Sweet Waters (5 page)
Authors: Julie Carobini
Right.
Curiosity has placed its grip on me too, so I follow her toward the chaotic scene behind the counter. Besides, the coffee pot I'm carrying needs to be refilled. Before I can get there, though, a tug on the back of my blouse nearly pulls me over and when I spin around, the stainless steel pot smacks into the superhero who'd leaped over the counter to help the woman who had fallen.
I gasp.
He holds up both palms and releases a subtle “oomph.”
I find his eyes, and they seem to question me, traveling from my face, down to the carafe in my hand, and back up until they meet my eyes.
I force words from a mouth suddenly gone dry. “S-sorry. Didn't mean to bump you.”
He opens his mouth as if to say something when we're interrupted by an irritable voiceâand another tug at the back of my shirt. “Wait your turn, slugger. I had her first.”
I break eye contact with superhero guy and turn to see the grizzled man with his yellow teeth giving me a disconcerting mixture of scowl and smirk.
“Excuse me, sir, but did you just grab my clothes?”
“Like that, did you?”
I grip the coffee pot tighter. Otherwise I might brain the guy with it. That's when Eliza Carlton's fully made-up face appears in my mind, along with her admonishment to do as she would do.
Go ahead, unleash your inner kick butt girl . . . but do it with confidence. Instill healthy fear.
Go ahead, unleash your inner kick butt girl . . . but do it with confidence. Instill healthy fear.
Easier said than carried out. Kicking butt is not my problem. I had the highest rate of paid bills over at Hudson's. One call from me and most payments came in within a day, or most certainly within the week. But fear me? Highly unlikely. What
is
likely is that customers grew tired of me. I could hear it in their voices, or worse, see it on the faces of those unlucky souls whose bosses would rather send their gopher to drop off past-due payments than spring for a stamp.
is
likely is that customers grew tired of me. I could hear it in their voices, or worse, see it on the faces of those unlucky souls whose bosses would rather send their gopher to drop off past-due payments than spring for a stamp.
My irascible customer dangles his mug from three fingers, and I realize that I'm the one who's tired. Tired of men who tell me what to do, who believe that one call from them, or one summonsâor one grab of my clothesâwill have me spinning.
“Refill, gorgeous?” he growls.
Slowly, as if Eliza is my acting coach, I feel myself bend at the waist. I lean one elbow on the counter, rest my chin in my hand, and set the carafe down with the other. The man's eyes are mere inches from mine. When a waft of his stale coffee-breath assaults my nose, I nearly lose character, but then quickly shake it off. “You know something, fella?”
His yellow smile broadens. “What's that?”
“I wouldn't lift a finger for you if I hadn't a dime in my purse and you were the only customer left on this big ol' earth.”
His icky smile fades, and in its place I see acquiescence. And a flash of respect.
I straighten, both stunned by my behavior and awed by the results of Eliza's advice. When I turn around, resident superhero still stands behind me, only his head leans to one side, like I'm an algebraic equation he just can't figure out. He sends me a lopsided smirk, one thick brow cocked upward, and that's when something else that Eliza always says pops into my head:
Confidence rocks, baby.
Chapter Five
Camille's tinkling laughter punctuates the din, and my sanity returns.
“What was
that?
What happened to my sane and, sorry to say this but,
boring
cousin?” She's rocking forward and back, her hands in a praying position in front of her merry little lips. “This is huge.”
that?
What happened to my sane and, sorry to say this but,
boring
cousin?” She's rocking forward and back, her hands in a praying position in front of her merry little lips. “This is huge.”
I twist toward her in an effort to make this a private conversation. “Shush. More coffee?”
Camille snorts just as Holly bustles over smoothing a cascade of curls, which promptly flop forward as she pulls her hand away. She rests both hands on narrow hips and says, “Well. Things'll be a changin' around here.” She raises her chin toward the superhero, whose eyesight is fixed out the window following the ambulance as it ambles out of the drive. “Thanks so much, Josh, for handlin' her. Not sure what I would've done without you to soothe that woman's nerves.”
He moves his gaze from the window. “Only did what I'm trained for. And you would have done fine without me. Peg's like a mother to you.”
“Eh. I love her, you know, but she can be such a pill.”
He touches her shoulder. “I know, and I know.” He makes eye contact with me, his acknowledgment sending a startling quake through my belly. I've always been drawn to dark-haired men, religiously so, and my reaction to him and his golden locks startles me.
That rumble in my stomach slows but he doesn't linger after nodding at Camille and me, saying, “Ladies,” before heading away.
Holly turns to us. “You girls were lifesavers too. I don't even know you, but there you were. How about I have Jorge fix you a nice breakfast, on the house?”
“That's not necessary,” I begin, but Camille grabs my elbow.
Holly smiles. “Go on now and sit down. I'll be right over.”
Much of the diner has cleared out, all except for the few customers who have wandered in pleasantly unaware of the drama that recently unfolded. Thankfully, the letch at the counter hobbled out before I had the chance to do something even more rash. The beret-wearing gentleman still sits in a corner booth, and as our old table is now occupied, we slide into a spot next to him. He's staring at a hand of cards spread before him.
Camille's gaze follows Josh as he hops into his truck just outside our window. The corner of her mouth quirks. “I think I'm gonna like this place.”
“He's too old for you.”
“But not for you, Tara.” She winks. “Although he's kind of tortured . . . like an artist. Do you think he paints or something?”
