Last Chance At The Someday Café

Morgan was running out of time. He knew it. He’d never stop looking, never stop searching for her. But he also knew Jack was lying to him. Things were tight, too tight. Jack needed him to get back in the office, to help run the company they’d built together. Morgan needed to do his job. He owed Jack and his crew that.

Damn it.

He couldn’t ask his brother or his men to sacrifice anything more. This had to be his last run. Either he found them and came home—or he didn’t and he gave up on this quest.

It was the right decision.

So why did it make his heart ache?

* * *

TIRED BEYOND BELIEF, Tara brushed the soft blue paint around the last doorframe. Doing the painting herself was one way she could save money on this venture. Over halfway done, she smiled. Done. What a lovely word.

Once these two walls were finished—and the furniture brought in—the Someday Café would be one step closer to reality. She’d be one step closer to true independence.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice came across the empty dining room, startling Tara. She’d thought she was alone. Her arms ached, and she hoped to finish soon. She didn’t have time for interruptions.

Still, she settled the brush on top of the paint can and turned. She knew she didn’t look her best. A shadow of blue teased at the corner of her eye. Honestly? She had paint in her hair? Again?

The woman standing in the doorway wasn’t anyone Tara knew. “Can I help you?” She wiped her hands on the tail of her paint shirt.

“Uh, yeah.” The woman stepped forward, extending a hand tipped with black-lacquered fingernails. “I’m Sylvie.” Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I thought you might be hiring.”

She was, but something about the woman jarred Tara. Maybe it was the black nails? Or maybe the pink-and-blue spiked hair? No. She squinted, trying to figure it out. The midnight blue lipstick on the lips that sported two metal rings? What’d they call those things? Snake bites? Ouch.

The youngest of six kids whose father had died when she was two, Tara had been coddled and nearly spoiled by her family—which sometimes left her ill-prepared for a world beyond their loving arms.

And leery of strangers. Like this Sylvie. But Tara knew it wasn’t the woman’s outer appearance that made her pause. No, it was the bloodshot eyes that lacked any warmth or caring.

“We won’t be open for a few more weeks.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I have a job at the T-shirt shop—my real one—so I’m not in any big rush.”

“Uh-huh.” Tara bit her tongue, holding back the question she knew she couldn’t utter. This wasn’t a real job? This place that had taken every dime of her savings and inheritance and then some? This restaurant that was her dream, and yet the hardest thing she’d ever done, wasn’t a “real” business?

Tell her aching muscles that.

Tara racked her brain for an excuse to end this conversation and get back to work. “Well, as you can see, I’m busy right now.” She gestured at the paint and drop cloths. “Maybe in a week or so I can get started on the applicants.” She’d already scheduled two interviews, but something told her she shouldn’t tell this woman that.

“Sure. I’ll come back.” Sylvie smiled and spun on her heel. At the doorway, she stopped and looked back. “This will look really cool when you’re done. But that old blue is awful. White’ll really brighten up the place.”

“Really?” Tara couldn’t hide her sarcasm. Keeping her mouth shut had never been a strength.

“Definitely. I studied design in school for a while. White is like a blank canvas.” She spread her arms wide. “I could help you design a whole new place.”

Tara didn’t want a whole new place. “Uh, thanks. I’ll let you know.” Tara could only stare, hoping the woman wouldn’t return. She left the way she’d come, the door slamming closed behind her.

Tara looked at the light blue paint she’d agonized over choosing and had spent the better part of a week putting on the walls. It was perfect and would look beautiful—she hoped—with the lace curtains she’d ordered.

The old-fashioned, homey, wood furniture was in storage until she finished painting, and the oak floor was scheduled to be refinished later this week.

Picturing those black fingernails putting out the lace doilies she’d bought at the flea market last week made Tara cringe.

No, Sylvie wasn’t a good match for this place. She was too rough. Too edgy. This place had no edge. It was about comfort food and relaxation.

Turning to her work, Tara forced herself to slow down and not slap the paintbrush against the wall. Old blue? Really? She reached for the long-handled roller and started on the next wall, all thoughts of taking a break gone.

As she worked, her brain kept time with the rhythm of the roller. Was she doing the right thing? Up. She’d worked too hard to have doubts now. Down. What if everyone thought like Sylvie? Up. Not everyone had blue hair. Down.

