Georgie's Heart (24 page)

“I'm not wearing it, Gran. Not for you, not for anyone.” Expecting a complaint, she shot a sideways glance at her grandmother.

“But sweetheart, it suits the café. Our ambience. They are here to film, to take photographs, and they've come especially because of the style of the place.”

Rolling her eyes, Jeanie laughed. “I'm not wearing it. And that's that. They'll just have to put up with me the way I am and besides you told me it was the location they were interested in and that's why they're here. Not to photograph us.”

Sometimes Jeanie wished her grandmother could be just a little more ordinary, a little less out there. She loved the café with its quirky décor and old movie posters and was more than happy to help in anyway she could. After all, she certainly owed her grandmother more than she could ever repay, but she drew the line at making a spectacle of herself. She belonged in the background, taking care of the day to day running of the place not dressing up like some model, pretending to be something she knew she could never be.

“I suppose you're right, but I think you're ten times prettier than the motley crew out there.” Norma peered out through the window of the Café Cinématique. “Emaciated, that's what they are.”

Over the top of her grandmother's curly white hair, Jeanie stared at the odd assortment of bodies and vehicles spilling out across the footpath. People movers and four-wheel drives, cameras, and lighting filled every available space as far as she could see. All for a magazine shoot to showcase the latest range of outlandish city chic.

“Oh!” Norma's floury fingernail tapped the window and she turned. “There's the makeup crew and they're setting up shop across the road in front of the library. I bet poor old Wilma will be having a heart attack.”

Within the space of half an hour, the empty street had filled and was crawling with activity, even busier than the days before they diverted the highway around the town. Unbelievable! Then again maybe this wasn't such a bad idea if it improved the café's turnover. It would be nice, just for once to be able to make the mortgage payments.

“Gran, I think I owe you an apology. I don't think your idea was a silly as it sounded.”

“And which particular idea was that, my darling?” Norma's eyes twinkled as she turned around and Jeanie recognized the self-satisfied smile on her lined face.

“You know very well.”

“Yes, but I like to hear it. It's not every day I get praise from my favorite granddaughter.”

“Only granddaughter.” Jeanie paused and stared straight into her familiar eyes. “It was a brilliant idea to list the café on the Locations-R-Us website. If we become a popular location it will mean more people coming into the café. You've put us on the map.” Jeanie put her arm around her grandmother's shoulder and hugged her tight. “However, there's just one problem — I am categorically not dressing up like some French waitress from a seedy porn movie. Not for you. Not for the Café Cinématique. Not for anyone. They've got models to do that.”

Norma's floury finger tapped Jeanie's nose and she screwed up her face and grinned as she waited for the next insight into the world according to Norma. “This might just be the beginning. Great trees from little apples grow. This might only be a fashion shoot, but the next one may be our movie contract, and we could be extras. Are you sure you don't want to wear the apron?”

Certain, absolutely certain.

In fact, the entire circus made Jeanie's stomach churn. She resisted the temptation to pull her grandmother into her arms and hug her. So much heart in such a little package, but it was unlikely it would make any permanent difference. The small town just couldn't support three cafés anymore. Even with Norma's magic baking touch, no one's fortune was going to be made from cakes and cups of coffee.

“Oh! There's someone coming in.” Norma pulled away from the window and smoothed the black and white frilled apron over her sensible floral cotton dress.

The old bell on the top of the door danced on its metal bracket and the plastic strips over the doorway parted.

“Right, we're here, and here's the schedule for the day.” A skimpily dressed waif with black eyes and lips to match waved an iPad under her grandmother's nose. “I'm Jaz. I emailed you a copy, but there have been a few changes since then and we need to make sure you have locked them in.”

Jeanie registered the panic flicker in her grandmother's eyes.

Email. Her department.

Jeanie hadn't bothered to print the wretched schedule; just ignored it hoping the horror wouldn't eventuate. Her stomach sank. Or had she trashed it?

“Perhaps you could email me the update.” She tilted the corners of her mouth, using the very special smile she reserved for the Country Women's Association ladies when they were arguing about jam. Amazingly, it seemed to work. The waif's black nails tipped and tapped.

“You got it.” Jaz turned on her elegantly unlaced Converse sneakers and, holding the door open, issued another gem. “Mr. Fitzgerald likes to do his own shoot preview and he likes his coffee short, black, and strong. And a skinny soy latte for me. Then you better go outside and get the coffee orders from the girls and take bottled water. They need water, lots of it.”

Her black tipped fingers waved randomly at the glass-door fridges and then she disappeared in a fluttering storm of plastic strips. It was going to be a long day.

With her arms crossed and her foot tapping, Jeanie let out a long slow breath and shot a look at her grandmother. Norma's penciled eyebrows danced back at her. “I reckon she could do with a decent feed — low blood sugar plays havoc with my temper too. I'll get the coffee machine started.”

