Mae's Cafe (Welcome To Chance Book 1)

by Elsa Kurt

  Katrina shrugged. “Eh, you know, back in our day you couldn’t be openly gay. And your dad, he always knew he was different than the other boys. It was hard on him. Hell, we were different, period. The only set of twins in town and the only kids being raised by a dad with no mother. It was hard. But struggle builds character, as my father would say.”

  “He actually sounds pretty cool,” Mae said wistfully. She’d never had a chance to meet her grandparents.

  “He was. Did your dad ever tell you what Grampa Joe said when he came out of the closet to him?” Mae shook her head. “He told him, ‘That ain’t gonna get you out of helping me build a shed, you know.’ That was it. They never mentioned it again. It’s the Huxley way, I suppose.”

  The Huxley way, indeed. The Huxley women, unlike the Huxley man—the last Huxley man unless Mae had a child somewhere down the line—were not fond of big emotional expressions. They were partial to gestures. Fresh baked cookies for no particular reason. A bracelet one just knew the other would love. They showed their love and affection with teasing and witticisms. If one became emotional, the other had the good grace to pretend not to notice and joke their way out of the moment. Therefore, when Auntie Tree and Mae video chatted once a week and texted daily, it was usually via an exchange of memes, gifs, and stored up anecdotes of their own latest goings on. They both hated hellos and goodbyes.

  It was a few days after the Miles and Brianna thing, and Mae was thinking—and smiling—about her aunt as she gave the floor a final sweep.

  Bruce came out of the kitchen, flicking the lights off behind him while watching her. “You’re looking chipper,” he said dryly.

  “I’m meeting Auntie Tree back at the house, remember?”

  “Mhm.”

  “So you’re okay with closing up for me?” Mae hung her flowery apron on the peg and turned back to Bruce.

  “Yup.”

  She waited a tick. “Okay, then. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Yup.”

  She started for the door then paused and bit her lip. She had to ask. “Um, are you mad about…something?” Mae’s skin started to prickle the way it always did when she thought a confrontation was about to happen.

  “Nope. All good. See you tomorrow. Say hey to Trina.”

  She let out the breath she’d been holding and said, “Sure. Okay. See you tomorrow then.”

  She was almost out the door, almost free, when she heard him say, “Nothing’s changed for me, Mae.”

  Mae froze, one hand on the door frame, one foot literally out the door. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. She could pretend not to have heard him, but he’d know better. “I—” It came out airy.

  “I know, Mae. Have fun with your aunt. Don’t get too drunk.”

  Mae couldn’t make herself turn around. Giving the doorframe a light slap, she said, “I’ll try.”

  She didn’t mean for those two words to sound so weighted, but they echoed in her head the whole walk home. Naturally, she’d meant, “I’ll try not to get too drunk,” but it instantly recalled the unspoken conversation that rippled underneath everything they said aloud.

  Six months after their one-night stand, Bruce had shown up at Mae’s house. Drunk. Supremely, loudly, and yet adorably shit-housed. He asked—begged her—to give them a chance.

  “Just try, Huxley,” he’d said.

  His knees buckled, and he ended up with his arms around her waist, his mouth against her navel, and his voice vibrating against her skin.

  “Say you’ll try, Huxley. Say you’ll try.”

  She placed tentative hands on his head instead of pushing him back. His hair was soft as it slipped through her fingertips. Despite the smell of booze, his scent filled her nostrils. Mae swayed against him. Then Connie McKenna’s Schnauzer started barking next door, and clarity hit Mae with brick-force.

  Somehow, Mae got him inside and onto the living room couch. She put a heavy blanket over him and a bucket beside him for just in case. The next morning, he was gone, a scribbled note on the kitchen table.

  Sorry about last night, Hux –Me.

  They didn’t discuss it later that day or any day after. But she knew Bruce remembered what he’d said just as clearly as she remembered it. It still rang in her ears like it was last night.

