Mae's Cafe (Welcome To Chance Book 1)

by Elsa Kurt

  This unusual creature, so out of time with the world outside the café, was not only the owner of Mae’s Café but also the first-ever recipient of the Chance Chamber of Commerce’s Award for Young Businesswomen. The plaque on the wall behind the speckled linoleum counter was dated five years prior when she was twenty-one and opened the café with the money her father had gifted her after he had the audacity to tell her he was dying.

  “I’m pretty sure the Chamber made up the award out of pity, but it still looks cool in that antique frame,” she said with more than a little self-deprecation. Then, with a shrug, she added, “It’s the only award I’ve ever gotten for anything. I wasn’t exactly the ‘wow, look at her excel’ kind of girl back in my school days. I always just did my own thing, I guess.”

  Usually, William waited at the pauses. People were often compelled to fill awkward silences with more words. Wait long enough, they’d say more than they ever anticipated telling a stranger. He surprised himself by asking, “What did he—your father—think of that, Mae?”

  Keith Huxley loved that most of all about his only child, it so happened. William was inexplicably pleased to hear this, to see the sparkle ignite again in her eyes as she mimics his voice. “Just be you. Do whatever sparks joy in your heart. You’re my beautiful, wild unicorn, Mae. And remember: Never trust anyone who doesn’t appreciate the musical genius of Prince or know the American Standards.”

  She giggled and blushed charmingly. But then Mae’s laugh drifted into a sigh, and her eyes grew misty and distant. Giving a quick head shake, she continued, her airy, gay tone edged with sadness, “Then he’d put on some Louis Prima, and we’d stand on the coffee table and sing at the top of our lungs. I sang Keely Smith’s part. Do you know who she is?” William nodded, but she’d closed her eyes. “I’d sing…” She sat up a little straighter and sang in a low, velvety smooth voice, “I’ve got you…under my skin…’ Then he’d croon, ‘I’ve got you deep in the heart of me.’” She folded in on herself, hugging her arms tight against her abdomen as if the memory caused physical pain.

  Just as quickly, she released her grip and dropped against the backrest of her chair and gazed wistfully skyward. “My dad…God, he was amazing. Larger than life. Handsome, like old movie star handsome. Funny and suave, a great cook, an artist too. Teller of crude jokes, an expert in everything 1940’s men’s fashion.” She nodded and said, “My dad was everything to me. Still is, obviously. Anyone who knows me can tell you that.” She made a wide sweep around her. “My dad is everywhere.”

  Mae looked down in an attempt to hide, or maybe control, the quiver in her chin. She stood abruptly and disappeared into the kitchen. After about ten minutes, she returned, eyes red-rimmed, her mood somber but resolute, and continued as if she’d never left.

  “David—my dad’s ex—came in after I’d been open a month or so. By then, Dad was in hospice.” Mae looked down again, fussing with the hem of the apron. “He cried. Big, fat tears just…streaming down his face.” She put a hand to her own cheek. “I—I’d been so mad at him for leaving us, I’ll admit. But seeing him like that kind of undid me. So I did what Dad would’ve done. I hugged him and shushed him—you know, like you would a little kid. He said he was sorry for leaving us and that he was so proud of me.” Mae tilted her head to the side and grinned. “I guess I’d needed to hear that—especially in those first months, you know? So I told him what he needed to hear too.”

  “Which was?”

  “I told him my dad wasn’t angry with him and that he loved him. And it was the truth. My dad wasn’t the type to hold grudges.”

  Mae’s eyes stay focused on the table, her fingers now picking at the edges of a napkin until the wafer-thin plies separated. Yet even lost in her reverie, Mae remained conscious of the goings on in her café. When a customer walked in, her eyes flicked from Bruce to the man in the doorway. It was a silent communication between people who work symbiotically. Bruce seated the man and exchanged another weighted glance with Mae that only they could decipher the meaning. William noticed his expression harden when his eyes shifted to him. It would take a fool not to know the oversized young man was in love with Mae. William wondered once again if they were a couple, and if not, was she aware of his feelings?