Jeanie smothered a laugh. “And I'll print the email. Then at least we know what to expect and when.”

Turning sideways, she eased her way past the big chest freezer and boxes of soft drinks stacked haphazardly in the passageway and squeezed into the tiny cubbyhole where the battered PC sat like an expectant toad next to a bundle of white fluff. A few lights flickered in a half-hearted fashion.

“Come on, Coco.” The dog vacated the table and leaped straight into her lap. Running her fingers absently through the silky ears, Jeanie peered at the screen, waiting for the email to show up. She didn't want to spoil her grandmother's latest moneymaking scheme — she just wanted the whole event to be worth the upheaval. The unchanging weekly routine of her life suited her; knowing where she stood and what to expect gave her a sense of security and peace. But the café did need an injection of cash if it was going to stay afloat.

Most of the regular events Jeanie had been able to reschedule. The Crafty Yarns group had agreed to change their day but it meant they'd clash with Pencil Orchids tomorrow, and they wouldn't like that. The writing group insisted on peace and quiet so everyone could hear their poetry readings and the Crafty Yarners wanted to gossip and spin tales.

She shook her head, pulled up the email, and hit print. The ancient printer coughed, spluttered, and groaned before finally co-operating and producing a slightly smudged version of the day's schedule.

“Okay, Coco. Let's go.” She settled the dog back on the cushioned plastic seat then reefed the sheet of paper from the printer.

• • •

A soprano laugh tinkled down the passageway followed by a deep baritone. Jeanie slowed and sneaked a peek around the fridges. Her grandmother had obviously found her cameraman.

Hands clasped under her chin, Norma stared up adoringly into the eyes of a tall man who stood casually at the counter, fork hovering near his perfect white teeth as he sampled the piece of lemon pie. He positively towered over her grandmother. The two massive cameras slung over his broad shoulder might as well have been matchbox toys.

“Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald, thank you,” Norma cooed, her eyelashes making the ceiling fans redundant. “I'm so glad you like it.”

Jeanie blinked. Even she'd heard of Xander Fitzgerald, fashion photographer to the rich and famous. Only a few weeks ago, she'd read an article about him in one of the Sunday magazines. Judging by the two hefty cameras, and the fact that Norma had called him by name, it had to be the renowned photographer making her grandmother go weak at the knees while he sampled her culinary delights.

Looking every bit as good as any of Gran's poster pinups, Xander Fitzgerald walked along the length of the counter carrying his plate of lemon and passionfruit pie with him. He pointed with his fork to each of the movie posters adorning the walls, reading aloud the names of the movies and the stars in a deep voice that made Jeanie think of the last bit of chocolate at the bottom of a milkshake. Then he turned, licked his lips, and put the plate on the counter, gazing down at her grandmother.

“Frankly, my dear, I
do
give a damn — this is about the best lemon pie I have ever tasted.”

Jeanie grimaced. Corny. So bad. It was a good job her grandmother was well over the age of consent. She could see her arthritic knees going weak. Time to intervene and get the show on the road. The sooner the photo shoot finished the sooner her life could return to normal.

She studied the piece of paper in her hand.

7 to 7:15: shoot preview
.

Presumably that's what was happening now. Time to make a move.

With a steadying breath, she walked up, hand outstretched and a tight smile plastered on her face. “Good morning, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

He turned and a gasp of surprise froze in Jeanie's throat. Colored contacts. It had to be — his eyes were exactly the same navy as his shirt. Definitely contacts. Somehow her hand ended up in his — she glanced down at it and something jumped inside her, then she jerked her hand back as he started to speak.

“Good morning, you must be Jeanie. Your grandmother was just telling me about the lovely little business she's been running here for longer than I can believe.”

Forcing her lips back into a smile Jeanie studied the navy-eyed smooth talker, trying to ignore the coy titters emanating from the direction of her grandmother.

On closer inspection he wasn't as young as she'd thought, which was probably why Gran was making such a fool of herself. Once a man turned thirty, he was fair game in Gran's book — any younger and she deemed it cradle snatching.

Fine lines radiated out from the corners of his eyes and the non-designer stubble on his chin gave him an almost negligent air, as though he'd been in a bit of a hurry to leave the house, and the creased linen shirt only added to it.

She cleared her throat and beat down the flush on her cheeks. “We don't get many complaints. Gran's the talented one. I just make the coffee and clear the tables.”

His vivid gaze roamed backward and forward across her face and a shot of something as potent as the brandy Gran put in her Christmas cakes raced through her. Her toes tingled. She lifted her hand to her face and brushed her hair away from her forehead. Perhaps they'd need the fans on with all these extra people around. It was very warm in the café.

“Have we met before?” he asked.

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