A Sweethaven Summer (7 page)

Odds were good they had coffee.

Campbell pulled into a parking spot and stopped to stare at two old men sitting on a black park bench. Their faces showed a valley of wrinkles, and on their heads were bright green John Deere baseball caps. A woman walked a dog down the sidewalk. Two children zipped by on bikes.

Perched inside her car, she held her camera to her eye and snapped a string of photos. Everything in Sweethaven seemed worth documenting. She’d been in town for two minutes and already this place had bewitched her with its beauty—its ability to transport her back in time.

A bell over the door rang her arrival at the Main Street Café, and the guy behind the counter glanced in her direction.

Her heels clicked on the knotty pine floor as she took in her surroundings: exposed brick on two of the walls and a tall, wooden counter at the right.

“Be right there,” the guy said.

“No rush.”

As he steamed milk in a metal cup, she looked around the café. Original artwork lined two of the orange walls, and shafts of natural light poured in from windows encased in thick white molding.

“What can I get you?” He snapped a lid on the drink he’d just finished and set it on the counter for the woman waiting in line. Now his attention rested on her. She noticed his dancing green eyes. Eyes that expected her to answer—not stare.

“Oh, sorry,” she stuttered. What she wouldn’t give for a calm and collected version of herself. “I’ll just have a medium vanilla latte if you’ve got it.”

“Whipped cream?”

“No thanks.”

“Didn’t think so.” He grinned and punched numbers on the register.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Just a guess.” He hit enter on the cash register. “It’s $2.50.”

“Seriously?” She’d pay almost twice that much for that drink at the coffee shop on her corner back home.

“Sweethaven blood isn’t as rich as Chicago’s.” He grinned again.

“Chicago?” She handed him a five-dollar bill.

“Am I right?” He made her change and then moved away from her to start on the drink. “I know you’re not local. The scarf thing on your neck is a dead giveaway.” The noisy machine shot back to life as he steamed the milk for her latte. No sense responding. He’d never hear her anyway. Instead, she glanced at herself in the mirror behind the
counter. The black scarf hung loosely around her shoulders. It did look a little pretentious in the casual environment of the Main Street Café.

She moved underneath a sign that read P
ICK UP HERE
just as he covered her cup with a lid and set it in front of her.

“Is that a medium?”

“Large.”

She pushed the drink back in his direction. “I ordered a medium.”

“You look like you need a large.” He took a bar rag and ran it over the nozzles of the steamer, cleaning off the milk from her drink. “Don’t worry, I didn’t charge you for a large. It’s on me.”

“Really? Thanks.” She took a sip. “Whipped cream.”

He smiled again. Perfect teeth sparkled in her direction.

“Yeah. You looked like you needed that too.” He winked and walked back to the counter.

Caught off-guard, she stood in the same spot for at least a minute. He hadn’t insulted her, but his implication that he knew what she needed twisted her insides. No one knew what she needed—not even her.

“You can’t assume the worst about everyone, Camby,” Mom’s words rushed back. “I know so many genuinely nice people. Why not start off your next relationship trusting the person instead of forcing them to prove themselves to you? Believe the best, Cam.”

Mom had meant well, but she’d also been burned one too many times believing the best about people. She hadn’t dated many men, but the last guy—Joe Pancini—had scammed her into a pyramid scheme that claimed a good chunk of her money. She’d been too trusting. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t ended up needing her retirement after all.

But maybe Campbell had swung too far in the opposite direction. Possible? Maybe.

And this guy probably didn’t mean any harm. He was just a little cocky. Or was that confidence? She couldn’t quite tell.

Campbell walked to the end of the counter and waited for his attention.

“How’s your drink?”

She set the cup on the counter. Curiosity got the better of her. “What’d you mean by that?”

“By what?”

“I look like I need a large. I look like I need whipped cream. Do I look that bad?” She scolded herself for asking. Her insecurity bled through like a wound through gauze.

He shrugged. “My mom always says ‘sometimes it’s a whipped cream kinda day.’ ”

Her face warmed into a smile. “And you think I’m having that kind of day?”

