The Café between Pumpkin and Pie

by Marina Adair

  “Flying on a swing is fun.”

  “We were close friends all through school. He took me to summer picnics in the park. He invited me to the senior prom when I didn’t have a date. He was my first kiss.”

  “First kiss, huh?”

  “A quick one that landed more on my cheek than my mouth.”

  “Sounds like he had a crush on you.”

  “Or he felt sorry for me.”

  He denied her theory. “I don’t think that was the case. Whatever happened to buddy Greg?”

  “He was smart, ambitious, and graduated with honors. He entered Yale. A major accomplishment for a small-town boy to gain admittance to an Ivy League university. He received his law degree and chose to practice in New Haven.”

  “You’ve kept track of him?” An unexpected curiosity.

  “Moonbright has kept track, not just me. We’re a connected town and care about what happens to our own. Gregory was a success story. We’re all happy and proud of him. His parents still live here. He comes back to visit often.”

  “More often than I visit my gramps?”

  “A passing comment only,” she assured him. “I wasn’t pointing my finger at you, Jake. Honest.”

  He didn’t want her to think poorly of him. “I should’ve come around sooner,” he hated to admit. “I’ll do better in the future.”

  “You’re here now,” she eased his conscience. “The major is excited to see you.”

  “What about you, Hannah? Are you glad I’m here?” his ego asked.

  “Here, to help me with my side work. I’m appreciative. You mop real good for a motorcycle man.”

  She’d skirted his question. He didn’t mind. He’d gotten too personal for the small amount of time they’d spent together. He finished off his whoopie pie, then sampled her dessert. Moist cake, fresh blueberries, and melt-in-the mouth frosting. “Best ever.” He understood her slow savoring and the licking of her lips.

  “I could eat blueberry butter cake for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” she confessed. She tapped her fork on the plate, encouraging him. “There’s plenty; have a second bite.”

  He shook his head; she was his indulgence. All happy, uninhibited, and turned on by cake. “I enjoy dessert now and again,” he conceded. “But I’m more a meat-and-potato guy.”

  “There’s steak and eggs on our breakfast menu,” she said. “Gram makes amazing home fries. Sliced potatoes, chopped onions, and sweet bell peppers cooked in bacon fat. Don’t get me started on her buttermilk biscuits.”

  He grinned at her. “I’ve invited my granddad and Moody to breakfast. We’ll see you around eight.”

  She rolled her shoulders, yawned behind her hand. “You tired?” he asked. He hoped not; he liked talking to her.

  “I’m winding down. I thought you might be weary,” she returned. “You rode your motorcycle from Bangor, walked in a parade with the triplets, and took them trick-or-treating. Then helped with my side work. A pretty full day.”

  “I was cool with the boys.” He tucked his shoulders deeper into the booth, stretched out his legs. His booted feet bracketed Hannah’s tennis shoes. He crossed his arms over his chest and hooked his thumbs in his armpits. Laid-back and content. He revealed a part of himself that he seldom exposed. “Riding my bike brings order to my world. It’s a way of life. Adrenaline charged. The open road calls my name and I answer. I live in the moment. An amazing freedom.”

  He watched her watch him. She’d rested her elbows on the table, cupped her chin in her palms. Her gaze brightened with interest. Flatteringly attentive.

  He kept on. “Being at one with my bike is almost surreal. Total Zen. People ask me why I ride—it’s because I can’t not ride. I’ve taken dozens of road trips. I have more of a bond with my motorcycle than with most people.”

  She gave a small nod. “You can’t buy happiness, but you can buy a Ducati.”

  He liked her insight. She got him. “What bakes your cake, Hannah?” he asked her.

  “My cake?” She grinned, reflected. “All states have their beauty, but Maine is a place unto itself. The landscape is untouched, dramatic, and soul stirring. The air smells like brine and pine needles and moss and wood fires, depending on the season. Every incredible sunset deserves to be painted and framed.”

