More Than Words Can Say (16 page)

As Chelsea took another sip of coffee, she fully realized how lousy she felt. She and Brandon had killed that entire bottle of wine last night, and some of the Pinot’s effects were still with her. Moreover, her wounded hand was throbbing again. After taking another welcome drink of coffee, she went into the bathroom and eagerly slipped out of her robe.

One of the cottage’s greatest attributes was its huge, old-fashioned porcelain bathtub. It was pure white with clawed feet, a goose-necked spigot, and knobbed faucet handles. Doing her best to keep her wounded hand dry, Chelsea drew a hot bath and lay in it for nearly an hour, letting the warmth seep into her bones.

On finally feeling more human, Chelsea realized that her appetite had resurfaced. She wanted some breakfast, but her head still ached a bit and she didn’t feel much like cooking for herself. Then she remembered the diner that Brandon had mentioned last night, and she decided to visit it. And so, after grabbing up her car keys and her purse, she set off to find the place . . .

F
IFTEEN MINUTES LATER,
Chelsea found the diner. Although it looked old and isolated, it was busy. Alongside it lay a series of lakeside docks, complete with gas pumps for car fuel, boat fuel, and perhaps plane fuel. Various kinds of boats were tied up, indicating that people also came here by water. About fifteen vehicles, most of them pickup trucks, were haphazardly parked in the gravel lot.

The diner was a true American classic—one of those wonderful old stainless steel affairs that Chelsea had always loved, with a long stretch of windows running across its front side and a pair of chrome doors at its center. A large sign hanging over the doors read
BEAUREGARD’S
. When Chelsea approached the front doors, she smiled as she saw a sign reading
SORRY, WE’RE OPEN!
As she opened the door and walked in, a little brass bell attached to its top cheerfully announced her entrance.

Inside, the 1950s still reigned. Unlike newer “vintage” diners, this was the genuine article. A row of red leather booths lay alongside the front windows. Fifties-style tables and chairs stood on the floor between the door and the counter. An ancient, bubbling Wurlitzer jukebox stood in one corner playing some classic Elvis, and the small sundry shop Brandon had mentioned lay on the far right side of the room. The interior walls were also stainless steel; the floor was red and white checkerboard linoleum. Several uniformed waitresses were in evidence, all busily going about their duties. Typical of most diners, the grill lay on the opposite side of the counter.

Most of the customers were older men, picking at their breakfasts while they shared the latest doings. The welcome aromas of strong coffee, fresh baked goods, and frying sausage lingered in the air, causing Chelsea’s appetite to sharpen further. Like so many things about Lake Evergreen, she immediately liked this place.

Deciding to sit at the counter, she spied an empty seat next to an obviously nearsighted old man, holding today’s newspaper about two inches from his nose. As she settled onto a stool, a woman behind the counter sauntered over. About the same age as Chelsea, she had short blond hair, a pert figure, and deep dimples. Despite the early hour, her apron already showed the telltale signs of hard work. As she crossed her arms over her chest, she gave Chelsea a knowing smile.

“You ain’t from around here, are you?” she asked, the southern accent in her voice quite noticeable.

Chelsea smiled back. “That’s true,” she answered. “But how did you know?”

“Well,” the woman answered, “for one thing, you’ve never been in here before, and I know
everybody
. Then there’s the still-shiny shoes, the brand-new Explorer parked outside, and the Ralph Lauren purse,” she answered. “To me, all those things scream ‘city girl.’ ”

Chelsea liked her immediately, and her smile said so. “You don’t miss much, do you?” she asked. “Are you the owner?”

“Yep,” the woman answered. “You want some coffee?”

Chelsea nodded vigorously. “Black, please.”

The woman poured some fresh coffee into one of those marvelous porcelain mugs that only diners seem to use, and she put it down before Chelsea.

“I inherited this joint from my daddy,” the woman said as she busily wiped the countertop. “He built it in ’54. You don’t see many real ones like this anymore. Truth is, it was cheaper to just keep everything the way it was, rather than remodel it. Turned out to be a good decision, ’cause if you wait long enough, damned near everything comes back into style eventually.” She smiled and offered a hand. “Jenny Beauregard,” she said, “at your service.”

Chelsea shook her hand. “I’m Chelsea Enright,” she said. “So you’re a friend of Dr. Yale.”

“How’d you know that?” she asked.

“Brandon mentioned you and this place during dinner last night,” Chelsea answered. “I own the cottage next door to his.”