“If I had to guess.” He opened the cash register and shuffled some bills around. “Do I have to guess? Or do you want to just tell me?”

She took a sip of the whipped cream–covered latte and then propped herself on a tall stool at the counter.

“Good, isn’t it?” He closed the register and ran a towel over the same spot he’d wiped only moments before.

“It is good, actually, but I’ll be cursing your name when I’m doing an extra thirty minutes on the treadmill tomorrow.”

“Ah, but you’d have to
know
my name in order to do that.” He grinned.

“True.” She took another drink. It really was better with whipped cream.

“It’s Luke.” He held out a hand in her direction.

“Campbell.” She took his hand and squeezed. An innocent handshake shouldn’t cause stomach gymnastics.

“Campbell, huh? Like the soup?” He let go of her hand and tucked the towel back in his apron.

She rolled her eyes, laughed. “Yeah, like the soup.” She’d been hearing that since kindergarten—usually sung to the tune of the commercial.

“What brings you to Sweethaven?”

Mystery. Intrigue. Trying to figure out where I came from
.

“Oh, just needed to get out of the city,” she said.

“Do you want something to eat? It’s on me. First time in Sweethaven discount. We’ve gotta do what we can to get people to come back.” He smiled again. Could she resist?

“No thanks, just the coffee. I should run.”

Disappointment ran across his face and then disappeared.

“I’ve got people to find. Well, one person anyway. I’m hoping it’ll lead to more people.”

“Can I help?” He looked sincere.

“Maybe.” She reached into her bag and pulled out the pages of the scrapbook.

She set them on the counter and glanced at him. His eyes had zeroed in on her. Something about his expression set her off-balance. Could be the sparkling green of his irises or the wave in his sandy blond hair. Or the compassion she seemed to find waiting in his gaze.

He broke the stare and she straightened her scarf, suddenly self-conscious of her attire.

“I found this.” She drew his attention to the pages.

He turned the scrapbook around and looked at the pictures. Recognition crossed his face.

“You know them?” Hope filled Campbell’s chest.

“Sure. Well, I know of them. And I recognize the cottages.” He pointed to the one on the end. Redheaded Meghan stood in front of
a tidy house with sprays of flowers planted on both sides of the stairs leading to the porch. A black lab lazed at her feet. “This one on Elm Street is where I grew up.”

Campbell frowned. “Where you grew up?”

“That’s my sister Meghan.”

“Adele is your mom?”

He smiled. “You know my mom?”

Campbell shook her head. “She called my mother yesterday. Do any of them still come here?”

“Where’d you say you found this?”

Hope started to trickle away. How much should she risk telling him—a perfect stranger with kind eyes?

“It belonged to my mother.” That much shouldn’t hurt.

His eyebrows lowered. “Which one is your mother?”

She pointed to Mom’s picture. “Suzanne Carter.”

“I’ve heard people talk about her over the years. She hasn’t been back here since before I can remember.”

“I’m guessing twenty-four years.” She ran a hand through her hair. “That’s when I was born. I think that’s when she stopped coming. Stopped seeing her friends. Stopped being Suzanne and started being Campbell’s mom.”

He leaned across the counter. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Uh-oh. Grief, like a sneaky devil, had slithered in. Nipped at her. Hissed. Whined. Expected a response. She swallowed the bulge that had grown in her throat, hollowed her belly, and she looked away.

“She died four days ago.” She couldn’t make eye contact. “Breast cancer. We buried her Tuesday.”

He stilled at the confession. “Ohhh,” he said. “So that’s why you needed the whipped cream.”

In spite of her sadness, she smiled.

“I’m sorry.” He let his hand rest on hers, not for long, just a brief count to two. Maybe three.

She shook the grief away, focused on the task at hand. Find a father. Find
her
father. Stay distracted. Don’t think about Mom.

“Who’d you come to Sweethaven to find?” Luke asked.

She sipped her latte. “I was hoping maybe these girls—these women—might have some answers for me.”

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but these women—none of them come to Sweethaven anymore.” Luke watched her.

“But the book says the cottages are passed down from generation to generation. They come every summer.”

“They did—but they…don’t. Anymore.” He folded his hands on the counter.

“Oh.”