  “I appreciate a gorgeous sky.” The deep blending of paint box colors, with nature the artist, drawing a thin line on the horizon. Masking the day in darkness while unveiling moonlight. “What else, babe?”

  “I love Bean boots and fisherman sweaters. Picking apples and blueberries. Hiking state parks, visiting lighthouses, and hunting for sea glass on the coastline. I once spent two days on a windjammer on Penobscot Bay. Maine is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been.”

  “You’ve traveled a lot then. For comparison.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What exactly?”

  “I’ve taken trips throughout Maine. Always returning to Moonbright. It’s kept a special hold on me. I’ve never wanted to live anywhere else.”

  “You’re safe here.”

  “Safe and sane. I know myself and what’s important to me. I don’t need to travel the world to be content. I could walk across the street and do the happy dance.”

  She was wholesome and disarming, Jake realized. He felt her peace. Her pleasure. The joy in her heart. Her commitment to the small town where her roots were deep and forever settled.

  He accepted her life. She had no reason to change. For anyone or anything. No reason to go somewhere that left her longing for Moonbright. Home was home.

  Hannah was so different from her older sister, Lauren. Lauren felt no such connections to the town, from what he’d witnessed five years prior. Lauren envied him and the open road and had hoped he would take her with him when he’d left, early one spring morning. The least encouragement and she would’ve climbed on the rear seat of his Ducati and waved good-bye to Moonbright. He had known from their first date that they weren’t suited. Not the least bit compatible. They’d never been intimate. It was far better she’d stayed behind. She’d made a life with Grant the police officer and had three terrific boys.

  Enough on Lauren. Hannah had finished off her cake. She went as far as to tap the tip of her forefinger over the crumbs. Then skim the rim of the plate for the last bit of frosting.

  He stared at her now with an intensity that seemed to unsettle her. She accidentally frosted her chin. She grabbed a handful of napkins, dabbed at the smeared buttercream. “Look what you made me do,” she accused him.

  His tongue pressed against his teeth. He felt a craving to lick the frosting from her lips. To nibble on her chin. To fully taste her. An urge he tamped down. “How’s missing your mouth my fault?” he asked, amused.

  “You were staring at me.”

  “Did I make you nervous?”

  “You looked . . . hungry.”

  “I’m quite full, actually.” Hannah was inexperienced. She was unaware that his hunger hadn’t been for the cake; it had been for her. He said honestly, “I enjoy looking at you. Get used to it.”

  She wasn’t appeased. She looked him straight in the eye. “What if I stared at you?” Her expression was stern, all narrowed gaze, tight-lipped, and not terribly effective. She looked cute, not intimidating.

  “Be my guest. I like your eyes on me.”

  Chapter 3

  Hannah blinked. Swallowed hard. He rendered her speechless. Jake liked her looking at him. Something she could’ve done for hours on end. He exuded rough-edged masculinity. All hot gaze and sexy smugness. An extreme sexual draw. Her face grew warm. Air caught in her lungs. Her tummy tingled. She hated to be the one to come undone. He left her on the edge of her seat. She fidgeted, shifting her hips, crossing her legs, flexing her foot.

  She cut her gaze sideways and attempted nonchalance. A major fail when she came face-to-face with one of her childhood photographs hanging on the wall. She grinned as she pointed out the picture to Jake. She’d been sitting in a hi
gh chair on her second birthday with a piece of cake before her. “I was always a messy cake eater.”

  He studied the color photo. His smile brought out a single dimple. “How old were you?”

  “Two.”

  “I can’t see your face for all the cake,” he teased her.

  “Gram said I loved the texture. It was angel food with fairy pink frosting. I squished it between my fingers. Smeared it in my hair, got it in my nose, rubbed it over my lips, but ate very little.”

  “Looks like you had fun.”

  “I guess so. I don’t remember much. The photo is the memory.”

  He drank his glass of milk in two long swallows, then stood. He wandered the aisle, checking out the collection of photographs. He chuckled, said, “Neat older pic of my granddad and Moody seated at the counter. They sit on those same stools today.”

