryan still hadn’t let go of Bethany’s hand.
“We’re all right,” Bethany said, glancing at Olive, who avoided her eye contact. “Happy for a distraction, though.”
Ryan finally dropped her hand. “Did Sister Bernadette invite you to volunteer? We’re desperate for another chef in the kitchen, especially on Saturday nights.”
Bethany could hardly look away from his magnetic gaze. Was this guy a volunteer or a shelter guest? Paint-splattered jeans, sneakers with holes in the toes...he wasn’t dressed like a professional doing charity work. “Uh, yes, she did.”
“So will you?” He looked eager and unselfconscious, like he didn’t know he was the most gorgeous thing on two legs.
“Please do,” Sister Bernadette said, gently touching Bethany’s elbow. “Think of it as a chance to try out new recipes on a very enthusiastic audience.”
“And to cook something other than soup!” Olive said. “You need to keep your skills sharp if you’re going to open that restaurant someday.”
Bethany put up her hands and laughed. “OK! I give up—I can’t resist all three of you. I’d love to help out.”
“Wonderful, just wonderful!” Sister Bernadette exclaimed. A wide smile lit her face. “Ryan, why don’t you finish the tour while Olive and I get bowls on the tables? Show Bethany what you’ve been working on.”
“We have to go,” Bethany protested, thinking of Garrett glowering behind the bakery counter. “The Honor Roll is still open and—”
Olive shook her head, winking at Bethany. “Nonsense. We have plenty of time.”
“It’s pointless to argue with these two,” Ryan said cheerfully. “Come on.”
Bethany resigned herself to the tour—it was clear she wasn’t getting out of it—and followed him down the hall. She looked back over her shoulder and Olive gave her a thumbs-up. Her cheeks burned, and she could hear Olive giggling as she and Ryan rounded the corner.
He pushed open a door. “This is the business center. It has laptops with internet access, phones, office supplies, cameras, a printer—”
“So people can apply for jobs?”
Ryan nodded. “Yeah, j
obs, but also fill out forms for housing, do taxes, run businesses, write papers for classes, all kinds of stuff. We’re really lucky to have it here.”
“Business owners and college students live in a homeless shelter?” Bethany asked. Ryan’s brow furrowed, and she immediately regretted the question.
“Stereotypes are dangerous. All kinds of people live here.” His face seemed to harden a little as he closed the door and moved down the hall.
“I’m sorry,” Bethany said, hurrying to keep up with his pace. “I just couldn’t tell if you were speaking hypothetically or if people really use the business center in the ways you describe.”
“We do.” Whatever ease and unselfconsciousness he’d had in the dining room fell away, and even his posture seemed stiffer and more formal.
Bethany winced. So he was a guest at the shelter, and she’d basically just insulted him. “That’s great,” she said, trying to salvage something from the conversation. “Really great.”
Ryan’s voice was flat as he pointed out other rooms. “In there are the storage lockers for people’s stuff and a big wardrobe of professional clothes to borrow. In that one we have kennels for pets. Mostly dogs, but some other animals, too. Bedrooms are upstairs.” He led her to the end of the hall and into an expansive room furnished much like a nice hotel lobby, with comfortable sofas and armchairs. Several people were relaxing there, reading, chatting, and playing board games on the gleaming tables. “This is the common area.”
“How nice!” Bethany exclaimed. “This is somewhere I wouldn’t mind hanging out.”
“Not what you were expecting from a homeless shelter?” He coolly raised an eyebrow.
“Honestly, no. I thought it’d feel more...I don’t know. Sad. I’m sorry if that sounds ignorant, but it’s the truth.”
Ryan’s shoulders relaxed and the corners of his mouth quirked up. “I’m going to give you a break and just say that I’m glad you got to see what it’s really like. Sister Bernadette and volunteers like Olive work hard to make sure this is a place of hope, not despair. But I had the same assumptions as you when I first came here. I think most people probably do.”
“Well, I’m glad you forgive me.” Bethany smiled warmly at him. She didn’t know what Ryan’s deal was, but she hoped that the shelter would help him find stable housing and get his life back together. He seemed like a really thoughtful guy—someone she might date if he weren’t homeless. The instant she had the idea, she mentally chastised herself for stereotyping again. His housing situation was just temporary circumstances, not a sign of bad character. Still. “So what have you been working on? Sister Bernadette said you should show me.”
“Ah!” His face lit up. “Turn around and you’ll see.”
Bethany turned and saw, behind where they’d been standing, an enormous mural that stretched the length of the common room’s back wall. It was a landscape—two villages separated by sapphire-blue ocean, with a bridge between them and a glowing sunset in the hills beyond. That explained the paint-splattered jeans. “It’s Oldbridge and Newbridge!” she exclaimed. “You’re an artist?”
Ryan nodded proudly. “Still putting on the finishing touches. See here?” He touched a Victorian house on the Newbridge side where a tiny figure was planting flowers in a garden. “I’m working on the little stuff.”
Bethany moved in closer to get a better look at the details. She spotted Café Sabine and the train station, the marina and the park, the public library and town hall, each painted with painstaking accuracy. “You have every business—maybe every house. And so many people doing different things. Commuters on the train, children at school...I love the fishing boats out on the harbor, too! I can even see the fish they’re trying to catch under the waves.” She turned to him in awe. “This must have taken months!”