“But talk to my mom. She might know where to find them.”

The image of the three letters she’d found came to her mind. Why hadn’t she written down their addresses? She’d expected all three women to come calling, but she had no idea what the notes even said. Now she had no way to get in touch with any of them.

Except Adele.

“Okay. I’ll start there.” She stacked the scrapbook pages on top of each other, making a neat pile, and tied the red ribbon around them again.

“What is it you’re hoping to find?” His question hung in the air between them, daring her to answer.

After a long pause she answered. “My father.”

His eyes widened. “Well, then, I hope you find what you’re looking for.” A smile crossed his face, lopsided, sincere.

How long had it been since she’d witnessed a sincere smile?

She looked away. Perhaps something divine had intervened—had
led her to the Main Street Café, for coffee and her first lead, bringing her one step closer to finding an answer.

To finding her father.

She glanced back at the handsome guy behind the counter. “Thank you,” she said, and it struck her in that moment—she meant those two words. Probably more than he’d ever know.

Campbell left the café and, armed with the map Luke had drawn on a napkin, headed straight back down Main to Elm, turned left, and drove up Elm Street two blocks to 418.

“Then just park the car and she’ll meet you at the door. I swear she can smell company a mile away,” Luke had said.

“Your mom sounds like a good person,” Campbell said.

“Well, she’s a character, that’s for sure.”

As she drove past The Sweethaven Gallery, she admired the artwork in the front window. She thought of her mom’s canvases in the back seat—of their dream to open their own gallery one day. She’d have to visit that place before she left.

The neighborhood along Elm had full, mature trees and charmed her instantly. Campbell recognized a huge barn on the right from one of her mother’s paintings. The Sweethaven Commons. A sign near the front door told her she was right. According to the scrapbook, the Commons was housed in the old Byron Colby Barn. It looked different than the one in the photo. Newer. Richer. But charming just the same.

The left side boasted a row of clapboard cottages, all with neatly trimmed yards. Flowers burst over terra-cotta pots and vases, lining porches and flagstone walkways. Pots hung over porch railings decorating various homes, each one as welcoming as the next.

When she reached 418, she slowed the car and parked across the street.

She had never done anything so rash in her life. Mom had raised her to use her common sense. Common sense didn’t condone knocking on a stranger’s door with a handful of scrapbook pages. What was she thinking?

She inhaled then unlatched the car door and stepped onto the brick road, willing herself to be strong. She’d never find the answers if she didn’t take a risk.

The flagstone walkway, lined with tulips, caught her eye, drawing her gaze downward. A sweet butterfly perched on one of the petals. She bent down for a closer look. It seemed to stare at her. She fought the urge to cup it in her hands and take it home with her. She wished she had something so beautiful to carry in her pocket.

A noise behind her startled her to an upright position.

“Hello?” A white-haired woman with ample hips and a kind face stood at the edge of the yard. She wore white cotton capris, a white shell covered by a pale pink button-down, a floppy sun hat, and tennis shoes. Gardening gloves graced both hands.

“I’m sorry. Hi.” Campbell walked toward the woman, extended a hand. “I’m—”

“Campbell Carter, as I live and breathe.” The woman laughed and then pulled her into a tight hug. “Oh my stars and bananas!” The lazy lilt of her Southern drawl floated like a summer song.

“You really favor your mama, darlin’. Oh, your sweet mama, God rest her soul.” She removed her gloves, took Campbell’s face in her hands, and stared at her for a long moment.

Campbell’s awkwardness washed away and she looked straight into Adele’s eyes, where she found the warmth and compassion of a mother waiting for her.

The woman dropped her gloves on the ground by her feet. “I think you need some sweet tea. Me-maw made the very best sweet tea, and I happen to have some. I’m famous for it. Don’t you even try and say no.” She shook a finger in Campbell’s direction. “Go ahead and sit down. We’ll chat.” She motioned toward two rockers with a small table between them on the porch. Before she disappeared in the house, the older woman turned and stared at Campbell for a long moment.

Campbell did as she was told, and within seconds, Adele had returned with two tall glasses of sweet tea. “I’ve never had sweet tea before.”