  “Well, hot damn, honey! You got your serious face on. Hurry up and drink this. It’ll make you feel better.” Aunt Katrina sat in one of the Adirondack chairs, her glass perched on the armrest and her chunky wedge-shoed feet on the wicker ottoman in front of it. She wagged a martini shaker into the air and winked at Mae. Katrina Huxley dressed like she came from a Sex in the City remake casting call. Auntie Tree fancied herself a Samantha—just a little thicker, she liked to say—and had turned on Dad’s record player. Louis Prima and Keely Smith took turns crooning to each other. Their playful banter floated through the open windows and drifted up toward the late day sky. Mae closed her eyes for a moment. She could see him clear as day, in the kitchen, a glass of red on the island and something spicy on the stove. Mae’s eyes stung, and her nose felt itchy, but she forced a laugh. “Oh, Trina-Beana, sometimes I swear you’re a mind reader. Pour for me while I change quickly?”

  “You got it, Mae-Mae.” Then, softer, more hesitant, “I—I can change it, you know. If it’s—”

  “No, don’t be silly. He’d be thrilled that we were listening to some Prima.” She nudged her aunt’s shoulder with her hip and went inside. The music was louder in there, making it seem even more like she could walk around the corner and there he’d be, saying, “Hey, Baby Mae! Is this the good stuff or what?” as he waved his arms around to encompass the house, the food, the music, their life.

  “It was the good stuff, Dad,” Mae whispered. Then she went down the hall to her bedroom and changed from the retro halter dress that not-so-faintly smelled of chicken and salmon, coffee, and the way she imagined green to smell—like dill, basil, oregano, and thyme blended together—and into a loose, buttercream yellow shift dress and strappy sandals. They weren’t going out anywhere, but dressing for dinner had always been a thing for the Huxley clan. Even if it was only for Chinese delivery from Wang’s.

  “Ah, there she is. Lookin’ good, kid. You’re still too thin, though,” said Auntie Tree when Mae stepped back out onto the porch. She’d pulled the other Adirondack so that they’d be slanted toward each other and set the side table between the two chairs. A martini waited there for Mae.

  Mae sank into the seat, reached for the cold glass, and took a small sip. Trina made a fierce dirty martini. “Just what I needed,” she sighed and smiled. “How much longer before the food gets here?”

  “Ten minutes,” she said wryly. Then, “Why is it always ten minutes, anyhow? You ever notice that? No matter what you order, they say, ‘Ten minutes.’ Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I’ve been dying for Kung Pao all week.”

  Sometimes Mae thought ol’ Trina-Beana spent a little too much time with her drag queens. Everything she said was punched with theatric drawls, flamboyant hand waves, and overly emphatic pronunciations. Deep down, she was probably always a bit disappointed that her brother was not a “swishy gay.” In Trina speak, that meant the fun kind who would shop for pretty shoes with you and say you looked gorgeous or hideous with equal glee.

  Once, when she was much younger, Mae overheard Trina call Keith “emotionally androgynous.” Thanks to his David Bowie album collection and Mae’s precociousness, she knew what the term androgynous meant…sort of. But she didn’t know what her aunt meant by emotionally androgynous.

  When Mae had asked, she’d said, “Oh, sweetie. Your dad has had both men and women chasing him for as long as I can remember. He exudes universal sexiness.”

  “Okay, eww, first of all,” twelve-year-old Mae had said, wrinkling her nose, “why do women…chase him? He likes men.”

  Auntie Tree-Tree laughed her big throaty laugh and said, “Oh my God. You have no idea, kid. It doesn’t matter. When a man looks like that…” She’d wiggled
her fingers in her brother’s direction. He was in beige pants, a soft-looking black V-neck shirt, and his tan feet were bare. He ran a long-fingered hand through his wavy black hair as he spoke into the phone, seemingly oblivious of his sister and daughter’s conversation. “They either hope they can turn him straight or they don’t even realize he’s gay.” She’d shrugged. In Mae’s nonconventional family, these were regular conversations.

  “So, Tree, what’s new? Charlene going through with the sex-change?” Katrina’s assistant manager—Charlene nee Charlton—was, as they say, in transition. Apparently, the hormones were making her, well, hormonal.

  She rolled her eyes and batted the question away. “Ugh, don’t get me started. And never mind my drama. What’s new with you? More specifically, what’s up with tall, dark, and sexy?”

  It was Mae’s turn to roll her eyes. Trina knew all about the fling with Bruce, the awkward after-fling, and the drunk Bruce incident. Mae tried to change the subject. “Hey, did I tell you I got a new hen? I think I’m going to name her Betty. That’s a good name, don’t you think?”