  “Anyhow, David was in a repentant mood that day, I guess. He thanked me and said he’d never not regret leaving us, and if he’d only known—I stopped him and told him, ‘Which is why he never told you. Or me for that matter. It was what he wanted—for you to follow your passion and for me to just be a kid for as long as possible.’ That’s another absolute truth. It was wrong of my dad to make that decision for us, but I understand. Now, I mean. Then? Well, maybe not so much. I hate that I wasted precious time being mad at him.”

  “Sounds like you are wise well beyond your years, Mae,” said William gently.

  Mae let out a slow, trembling breath. Regret. It’s one of the cruelest enemies of happiness. William resisted the urge to fold his hand over hers, to still her constant movement. Steady, old goat. She is a story, nothing more. He leaned forward, encouraging her wordlessly, without touch.

  Mae looked off in the distance, speaking more to herself at first. “David’s like anyone else. We all need to believe that what we hope is true. For him, it was about forgiveness, being unburdened from guilt.” She looked into William’s eyes. “I was glad to do that for him. There’s something, I don’t know, cathartic about helping someone else find peace. Took me out of my own head, you know? Anyhow, he went to see my dad at hospice but left before I got there. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

  Mae took a sip of her tea. She was silent, seemingly composed, almost glacial even. This was what a casual observer would’ve seen. It was not what William saw. What he saw was a simmering storm. He saw a carefully crafted façade. The glossy illusion of calm, born from a fear of unleashing a grief that may never subside once released from its locked cage. He knew because he had lived with that storm inside for some time.

  It was only then—as he listened to and watched Mae Huxley—that he realized he was tired of the storm. He wanted peace. But did she? he wondered. Had she padded her bruised heart with selfless care for others, consumed herself with their needs and wants, so that she could forget her own?

  She set her cup down in the saucer and leaned in. Her eyes searched William’s for understanding. “Don’t think badly of David. Don’t—write him negatively, if you write about him at all. He’s just opposite Dad in every way. Dad was,” she struggled for adequate words to describe the man who was larger than life to her, “robust and, and spirited. Tall and tan. David is—well—frail, fair-skinned, and prone to bouts of ennui. According to my Aunt Katrina—she’s my dad’s twin—David is a delicate kind of queer.”

  She snorted at this and added, “Trina’s the only one who can get away with saying things like that, by the way. She’s a character, my Auntie Tree. She runs a plus-sized lingerie shop in New Haven. On weekends she hosts a drag queen burlesque show. We’re both super busy, but we still get together twice a month for drinks and catching up.”

  She smiled, slid her chair next to William’s, and pulled out her phone to show a series of pictures, leaning against his arm as she did. He tried not to notice that she smelled like sweet lemon and chamomile or that one of her loose curls had coiled around his wrist. As she scrolled through each one, she told him of her father and David’s relationship. He did his best to concentrate on her words.

  “They were together for four years until David took a job in California as a set designer for some show or other. If Dad was heartbroken, he never let on. Dramatic scenes weren’t his style,” Mae declared. “He sent David off with his blessings, a Tony award that supposedly belonged to Ingrid Berman. Or maybe Helen Hayes, I can’t recall. Anyhow, David cried enough for all of us when he left. Then we didn’t hear from him again until…well, until Dad entered hospice, and the magazine—he was a regular columnist contributor for Arte Garde Magazine—put in a
long story about his life and his illness. It was a beautiful tribute piece, something the magazine usually only wrote for famous artists. Dad was touched. I’m glad he got to see it.”

  Mae slid her chair back to its original spot and looked up at William. Her lips parted, but whatever she was about to say dispersed like smoke. The pained, almost strangled expression on his face had halted her. She was puzzled, concerned.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Grant? You look—”

  “Yes, yes. Quite. You—is that chamomile I smell?”

  “Oh, yes. I grow it in the garden. I was picking some this morning for tea. Does it bother you?”

  “No, no. Not at all, Mae. It’s been a long time since I’ve smelled it, that’s all. It’s lovely.” You smell like a memory, my dear.

  Mae, not having the same reserve as William innately had, reached across the table and placed her hand over his. It was small by comparison, warm and soft, except for the cool strip of silver from her ring. He looked down. He was aware that it would be acceptable to place his free hand over hers in some token of gratitude or appreciation, yet he remained frozen.