  She had a soft spot in her heart for the two older men. They were a constant in her life. “Some things never change. Although Moody’s slightly balder.”

  Jake paused before a photo of her grandmother. Nan was holding up her famed apple-plum pie in one hand and a blue ribbon in the other. She’d won first place in the pie-baking contest at the county fair in 1975. There’d been lots of ribbons since. “Nan was quite a looker in her day,” he commented. His gaze swung back to her. “You resemble her.”

  Numerous people had likened Hannah to her grandma. She didn’t see the similarities. Her gram was far prettier, blond and slender with expressive features. Nan’s smile made everyone smile. She’d been praised for her baking from the moment she mixed the batter and baked her first cake. She’d written a cookbook on soups, chowders, and bisques: Tastes Like Fall in a Bowl. A New England best seller.

  Jake tapped a red, white, and blue frame and said, “Your parents seated with the governor. There’s a lot of people standing in the background.”

  “A campaign year from what I remember. Mom and Dad backed Dale Clark. They worked the local election headquarters. Small potatoes to some, but every vote counted. Clark won by a narrow margin. Afterward he traveled the state to thank his constituents. He stopped at the café and had lunch. It was a pretty big deal.”

  “How are your parents doing?”

  “They’re on a cruise, celebrating their thirty-fifth honey-moon.”

  “I heard that they renew their vows every fall.”

  “During the year Mom is wrapped up in the café—she does the bookkeeping and all the ordering. Dad was recently promoted to the Chief Financial Advisor at the courthouse. They work hard, love each other like newlyweds, and always set aside two weeks each year for themselves and no one else.”

  Jake nodded. “Cool. Good for them.” He leaned toward a second photo of Clark and her grandma. “She’s handing him—what? A tray of cookies?”

  “A dozen of her cream cheese sugar cookies with yellow royal icing. Made especially for him and his staff to take back to the state capital.”

  “I’m sure the cookies were eaten long before they reached Augusta.”

  “The governor sent Gram a personal handwritten note. Thanking her for the café’s hospitality and the cookies.”

  “Nice of the man.” He took a long moment at the next photograph. “You and Lauren,” he mused. “Although the shot captures more of your sister with that handful of menus than you carrying a tray of food.”

  “Lauren’s the hostess most days. She likes fashion, not our khaki uniforms. She dresses to impress and likes to be the center of attention,” said Hannah. “She greets the customers, seats them at their favorite tables, and hands out menus without breaking a nail. I, on the other hand, am a career waitress.”

  There were people who would put down her job, believing she lacked ambition. She shielded herself from his own snub.

  He respected her choice. “You work at what you enjoy most.”

  “In my mind,” she shared, “I serve the community in a small way. People come into the café hungry and leave full and content. If there’s the occasional disgruntled customer, he’s not usually upset with the food; he’s just having a bad day. A breakfast cherry cheese Danish or dessert at lunch on the house can turn his day around.”

  “You’re kind, Hannah.”

  She lowered her gaze.

  “And humble.”

  She dipped her head.

  “You don’t take compliments well.”

  “I don’t always feel deserving of them.”

  “I mean what I say.”

  He returned to the booth. She looked up. Regarded him. This man with the dangerous face and daredevil features. Wide shoulders and a wicked hard body. She wanted to know everything about him. Where to begin?

  To her relief Jake took it upon himself to start. He slouched his shoulders, rested low on his spine. A big man, all casual and chill. He made the booth look so much smaller than it actually was. He stared at her. Steadfast. “I believe in eye contact. I tend to stop whatever I’m doing and look directly at someone before I talk to them.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  “It’s a good way to judge honesty and character.”

  It was also unnerving. She attempted nonchalance but lacked his confidence.

  He saved her from her uncool self. “Keep it simple. Random thoughts, secrets, or confessions,” he stated. “Don’t overthink our convo, Hannah.

  “My man stats,” he went on. “I’m thirty-five, born April twentieth, a Taurus. I read my horoscope on occasion. I’m six-three. Tip the scale at two-twenty.”