  Auntie Tree lifted one painted-on eyebrow high on her forehead. “Oh, honey. Give that man a chance, will you? So what if he’s never seen a James Stewart movie or that he rarely says more than five words in a day? He’s a big, strong, handsome-as-hell man, and he adores you. Stop being so damn stubborn.”

  “Stubborn? How do you figure?” Mae was behaving obtusely, and they both knew it. A few more martinis in, Mae would admit, yes, she had some feelings for Bruce. But, no, it wouldn’t work. “We’re too different. I mean, I think we are. He never says anything, so I can’t really be sure. I’m always doing the talking, sometimes just to fill all those long silences.”

  “You wanna know how I figure, huh? Well, you asked for it, kid.” Trina sat up and slid forward in her seat, set the now-empty martini glass on the small table, and made a business of refilling it as she spoke. “You’re stubborn because you insist on waiting for someone who doesn’t exist. You’re stubborn because you have more than a casual-sex attraction to Bruce the Moose, but you won’t act on it thanks to your aforementioned stubbornness. And you’re stubborn—”

  “All right, okay. I get it. Geesh.” Then, almost under her breath, “I’m not stubborn.” Trina’s sky-high eyebrow had yet to land. Her lavender-rimmed eyes flicked to Mae’s. She shook the shaker and nodded at her empty glass. Mae obediently reached it out for a refill and regaled her with the Brianna and Miles saga, deliberately staying off the Bruce topic. And, for reasons she couldn’t explain, she didn’t mention William Grant either. Mae just wanted to have their usual, light drunk, happy melancholy party of two with her crazy aunt, like they always did. Interrogations could come later.

  They did this about once a month, those little therapeutic drinking sessions. It made them both feel good to feel crappy together for a little while. Who can understand another’s loss better than two people who shared it? Loss is a universal kick in the chest. Most everyone can relate to it, and the way they connect is by comparing it to their own acquaintance with loss. That’s what they say too—Oh, Mae, sweetie, I can totally relate. When my—insert loved one—died, I couldn’t get out of bed for a week. They all meant well. But Trina lost her twin, her other half, Mae lost her dad, her hero. He was, he is—

  “Irreplaceable, Mae-Mae. No one is going to be like him. Your dad was the unicorn.” Then, realizing that they were heading dangerously close to the weepy phase, she veered. “Now, your Moose on the other hand,” she fanned herself, “is a solid slab of thoroughbred racehorse.”

  Mae threw an olive from her glass at her. “Shut up. He’s not my anything!”

  “Aww, but you’re his everything.” She fished the olive from her ample cleavage and threw it back at Mae just as the Chinese food delivery guy arrived. Trina paid him, and they brought the pungent-smelling bag inside. Usually, they pulled out the good plates for dinner, but Keith Huxley had been adamant about the way Chinese takeout should be eaten—chopsticks and from the cartons. It was another tradition Mae and Trina clung to.

  “Don’t use the throwaways, Tree. I’ll get the good chopsticks.” They had a kitchen drawer full of beautiful wooden chopsticks, dainty bamboo bowls, platters, and embroidered linen napkins with Asian motifs, especially for such occasions. There was also a drawer solely for seafood dining, and then the “everything else” drawer.

  “Don’t worry, dear, I wouldn’t dream of it. What are we watching tonight?” Katrina nights were classic movies and takeout nights.

  “I’m in a Gene Kelly mood. An American in Paris and—if we don’t pass out—Singing in the Rain, if that’s okay? Everything’s already set up out back. Head on out. I’ll bring whatever you can’t carry.”

  Keith had loved to entertain. The long farmhouse table in the dining room had regularly been filled end to end with guests from every walk of life. The living room had cozy sofas and comfortable chairs ready for guests, and the spare bedrooms were always prepared for overnight stays. Guest bathrooms—stocked with every amenity—were equal to any five-star hotel. For outside, he had brought a projector that could be hooked up to a laptop for summertime movie nights. He’d hung a huge whiteboard on the backside of the garage, built a brick fire pit, and set ultra-comfy reclining chairs in a semi-circle for relaxed viewing. The outdoor patio—reachable via dining room slider—had rows of twinkling white light strung across it, a Hibachi grill, bar, and a mini fridge in anticipation of all possible needs. In three corners sat discreet faux rocks that were the surround sound speakers for either music or movies; in the fourth and farthest corner, they’d built her chicken coop and goat enclosure. The relief Mae had felt at hearing from the lawyer that the house was paid off was immeasurable. The thought of losing her home right after her dad…well, no need to ever think about it ever again, thank God.