“So you’re the one,” Jenny replied. “I shoulda guessed. Last time he was in, Brandon said that somebody from Syracuse had inherited the neighboring cottage and was finally gonna come open it up.”

“That’s me,” Chelsea said. “I have to admit that at first, I was skeptical. But after I saw it, I was hooked.”

Jenny gave Chelsea a knowing wink. “Not to mention Brandon,” she said.

Chelsea blushed a little. “Well, yes,” she answered. “He seems like a really nice man. How do you know him?”

“We went to high school together,” Jenny replied. “Then he joined the army, and afterward he went off to that fancy college and became a doctor. Truth is, we’re lucky to have him back.”

Chelsea lifted her bandaged hand. “Tell me about it,” she said.

“How’d you get that?” Jenny asked.

“I was bitten by Jeeves, the Beer-Fetching Wonder Dog.”

Jenny laughed again. “Yeah, I’ve seen Jeeves do that trick, too!”

“Are you from someplace down south?” Chelsea asked. “I can’t help but notice your accent.”

“Nope,” Jenny answered. “I was born and raised up here. But my parents were from Georgia, and when you grow up around a mama, a daddy, and three older brothers who all talk this way, some of it’s gotta stick. Matter of fact, I’m a direct descendant of General P. G. T. Beauregard, the Confederate hero of Bull Run.”

“Sorry,” Chelsea said apologetically, “but I can’t say that I’ve ever heard of him.”

Jenny smiled and made a throwaway gesture with one hand. “Don’t worry about it,” she answered. “Nobody up here ever does. So, do you want some breakfast?”

“Yes, but I don’t know what. Could I see a menu?”

“Sure thing,” Jenny answered.

She reached under the countertop and produced a menu, which she handed to Chelsea. As Chelsea scanned the breakfast selections she found that many were recipes from the deep South, including such things as hoecake, grits, southern fried steak, and pecan-encrusted French toast. As Chelsea’s happy confusion grew, the expression on her face was not lost on Jenny.

“How about lettin’ me decide for you?” Jenny answered. “If anybody knows what’s good here, it’s the owner.”

Chelsea was intrigued. “Okay,” she answered. “Surprise me.”

Jenny turned and barked out a few words to the short-order cook, who quickly set to work. After attending to a couple of other counter customers, Jenny returned.

Soon after, Chelsea’s breakfast arrived. But when she looked down at the plate, not everything there was recognizable. She saw plenty of scrambled eggs and bacon, but lying next to them was some sort of messy-looking side dish.

I did tell her to surprise me,
Chelsea thought. She looked back into Jenny’s smiling eyes.

“Uh . . . what’s that?” she asked while pointing her fork at the food in question.

“Homemade biscuits with white pork-sausage gravy,” Jenny said. “My own secret recipe.”

“For
breakfast
?” Chelsea asked.

“
Especially
breakfast,” Jenny answered.

When Chelsea took her first tentative bite, she grinned. This was nearly as pleasant a surprise as Margot’s coq au vin.

“Wow, that’s good,” she said. “Who knew?”

Jenny gave her a wink. “If you look around,” she answered, “damned near everybody.”

“Can I ask you something personal?” Chelsea said in between bites of her breakfast.

“I suppose,” Jenny answered. “Given how you’ve taken to my biscuits and gravy, we’re practically sisters.”

Chelsea laughed a little. “Are you married?” she asked. “Got any kids?”

“Nope on both counts,” Jenny answered. “I was married once, but he turned out to be a real snake. Cheated on me with every available skirt he could find. We got divorced two years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Chelsea said.

“Don’t be,” Jenny answered. “I’m better off without him. It’s like my late daddy always said—‘everything’s a matter of perspective’!”

“Maybe you’re right,” Chelsea said.

“Why did you wanna know?” Jenny asked.

“Well,” Chelsea said, “aside from Brandon, I’m pretty much alone up here. It’d be nice to have a woman to talk with. Maybe you could come out to the cottage sometime. We could eat chocolate, drink wine, and commiserate about our love lives.” Then a conspiratorial smile overtook her face. “And perhaps discuss Brandon a bit more . . . ,” she added.

Jenny grinned. “You got a deal,” she said. “Sounds like fun!”

While the two of them laughed, another customer entered the diner and looked around. When Jenny heard the bell atop the door ring, she looked across the room, just as she always did. Almost at once, her face fell.