“Such imagination.”
Our elderly neighbor cuts in. “A fireman.”
“Excuse me?”
“The man you were speaking of is a fireman. One of the bravest there is.”
Camille falls back against the padded booth. “Perfect! You, Miss Careful herself, with the likes of a super-hot fireman. They run into burning buildings, you know.”
I fix a scowl on my face, the same kind of expression my mother should have put on when Camille would drink straight from the jug of iced tea. I hated that it was somehow my job to deal with that. Anyway, it doesn't work. Her cackling reminds me of Mel's whenever Trent and I would arrive home from the bowling alley, flush with victory. I shake my head.
The man wears a contented smile and cups his coffee mug. “May I ask you something . . . Tara, is it?
Camille, whose back is to him, wiggles her eyebrows. I ignore her. “Of course, what can I do for you?”
“I have this hand here”âhe points to the cards, that until now I hadn't paid close attention to, and I see that he's midway through a game of solitaireâ“and I'm perplexed about which move to make at this juncture.”
Camille and I exchange the briefest of glances before I slide out of the booth. “May I?”
He nods, and I sit across from him. The cards are, of course, upside down to me, but somehow this is not a problem.
“I have this spot open here.” He taps the table where a card is supposed to be. “I can move one of my kings there, but I have two available to me and it is not quite clear which one is better suited for that spot.”
He has a point. He's involved in a basic game of Klondike, like Dad and I used to play when the weather became too cold to do anything but sit in front of the fire and entertain ourselves with cards. He should have seven piles of cards across, but he's already down to six and needs to fill in a spot.
Camille pipes up. “Just play eeny-meeny to figure out which one to move.”
“You'll have to excuse her”âI offer a slight shake of my headâ“she hasn't had her breakfast yet.”
My cousin snorts, but it comes out like a dainty breath. “Mom always plays it that way.”
The old gentleman's eyes sparkle and he bows his head. “The name's Nigel. Forgive my impropriety.”
“I'm Tara, and this is my sister, Camille.” No sense giving a thorough explanation of our relationship to a stranger.
“Your sister? Yes, yes. I see the resemblance. A pleasure to meet you both.”
“And you as well. As far as which choice to make, you could go either way, but if it were me, I'd move this king here.” I tap one of the cards.
“I see.” With slow, deliberate momentum, Nigel sits upright and pushes himself back from the table. He watches me, his eyes gently creased at the corners. Except for those slight folds, his face is smooth as a baby's. “So you think that would be the better choice? The safer one?”
Camille laughs. “Yeah, that's Tara. We can always rely on her to take the safe way.”
I laugh like I've been slapped on the back. Hard. “Well, you
could
move the other king, but if there's no usable card beneath it, you'll be stuck. Whereas if you take the king from this smaller stack,” I rest my hand across the cards, “then you'll have a better chance of keeping this game going.”
could
move the other king, but if there's no usable card beneath it, you'll be stuck. Whereas if you take the king from this smaller stack,” I rest my hand across the cards, “then you'll have a better chance of keeping this game going.”
Nigel chuckles. “I believe you,” as he moves his king. I begin to slide from the booth when he stops me with a show of his palm. “I wonder if you two will join me. I would like toâ”
Holly appears with plates of crêpes, eggs for me, a Texas scramble for Camille, and bacon for both of us. “Here you go, ladies. Fresh from the kitchen. I'll just put these at Nigel's table.” Camille slides into the booth next to me. “I hope you like it, 'cuz Jorge was pretty rushed back there. He wanted to make you some of his Belgian waffles, too, but I told him, âJorge, those girls are skinny like rails! There's no place for them to put all that food!' But if I'm wrong, you just go on and tell me and I'll have him whip some up for you.”
Camille stops our waitress before she goes. “Did you make that on a hairpin lace loom?”
Holly touches the fabric tied around her waist. “Sure did. You like it? It's really just a scarf, but I'm usin' it like a belt. Tryin' to dress things up around here.”
Camille's eyes light up. “I love it.”
Holly turns to go. “Well, too bad you girls are just passin' through or I'd show you how to make one for yourself.”
As Holly heads for the kitchen, I reach for the salt. “You were going to say something, Nigel?”
His gaze follows Holly, as if still contemplating her use of a scarf for a belt. He snaps out of his trance. “It was nothing important.”
Camille digs in, and an all-too familiar uneasiness settles over me that I just can't process. What in the world am I doing here? Wasn't it just yesterday that Camille and I rolled into this familiar old town? And now here we sit, having a free breakfast with a stranger. I suppress a twitter. This very situation reminds me of the time that Eliza Carlton's Harley broke down in the sultry desert. She managed to find a kindly shopkeeper who offered her an iced coffee and a soft place to lay her head.
Of course, the drink had been drugged and she soon found herself groggy and locked in the shop's pantry. She might have died there had she not concocted a way to jimmy the lock with a rusty can opener.
Nigel stirs his tea. “I've got a proposition for you, Tara.”
I blink twice.
“I'd like to hire you.”
Camille's fork stops.
I mentally erase my daydream. Of all the things this gentle, beret-wearing man might say to me, offering employment never came to mind. And despite the touch of unease I'd experienced only moments ago, the idea of finding a nice quiet job here in my birth town sends a wave of calm right through me. I shrug off the sensation, though, because Camille and I've been in this tiny coastal town less than twenty-four hours. How would it look, my setting down roots? We should at least give the extended vacation idea a try.
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