  “Ah, Gene Kelly. He was divine,” sighed Trina, nudging the slider open.

  Dusk fell over them as they settled into their chairs. Mae had lit the citronella torches and started the movie, refilled the drinks, and tossed Tree a linen napkin. It wasn’t until Mae reached for her phone to silence it that she realized she didn’t have it. It must’ve gotten left it in her apron at the café. Well, it’ll have to stay there because I already have a good buzz. A really, really good one.

  By the time the closing credits began to roll, the sky was full of stars, and Auntie Tree was snoring softly in her chair. Mae reclined hers all the way back, folded her arms over her stomach, and stared up with a wonder that never grew old.

  “Mae?” A man’s deep voice carried across the yard, and she jumped. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Your phone fell into my bag somehow.” William had come from around the front and held the phone out in his hand. He was standing about twenty feet away.

  “Shit,” Mae exclaimed, then, “William? You scared the hell out of me.” Mae held up a hand, shook her head, and gave a short laugh. “I’m totally confused right now. I mean, thanks for bringing it. How did you know where I live?” Mae stood, swayed a bit at the sudden change in perspective, then walked over to him. Okay, technically, she staggered—slightly—over to William, who was looking incredibly dapper in a crisp white button-down shirt and khaki pants.

  “Phew, I guess the martinis got to me more than I thought.” She giggled.

  “Watch out for the—”

  Mae tripped over the hose and fell inelegantly against a surprised but quick-handed William. Her chin scraped against one of his shirt buttons, and her hand grabbed the first thing in its path—his waistband. Her forearm lay flat against the front of those pants, which was decidedly not flat. She began to giggle in earnest, making his efforts to help her stand fruitless. Ultimately, and with a sigh, he helped her sit down on the grass and sat beside her, waiting until she composed herself.

  “Sorry, I just fell against your—”

  “All good, Mae. You, uh, all right?”

  “Totally, super, fan-dastic. Tastic—super
fan-tas-tic.” The words felt so funny in her mouth. William wore a small, amused smile.

  “I see you’ve been having quite a time of it this evening. Your friend all right over there?” He shot a glance in Trina’s direction. She was snoring loudly.

  “Oh, that’s my aunt. She’s fine. I’m fine too. You know what you need?” William blinked at Mae with his warm cocoa-brown eyes that crinkled at the corners. She leaned closer, mesmerized by his long, dark lashes and beard-stubbled cheeks. He smelled of Old Spice and a hint of perhaps bourbon. Mae breathed it in. It was such a rich, manly scent—his face looked so careworn—Mae was so drunk, and he was so handsome, and—she jerked herself out of the trance. “A drink! Come on, I’ll make you a drink, Mr. Grant.” She trapped his hand in both of hers and pulled him up and toward the patio. After a slight hesitation, he let her.

  “One condition, Miss Huxley. I’ll make the drinks,” he said.

  Mae shrugged and made a sweeping motion at the bar. “Knock yourself out, Mr. Man.” She sat heavily onto one of the barstools and watched him move about the small space. He moved with confident, casual, and graceful efficiency, like a man comfortable in his own skin. He was so different, so singular.

  “So, William, awful late to be swinging by with a misplaced phone. What, couldn’t sleep or something?” William’s eyes darted over and met Mae’s, but he said nothing. “Ah. I see. You’re very mysterious, Mr. Grant.”

  And very sexy. Singularly, mysteriously, sexy…

  His steady—or was it wary—voice cut through her inappropriate, alcohol-fueled thoughts. “Not mysterious, just restless, Mae. As for how I knew your address, the innkeeper told me. Here, drink this.” He slid a tall glass of something that resembled orange juice.

  Mae took a sip. “What is this? A screwdriver?”

  William smirked and said, “Sure, just without the screw.” When Mae blinked at him, he said with a laugh, “It’s O.J. and a splash of seltzer, Miss Huxley. Drink it. I’d have made you coffee, but you need sleep. Busy day tomorrow, remember? Women’s Auxiliary club brunch?”