  “Ah, yes, well…” William cleared his throat and muttered after a prolonged moment. Mae gave a quick squeeze and stood.

  “I’ll freshen up that coffee for you, Mr. Grant.”

  “Mae?”

  “Yes?” She smiled expectantly.

  “Please, call me William.”

  “Very well. I’ll freshen up that coffee for you, William.”

  Mae felt a giddy, heart-skippy excitement welling in her chest. She told herself it had nothing at all to do with her instant infatuation with the tall, quietly composed man. I’m excited to tell him the history of Mae’s Café, that’s all. She would reserve these words for recycling when she worked on wearing down Bruce about William Grant’s interest in Mae’s Café. And perhaps in Mae. But that could wait for now.

  In between customers, Mae told William that the café had survived five years, one kitchen fire—it was small—and two hurricanes. “In the first one, my terracotta pot blew clear across Old Main Street and through Joanne’s Dry Cleaning window. I found the hibiscus in the middle of the road, replanted it, and son of a gun, it survived. In the second, my awning tore off and ended up two blocks away.”

  She told each story with sweeping gestures and sound effects. It was child-like and delightful how blissfully unaware she was of herself. She went on to explain to William that the café also survived a rip-roaring, table-flipping fight between the Lang brothers. “Turned out Jimmy Lang was sleeping with Timmy Lang’s wife. They moved out of town not long after. Jimmy and Melinda that is. Timmy’s still around. My insurance covered the damage, so no biggie for me.” She shrugged. “The whole street was wrecked, so we started a community clean-up. Had everyone meet here for free breakfast and we just kinda went to work until it was all cleaned up.”

  “By ‘we’ you mean you, don’t you?”

  Mae waved off his question and continued. “Let’s see. Every summer the Petrova twins wait tables for me. They’ve been with me since they were skinny freshmen girls with acne and flat chests who could barely hold a tray steady. Now they’re in college and have porcelain skin and perky breasts, not to mention long black hair and Disney princess doe eyes. I’ve stopped thinking the men come in for my scones. I’ve also upped their pay. Twice. Listen, I’m not Attila the Hun. I get…suitors. But next to the Petrova twins, even a Victoria’s Secret model would have to put in some effort to get noticed. Not that I’m trying to get noticed. I literally have, like, zero interest in dating. I’ve got too much on my plate, what with the café and the chickens, my goats, and the garden, running the food pantry, and…well, that’s plenty.”

  That answers my question about Bruce. William felt a certain satisfaction at this information that he was unwilling to acknowledge.

  “Hey, uh, Mae? Sorry it took me so long. I had to stop at the Mitchells’ and make sure the guys weren’t slackin’ off. Of course, they only had half the roof stripped. Anyhow, they didn’t have the wild caught salmon at Sami’s, so I went over to Oceanside. You wanna come back and check ’em over?” Bruce was speaking to Mae, but he was eying William, who gazed steadily back at the younger man.

  “Yeah, gimme a few minutes. Thanks.” Mae’s tone sounded tinged with a warning, her glance pointed. Another wordless exchange between them, then Bruce walked back to the kitchen.

  “That’s Bruce Grady—aka Moose—I mentioned him before. The ‘Moose’ thing—it’s not an insult, it’s a term of endearment, given in—where else—high school. I don’t call him that, of course. It’s too…high school. That doesn’t stop anyone else, though.” She laughed.

  Bruce was a cliché. Six-feet-four, teen idol wavy dark hair, twinkling blue eyes—when they’re not glaring, that was—and the just-right dimple that appeared when he smiled, showing—you guessed it—perfect, even, chewing gum commercial white teeth. Mae filled in the blanks.

  “He was the quarterback for the Chance Chargers. Bruce was a big deal too. He was even offered a couple scholarships from some big football colleges, but sometime during senior year, his dad had a roofing accident. Paralyzed him from the waist down. His mom had left them earlier that year, and Bruce took over his dad’s company as well as caring for him.”

  Bruce, William conceded, was a handsome man, but he was also aged in that way people got when they’d been strapped with burdens beyond their years.

