Love Blooms on Main Street (4 page)

“What about Sam Logan? Or Jackson Jones?”

At the look of wrath Kara flashed at Grace, Grace's expression turned to one of bewilderment, and Ivy laughed at her best friend's mishap. “That's who Rosemary is fixated on setting her up with,” Ivy explained.

“Oh. Well, why not? I always thought they were both sort of cute…”

Kara groaned. “Not you, too!”

Grace held up her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. So they're not your type. What about you, Ivy?” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“Oh. No. I'm—” She considered her words.
I'm still hung up on Brett, nearly twenty years after he helped me pick up my books after I dropped my open backpack down the stairwell? Still thinking about that high school dance, where I sat on the sidelines, pretending to nurse a single glass of punch, and willed the other wallflower in the room to cross the gym floor and talk to me? Or how about, I'm still thinking about that passionate kiss I shared with Brett Hastings while you and Luke were feeding each other wedding cake?

“I'm happy being single,” she blurted.

Grace and Kara blinked at her, and Ivy had the uneasy feeling they could see right through to her heavy heart. Nausea began to stir, rearing another unfriendly reminder, and she reached behind her chair for her bag. “I'll be right back.”

She hurried back into the bookstore, thinking of what she'd just done, what Henry would say. By the time she frantically locked the bathroom door behind her, her fingers were shaking as she unzipped her bag and retrieved the syringe. She lifted her shirt and expertly pushed the needle into her abdomen.

There. She had it all under control.

Kara and Grace were chatting about Rosemary when Ivy retook her seat. Her coffee had gone slightly cold, and her taste for it was long gone. The cookie, she noticed, was thankfully finished, and all that remained on the plate were a few delicious-looking crumbs.

“I was just telling Kara that Jane and Henry are having a cookout this Saturday night. Are you coming?”

Henry had left a message for her earlier that day, but she'd been too busy handling a rush order for a new baby to even listen to it yet. Her mind rattled with potential excuses. The thought of going to a party with a bunch of married and engaged people suddenly felt like too harsh a reminder of how far she was from that phase.

But then again, the thought of sitting at home, all by her lonesome, on Saturday night was even more unappealing.

She opened her mouth and then closed it again. There was no use trying to lie her way out of this. Grace and Kara both knew she had nothing planned for the weekend, and work was only an excuse for so long. Besides, a night out with her favorite people in the world might be just the thing she needed to take her mind off Brett once and for all.

B
rett pulled the last box from the trunk of his car with a grunt and carried it up the creaking stairs to the place that was now officially home. At least temporarily. The top step was a bit loose, and he made a mental note to fix it before he moved out.

“Are you sure you don't want to just take your old room? I kept it intact for you all these years.” His mother stood in a dusty corner of what was technically the living room of the carriage house, wringing her hands and doing a poor job of disguising the worry that lined her face.

Brett thought of the too-small twin bed covered in a baseball-themed comforter, with matching flannel sheets, and the corkboard covered in science fair ribbons and, with confidence, said, “No.”

“But it's so musty in here!”

“I'll open a window.”

Sharon wrinkled her nose. “I guess I can't understand why you'd want to live in a garage when you have a whole house just a hundred feet away.”

“It's not a garage; it's a carriage house. And I need my own place, Mom. I'm thirty years old.” He set down the box and gave her a wry smile, which she matched with reluctance.

“I just got so excited when you said you were moving home.”

Brett tore open a box. He hated how much it meant to his mother that he was back, stirring up the mixed feelings he had over staying away for as long as he had, sometimes not even coming back for holidays. He told himself it was part of the job, that the hours came with the territory, that he had to be the best damn doctor he could be and this was part of it, but deep down he knew it was more than that. Being here brought too much back to the surface. And being away, being busy, made everything so much easier.

“There's no telling if the job at Forest Ridge Hospital will work out,” he said, seizing a chance to plant that seed again. He didn't want to get her hopes up only to end up feeling like he'd let her down. Again. He was here, and he wanted to make the most of his time, but how could he justify moving back now when he'd stayed away when he was needed the most?

He couldn't. And with his experience, he was better suited to a trauma center, not a community hospital's emergency room. He needed to be where his skills were a match. Where he could help.

Once he got his head straight again.

“Nonsense! With your experience? They're lucky to have you!”

Brett wasn't so sure about that. Once he might have thought so, but now… He walked over to the window and turned the lock, suddenly in need of air. His mother was right, it was musty in here. It was once his father's test kitchen and office for the days he wasn't busy at his restaurant, and it was clear that no one had been up here since he'd hightailed it out of town when Brett and Mark were just kids.