“What’s wrong?” Chelsea asked.

“Somebody just came in who I could live without,” Jenny answered. “And damn if he ain’t already noticed you sitting here. You’re too good-looking, that’s what it is. Makes you stick out like a sore thumb. Truth is, pretty newcomers ain’t in great supply around here.”

A man claimed the bar stool on Chelsea’s left. Given Jenny’s warning, Chelsea didn’t turn to look at him. She didn’t have to, because he was doing enough gawking for both of them. She felt his attention strongly, and the sensation was jarring.

“Jenny . . . ,” the man said dully, his eyes still looking Chelsea up and down.

“Pug,” Jenny answered back.

Chelsea surreptitiously checked the man’s reflection in the mirror on the wall opposite the counter. As best she could tell, he was about her age. He seemed rather short, his blondish hair was wayward, and it appeared that he hadn’t shaved in several days. He wore a black and white checked shirt, carpenter’s pants, and work boots. Had he been better groomed, he might have been passable, Chelsea decided. As he sat there beside her, he seemed to be having trouble staying atop his stool. Worst of all, the way he stared at Chelsea was making her more uncomfortable by the second.

“What do you want, Pug?” Jenny asked. “Looks like you’re on another bender. Or still hung way over from the last one, at least.”

“Coffee . . . ,” he said thickly, his eyes still locked onto Chelsea. His voice was low and gravelly, like he smoked a lot.

Jenny served him some coffee.

“So who’s this?” he asked, still looking at Chelsea.

“None of your business,” Jenny answered.

“Aw, now don’t be like that,” Pug answered. Some of his words were slurred, and many of the others weren’t coming out quite right, either. “Besides, maybe the lady would like to answer for herself,” he added. Smiling, he edged a bit closer to Chelsea.

“You’re pretty,” he said.

“You’re not,” Chelsea answered.

Pug laughed. “What’s the matter, precious?” he asked. “Are you too good for the likes of me?”

Chelsea finally turned and gave him a hard look. She could smell the scent of stale liquor on his breath. His nearness repelled her, but she held fast.

“Mind your own business,” she said.

Pug smiled crookedly. “So who are you?” he asked. “Maybe we could go for a ride on my Harley sometime.”

“A ride?” she asked. “With you?” Chelsea shook her head. “You know those warning signs for kids that they have at amusement parks?” she asked.

Pug’s face screwed up with confusion. “Yeah, so what?”

“Well, take the hint,” Chelsea said.

“Huh?” Pug asked.

“Okay, I’ll spell it out for you,” Chelsea said. She then held out one hand and raised it a good six feet above the floor. “You have to be at least this tall to ride this ride.”

“That ain’t funny,” Pug answered angrily.

Just then, the old man sitting beside Chelsea put down his paper and turned to look at them. “I hear tell she’s the one inherited the old Ashburn place,” he said.

Jenny’s face suddenly fell.
Damn,
she thought
. That’s a bell we’ll never unring . . . Why the hell did he suddenly have to put his two cents in?

“Shut up, Jeb,” Jenny ordered. “This ain’t your business, and you know it.”

For some inexplicable reason, a look of rage suddenly overtook Pug’s face, and he glared hotly into Chelsea’s eyes.

“So you live next to that bastard Brandon Yale?” he demanded.

Chelsea turned away and said nothing more, which only enraged Pug further.

“Now, listen to me, you conceited bitch—”

Before Pug could finish his sentence, Jenny slammed a baseball bat down onto the countertop so hard that every plate, cup, and piece of silverware atop it jumped. As the entire diner went silent, the atmosphere became thick with tension.

“Jesus, Jenny!” Pug said. “Weren’t no need for all that!”

“Seemed like it to me,” Jenny answered back. “Now you get the hell out of here. And you too, Jeb. Coffee’s on the house.”

After giving Chelsea another lascivious look, Pug finally staggered out. With his newspaper folded under one arm, Jeb followed. Once they were gone, some of the patrons cheered and clapped, telling Chelsea that Pug and Jeb were well-known around here.

Chelsea looked down to find that her hands were shaking. At last, she let go a sigh of relief.

“Whoa . . . ,” she breathed. “Does that sort of thing happen often around here?”

Jenny shook her head as she hid the bat back under the counter. “Course not,” she answered. “Pug’s a special case, is all, and not one to let work interfere with his drinking. Jeb’s not nearly as bad. But he loves to instigate, ’cause he’s got nothing better to do.”