  She shared too. “I turned thirty-two on February twenty-fifth. Pisces.” She was the gentle fish to his muscled bull. “Five feet five inches. One-ten.”

  “You’re a lightweight.”

  “Fast metabolism. I’m on my feet all day. I eat plenty. I work at the café but can’t cook or bake,” she admitted. “I enjoy food preparation, the chopping and dicing of ingredients, but I burn the edges of pancakes on the grill and my omelets become scrambled eggs. I read a recipe one way, Gram another. Our bakes aren’t even close.”

  He admitted, “Cereal, sandwiches, and takeout are mainstays for me. Your favorite restaurant other than the café?”

  “Tito Rico’s Mexicana on the outskirts of town serves a yummy taco salad.”

  “Yummy, huh?”

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  “Never. We’ll have dinner there some evening. I like watching you eat.”

  “When the food reaches my mouth.” Her observation was self-critical.

  “We all spill on occasion.”

  “Which is daily for me.”

  “Should that be your worst trait, you’re close to perfect, babe.” Short pause. “Do you like to dress up for an evening on the town or keep it casual at home?

  “Casual for me. Jeans and sweats. Lauren’s the one who loves fancy clothes, perfect hair and makeup. I only wear lip gloss.”

  “You’re a natural beauty.”

  “Flattery?”

  “Truth.”

  She warmed with his kind words. “Your quirks or misbehaviors?” she asked him. Hoping he had at least one.

  “I have several,” he admitted.

  She felt a sense of relief. The man had faults.

  “A peculiarity of mine—I pat down my pocket to check for my wallet and keys right after I put them in.”

  Back to her. “I don’t drive often. But when I do, I park, then repark my car until I’m in the middle of the lines.”

  “You’re conscientious. You give those drivers around you plenty of space.” He paused. “What else?”

  “I’m constantly tucking my hair behind my ears.” She did so now.

  That made him smile. “Every time I sit near a candle, I try to put it out with my fingers. I’ve never been burned, but not successful either.”

  “I sidestepped cracks in the sidewalk in my early years. I once knocked down Lauren avoiding one.”

  “How’d Lauren take it?”

  “She was clucking her tongue while walk
ing, a clip-clop sound. Pretending to be a horse. I foolishly laughed at both her clomping and her fall. She punched me in the stomach.”

  “A solid hook?”

  “She hit me so hard I gasped for breath. I ended up stepping on the crack I’d danced around.” She scrunched her nose. “I tend to laugh inappropriately at times. Often hysterically. Over a current incident or even something funny from years ago. I try to make myself stop, especially when waitressing. But I only laugh more. Gram just shakes her head. Lauren gives me a dirty look. Customers smile along with me.”

  “Laughter’s healthy.” He took her side. “Nothing wrong with belly laughs.”

  “Every so often I cry when I’m happy. I get hiccups. Heaving hiccups,” she said. “People frequently mistake my tears for sadness. Not so.”

  He next revealed, “I’ve a behavior trait that might shock you. I find clothes confining. I strip down immediately upon getting home. Door closes. Bam! Naked.”

  A hot flush heated her face, her breasts, and between her legs.

  “Too personal?” he asked.

  “No. . . .” Not really. He was all about freedom. Riding his Ducati, living his life, and stripping down. He’d look good in his skin.

  His gaze was knowing. He was amused by her thoughts. “Bedtime, and I bet you tuck yourself under the covers like a mummy. And that you wear thick socks to keep your feet warm.”

  “Leave me with a little mystery.” A contemplative pause. “I will share that I sleep with a night-light on. I often wake up at midnight for a snack.”

  “I wouldn’t kick a woman out of bed for eating crackers. Or for eating cake with her fingers.”

  Good to know. “I can’t whistle, but I like to hum.”

  “So I heard when you were cleaning tables. Any particular song?” he asked.

  “Something popular or something I make up.”

  “Optimist or pessimist?” he quizzed.

  “Optimist. You?”

  “Realist.”

  No rose-colored glasses for the man.