“Well, weeks, but yeah.” He couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “I wanted it to be beautiful from any vantage point. You know, some people take a big view, some people can only see what’s right in front of their noses. I hope this will remind viewers to try the opposite way of seeing sometimes, too.”
Bethany nodded. “So this is what you do for work? Paint murals?”
Ryan shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, it’s what I like to do—I don’t get paid.”
Bethany felt a pang of sympathy, remembering how painful it had been when she was unemployed in the months before she opened Souperb Soups. If Kimmy hadn’t fronted her the rent during that time, she could have easily found herself without a place to live. “Well, it’s obvious you’re a hard worker, judging by all the things they have you doing around here. I’m sure you’ll find a job. Actually, I bet there are a lot of local businesses that would love to have murals like this. Maybe even some of the city buildings.”
“You think?”
Bethany nodded. “You have real talent, Ryan. And it seems like the business center here has all the tools you need to get something off the ground.”
“I’ll think about it,” he said, shrugging. “I kind of like doing it for free. I’m not sure it’d be the same to paint for hire.”
Well, that attitude explained why he’d been living at the shelter for weeks. “I guess that’s your choice,” she said.
“Don’t get me wrong—I appreciate the encouragement.” Ryan smiled at her, and his smile was so charming that she couldn’t help returning it. “I’ve just tried the whole working-for-a-boss thing, and it didn’t turn out great for me.”
“Me neither,” she admitted. “That’s why I started my soup kiosk. It’s not big, and it’s not fancy, but it’s enough to pay my rent, and I get to do what I love every day.”
“Right, but you aren’t a personal chef. You get to decide what you paint—I mean, cook.”
“For better or for worse. People don’t always eat it.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what I’ve heard. Olive says you’re a magician, so I’m looking forward to finally getting a taste on Saturday.”
Something about his wording and playful tone made her blush. Why was this guy having such an effect on her? She shook her head.
His face fell. “You’re not going to come?”
“No, I am. I just don’t want your expectations to be too high. It’s just soup.” And you’re totally inappropriate for me, so I have to stop flirting with you.
Ugh, maybe that was the underlying appeal—the absolute horror her parents would experience if they knew she was even thinking about what it’d be like to date a homeless guy. Bad enough that their daughter turned down the scholarship to Yale and wasted her mind on culinary school. They were still telling their friends that she was planning to go to law school. She wondered sometimes if all her impulses were just simple rebellion against their expectations.
No, that wasn’t true—she genuinely loved cooking. And surely her parents would see her ambition and achievement once her dream of owning her own café came to fruition, wouldn’t they? Pipe dream—they’ll never get it. Just like they’d never see Ryan’s talent and work ethic; they’d only see a homeless guy.
“If something nourishes and comforts people on a deep level, it’s not ‘just soup.’” Ryan touched her shoulder gently. “Don’t diminish what you do.”
Tears suddenly welled in her eyes, and she felt a knot of sadness creep into her throat. “Why do you understand what I do without even knowing me?”
He shrugged. “The artist in me recognizes the artist in you.”
Chills ran down her spine. She stared at him, her eyes pricking with tears. “Who are you?”
He chuckled uncomfortably. “Just another human being. Come on—I’ll get you back to Olive.”
Shaking her head, she followed him back down the hall to the dining room, where Olive was setting flower arrangements on the tables. Bethany could hear a timer going off in the kitchen, and Sister Bernadette apologized as she scurried to check on it.
“Almost time for service!” she chirped on her way out. “See you Saturday!”
“You’d better get busy,” Olive admonished Ryan.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And come by tomorrow afternoon to pick up some bread.” Olive winked at Bethany, who rolled her eyes. Olive’s attempts to push them together were so transparent, and frankly, unwelcome. The rollercoaster of emotions she’d been on today was too much, and frankly, she wanted off this ride.
“Bye,” she said firmly.
“Don’t forget what I said.” Ryan looked at her steadily. “You’re an artist.”
She nodded and pulled Olive out the door. Someone like Ryan, who valued art over everything—even having a home—couldn’t really understand her, either. It was time to go sleep off the confusing fog of fear, regret, suspicion, and self-doubt that had been swirling around her. Tomorrow had to be a better day.
Chapter 5
Thursday morning
WHEN BETHANY WOKE, she knew exactly which soup to make to counteract Wednesday’s mess. The day required something invigorating, something that represented renewal—and New England oyster season was in full swing. Spicy tomato and oyster stew was the perfect solution. The pressure of the food feature off her shoulders, she truly enjoyed the morning prep at Café Sabine—making fish stock, chopping herbs, opening the shellfish.
“I’ve never seen someone so happy to shuck oysters,” Kimmy said.
“You don’t fully appreciate a good night’s sleep until you skip one.” Bethany breathed in the smell of the stew: briny, spicy, enticing. She’d add the oysters in at the last minute and then it’d be heaven in a bowl.
“Tell me about it.” Kimmy rolled her eyes. “I was up longer than you were. At least you got to go home after you served lunch. That reminds me, are you doing OK with the whole Marigold situation? Be honest.”
Bethany sprinkled a tiny bit of Old Bay seasoning into the stew. “Do you think Olive could bake oyster crackers to pair with this? Would that be asking too much?”
“Crackers don’t take very long. I’m sure she could whip some up.” Kimmy paused. “Hey, you’re avoiding my question!”