  “Bruce came into the café sometime during that first month after I’d bought it. It used to be a Chinese food takeout restaurant and still smelled like fried rice. About the same time, Dad had made a choice to not undergo chemotherapy anymore. He was done fighting. Anyhow, I was standing in the middle of what is now the dining area, staring down at a half-full bucket of dirty water. A steady drip came from the ceiling. You’ve got a bad roof, Huxley, he said from the doorway. No shit, Sherlock, I said back. Then I sat down next to the bucket, dropped my head in my hands, and cried. I don’t usually do things like that—especially in front of everybody’s All-American hero—but between the stress of buying the damn place and the stuff with my dad, I lost it for a minute. Or ten. When I looked up again, Bruce was gone. Nice, I thought. Real nice, jerk. Walk away from a woman in distress. Right? Well, a few minutes later, I hear this, like, racket up on the roof. I ran out into the rain, and there’s this ridiculously large figure shaking out a bright blue tarp.”

  Mae spotted a couple finishing their meals and excused herself. When she returned, she continued where she left off without missing a beat.

  “This’ll do for now, he shouted down, totally oblivious of the rain pouring down his face and soaking him to the bone. I’ll be back tomorrow to patch it up. I start to say, But I can’t—And he yells, We’re good, Huxley. Consider it payback. I had no idea what ‘payback’ he was referring to. Still don’t, come to think of it. He and I had maybe spoken three times throughout high school, despite sharing numerous classes. Sure, I may have loaned him a pen once or twice. I think I let him cheat off a math test once too. Surely none of that merited this kind of payback, right?” William half nodded, half shrugged. “Anyhow, when he tromped back in twenty minutes later, I threw him a towel and pushed him a plate of roast pork, new potatoes, and asparagus.” Mae caught William’s raised eyebrows. “I know, that sounds weird that I’d have bath towels and fully cooked meals here, but I was spending every waking minute—when not with my dad, that is—getting the place ready for opening. I needed the comforts of home there with me, you know?” William nodded once, and she went on. “He took them both and was like, Thanks, Huxley. I remember wondering if he even knew my first name. He didn’t say another word. I’d moved on to putting together a baker’s rack by then. Trying to, that is. I may have been doing some—okay, a lot of—swearing, I’ll admit. Bruce set his fork down and sighed real loud. Then he walked around the still unbolted countertop and plucked the screwdriver out of my hand like he was taking sharp scissors from a
little kid. The baker’s rack was together in less than a half hour.”

  After that day, Mae went on to explain, Bruce kind of just stuck around. He was her sometime handyman, occasional waiter, supply run guy, and seemingly whatever else Mae needed. “And no, we are not together. Sure, he’s crazy good looking. But, no—not my type. I’m not sure I even have a type. I guess I’m waiting for someone…well, I don’t really know what I’m waiting for. I guess I’ll just know when I know, right?”

  Mae looked to William for agreement; he concurred. Seemingly satisfied by his response, she concluded her monologue with, “So there you have it—the story of Mae’s Café. Not sure it’s fascinating, I’m afraid. You know what is interesting, though? The people who come through here. The transients, the regulars, the kids, the staff. It’s funny, I never thought much about other people’s stories before I opened this place. But they come in, day in and day out and, well, you do start to wonder. Then you start to ask little questions—Hey, Sue, how’s it going? Those questions get answers, like, Oh, hey there, Mae. All right, I suppose. John’s goin’ in for the cataract surgery tomorrow, so I’m a bit nervous. And then, there it is—you start to know things, so your questions become more specific the next time. Before you know it, you have stories. Lives. A whole collection of them, right here, under my patched, re-patched, and finally replaced roof.”

  The Brightsiders caught Mae’s eye, and Mrs. Brightsider gave her a nod. “They like to sit and chat for a while before they order, so I usually give them a good twenty minutes before disturbing them. I’ve known them for as long as I can remember—we live on the same street—and they’ve been coming to the café since I opened it. I adore Mr. Brightsider. Dad called him a Gary Cooper. Mrs. B is a Grace Kelly with a shot of Katharine Hepburn. That was our thing—me and Dad’s—we’d give people movie star nicknames based on their personalities and looks. Anyhow, I like their story—the Brightsiders. I’ll tell you what I know when I get back.” Mae pushed back from the table and attended the elderly couple, leaving a soft breeze of chamomile and sweet lemon in her wake.