Brett glanced at his mother, wondering if being here stirred up bad feelings for her, reminding her of their father. He had thought it would be easier to stay here, rather than in the house, but now he wasn't so sure. He'd lived for so long without a father that it always seemed impossible to believe he'd ever had one. But he had. He'd had a dad. A dad who'd left without another word. Who never gave him another thought.

“You don't mind that I'm taking this space over, do you?” He watched her carefully, knowing it'd been left empty all these years and wondering if there was a reason. He hoped that his mother didn't hold on to some hope that his dad would return. Even Brett had given up on that dream… eventually.

She looked at him with surprise. “What? No. No, definitely not. Your father's been out of my life for years, and I don't hold on to sentimentality anymore. He chose to leave us behind, never look back.”

Brett nodded slowly. Wasn't that what he'd done in a way, when he'd chosen to go to college, leave his family in the lurch? Oh, sure they'd pushed and encouraged, told him he had to do this; his mother had all but insisted. But it never sat right. And now, what was done was done.

“I've missed you, Mom. I know I haven't visited as often as I—”

She dismissed his apology with a wave of her hand. “My son, the brilliant doctor, is off saving lives. What mother can complain about that?”

Brett ground his teeth. Saving lives, or losing them? He'd given up so much, and for what?

Sharon looked out the front window and onto the patch of lawn that had once been a thriving vegetable garden but had years ago been reseeded with grass and sighed. “I guess you're right. You need your own space.” She turned, grinning at him. “Maybe you'll take pity on your old mother once in a while and share a meal with me?”

“I figured you'd be cooking me breakfast every day,” Brett said, deadpan. “I was counting on a hot dinner, too.”

His mother's mouth fell open. “Oh. Oh, I can. I mean, I'd love to! I'm usually at the diner before seven but—”

“Mom,” Brett said gently. “I'm joking.” He kissed her on the cheek. “And this is another reason why I'm not moving back into the house. I don't want you thinking you have to take care of me.”
It should be the other way around
, he thought.

Brett frowned as emotions brewed to the surface again. He forced them back by ripping the tape on another box and peering inside.

He'd unpack the essentials—summer clothes, bedding, some of his favorite books—but the rest he'd keep in the spare closet. No reason to pack up twice when he'd be on his way soon.

“Want me to stick around and help you set things up?” his mother asked. “The girls at the diner can hold the fort for a while.”

“Nah, I don't think I'll bother with it today,” Brett said. Unpacking, in any sense, still made things feel more permanent and real than he wished them to be. He'd been tempted to just pack a single suitcase, but that would have raised questions he didn't have the desire to answer. And as much as he hated to believe it, he was now officially employed at Forest Ridge Hospital, and though it was temporary, it wasn't going to change overnight.

He thought of the position in DC he'd seen on the job posting boards that morning and felt his spirits rise. It was the perfect fit for his skills, and he could keep his apartment and what little social life he maintained in Baltimore. He didn't mind the commute. Driving cleared his head. He'd get back on track, on the path he'd set in motion all those years ago. And all those sacrifices would be justified.

“What do you have planned for your first official night back in town?”

His first official night back in town. He hated the sound of it. “Mark said something about a cookout tonight at Jane Madison's house,” Brett said. His brother had also told him that Jane was now engaged to his old buddy, Henry Birch, and so chances were Ivy would be there, too. He hated the thought of letting her down again, but as he'd learned along the way, it was better to nip these things in the bud than give women a false set of expectations. “But I don't want to leave you here alone.”

She'd been looking a bit pale, run-down. He didn't like it. He should stay home. Cook her dinner. Even if that meant scrambled eggs—his specialty.

“Nonsense! We have all the time in the world to catch up now that you're home again! You go and have fun. Maybe you'll find a nice girl.” His mother winked. “It can't be all work, you know.”

Oh, but it could. And it would. Long ago he'd made the decision to put his career above his personal life. He certainly wasn't going to take that all back now.

Anna and Mark were both in the kitchen when Kara pushed through the swinging door ten minutes after her shift had officially ended. She didn't mind staying a few minutes late, and she didn't bother drawing attention to it or marking it on her time sheet either, but what she did mind was being stuck out at that hostess stand day after day, nearly a year after Rosemary and Thyme had opened.

She'd assumed at first that it was a temporary position. She'd just been happy to be a part of the team, one of the original three, from the ground up, standing front and center on opening day when a crowd had gathered down Main Street, eager to see the new establishment. Her skin still prickled at the memory, that feeling of expectation as she opened the door and welcomed everyone inside. Anna and Mark had looked so proud, so joyful, and why shouldn't they? This restaurant was their dream, something they'd finally created and were eager to share. Imagine being able to say the same?

Kara did imagine. She imagined that a lot. The only problem was… how did you break that kind of news to two of the closest people in your life? They assumed she was happy here. That nothing was amiss. She did her job with a smile on her face, but there was increasing heaviness in her heart. One that was filled with dissatisfaction and… guilt.

Back when she was still working just for Anna at the café that was once housed in this very space, Kara had felt excited about the prospect of her future for the first time in, well… forever. Anna was a friend, but beyond that, she was a mentor, and Kara looked forward every day to learning a few baking tips from someone she admired, being Anna's right-hand woman when business was busy—and it was always busy.

She'd thought when Anna and Mark joined forces and opened the full-service restaurant that her own responsibilities would increase, too, that maybe she'd be asked to handle the desserts even. Instead, they'd brought on a team of talented people—people with culinary backgrounds, sous chefs—and Kara was left standing on her aching feet for hours at a time, plastering a smile on her face, showing people to their tables, and sometimes, only sometimes, being asked to help in the kitchen when someone was thoughtful enough to take a sick day and give her a reason to step in.

It was soulless. Oh, she liked chatting with the locals who stopped in, and she was good at her job, always sure to note a repeat customer's favorite table and ensuring it was available for their reservation, but it was hardly what she'd set out to do, and honestly, she wasn't sure how much longer she could do it without feeling like her spirit had been completely crushed.

She was going to quit. Today. It was as good a day as any. She'd give two weeks' notice. Maybe even a month, considering Mark was her cousin and Anna, one of her best friends, would be a Hastings herself by the end of the summer. She'd just march over to them, ask if they had a moment, and say the words she rehearsed every morning in the shower:
It's not that I don't love working here; it's just that it's time I pursue my own passion.
Surely they'd understand that much!

The thought of letting them down had kept her quiet for too long. They loved her. Wanted the best for her. And the best thing for her was to leave.

She rolled her shoulders back and lifted her chin, her stride purposeful as she aimed her body directly at the longest workstation near the back of the brightly lit kitchen, where Anna was standing over a stainless steel range, her back to Kara. The energy of the kitchen was overwhelming at times and, really, downright intimidating at others. Whereas at Fireside Café, she'd loved nothing more than slipping into the cozy kitchen and mastering a perfect piecrust, she had come to have an almost physiological response to stepping into the hot, steaming, and clanking kitchen of Rosemary and Thyme, and it had nothing to do with the fact that its name was in honor of her mother, who had helped orchestrate Anna and Mark's reunion. No, it was the fact that when she walked in and saw all these crisp white coats and chefs expertly and almost casually wielding knives and whipping up delectable creations, she couldn't help but feel like she was an outsider. That she should just go back to her station near the front door. Front of house, where she belonged.

But not where she intended to stay.

“Anna.” Her voice came out as a croak, and between that and the ball of anxiety lodged in her throat, Kara had the distinct impression she looked like a frog in that moment. “Do you have a minute?”

Anna blew a strand of hair off her forehead and set her hands on the hips of her apron. “Oh, no. Is there a problem with the reservations for tonight? Don't tell me we're overbooked. I suppose we can open up the bar tables for dinner, but not everyone wants to be seated in that corner.” She shook her head in dismay.

By now the blood was positively rushing in Kara's ears, and she willed herself to stay strong, to blurt out the words she had memorized, finessed, and repeated for over a month. Once it was out, it was out. The worst would be behind her. Then she'd…

Well, she didn't know exactly what she'd do. All she knew was that she couldn't do it while she was standing at that hostess stand, fielding calls, and bearing long looks from impatient and hungry customers, as if she were somehow in control of the pace of everyone's meals, as if she could just go over to the nice young couple in the corner and tell them to hurry it along, because people were getting antsy.

“It's not the reservations,” she said quietly. Her cheeks were warm, and the heat of the kitchen was almost suffocating. She darted her eyes to the left, noticing the heavy stare from Mark's sous chef, and pinched her lips together. “Could we maybe go to your office?”

Oh, boy. This was the closest she'd gotten to going through with her plan in weeks. How many times had she marched through that kitchen door, determined to seize control of her fate? And how many times had she cracked under the fear of the enormity of the possibility? Of quitting her job. Of taking a risk. Of letting down two of the people who meant the most to her in this world.

Anna looked helplessly at the stove where five pots were simultaneously simmering or boiling. “I have to get the soups finished if I stand any chance of making it to Jane's tonight. Do you mind if this waits until next week? Before your shift, grab me. I'm all yours. Promise.”

Kara felt herself wilt. She'd been about to do it this time; she was sure of it. It had been Grace's comments about the cookies, the thought that customers had actually commented on them, that had pushed her into action. After she'd left the bookshop the other night, she'd thought of little else, and she'd happily offered her baking services up to Anna again the next day, only by then the pastry chef was back from her vacation, and that meant Kara wasn't needed… at least not in the kitchen. Nope, she was sent back through the doors, up to the front desk, with a list of messages to return and a heavy heart.