The light shifted and the streak of blue in her own blond hair caught her eye again. Present company excepted. “I am not like her,” she said aloud.

“Not like who?”

Startling her worse than Sylvie had, DJ came into the room. Tara dropped the paint roller, which landed with a sloppy plop on the wood floor, flinging more paint in the air—most likely adding to her hair.

“Good thing you’re refinishing that,” he said, unruffled as usual. He carefully made his way across the room. His back must be bothering him today since he moved slowly. Though he was healed, DJ would never be a hundred percent like he was before he’d been wounded in Afghanistan.

“Why are you here?” She bent to pick up the roller and wiped up as much of the paint as she could.

“Grumpy today?” He lifted a white bag with a familiar logo on it. Her favorite burger joint. “Is that any way to greet the person saving you from starvation?”

“I’m fine.” Her stomach rumbled just to make a liar out of her.

“Uh-huh.”

He carried the bag over to the diner’s long counter. She’d covered it with an old sheet while she worked, and he pushed it away, exposing the beautiful hand-carved surface.

Seeing it went a long way toward reassuring her that buying this place was a good idea. She’d fallen in love with the counter the first time she’d seen it, and it still amazed her it was now hers.

The scent of her favorite burger made her mouth water. “What’s this?” She climbed up on one of the low vinyl stools that were anchored on chrome pedestals to the floor. “Bribery?”

“A peace offering.” He had the grace to look chagrined. “We weren’t very supportive the other day.”

“You think?” She stared at him.

“Here.” He fished a burger out of the bag and put it on the counter. On the tail of that delicious aroma, the container of fries emitted a wonderful smell of grease and heat.

Tara bit into the luscious burger, savoring the warm juices that exploded in her mouth. She loved to cook, but years ago, she’d learned the value of letting someone else cook sometimes. This was one of those times. She did have a danged good burger on the menu, but this one she didn’t have to make herself.

And it tasted like heaven.

“If you love these burgers so much,” DJ said around a mouthful, “why don’t you make them yourself? Heck, I like yours better.”

“I could. But where’s the fun in that?”

“It’s looking good in here.” DJ nodded to the mostly blue walls.

“Yeah,” she agreed.

“Hey!” Another voice interrupted them. They both turned to find Addie standing there, a box in her arms, on top of which was an identical white bag emblazoned with the same logo.

“Beat you to it, sis.” DJ grinned, barely taking a break from his meal.

Addie came over and settled beside Tara. “Here I thought I had a good idea.”

“It is a good idea.” Tara reached for the new bag. “At least you all know my favorite junk food.” She grinned at Addie. “And she...” Tara nodded toward her sister with a pointed glance at DJ. “She remembered I like chocolate shakes with my fries.” She pulled out the tall cup and shoved the straw through the lid. “Yum!”

“I brought this, too.” Addie’s voice was nearly a whisper. The box from the night at Mom’s. The recipes. “Thought you might need it.”

“Thanks.” Tara ducked her head, concentrating on her food instead of the warm emotion flowing inside her.

They ate until the door opened again. Wyatt came in and froze halfway across the room. His frown made them all laugh.

“Hey, big brother,” Tara greeted him. “Come join us.” Looking at the size of the white bag in his hands, she said, “Hope you’re hungry, since there’s going to be a lot left. Is Emily with you?” She didn’t see his wife anywhere.

“No,” he growled as he settled next to Addie. “DJ, the leftovers are yours.” He shoved the bag down the counter.

“Was I just insulted?” DJ nabbed a spare pack of fries from the new bag with a wide grin. “Thanks for the fries.”

“Anytime.”

DJ shrugged. “What we don’t want, I can take home to Pork Chop and Hamlet.” His son’s pet pigs were going to feast tonight.

Tara smiled, enjoying the food and the company. “We’ve got enough for Mandy and Jason, too. Too bad they aren’t here.”

“Yeah.” Addie sat back, her eyes distant as she enjoyed her own shake. Strawberry—Tara knew without even looking—Addie’s favorite since they were kids. “I miss us all being together.” There was sadness in her voice.

“They aren’t missing us.” DJ laughed and they all joined in. Jason was in Europe on his belated honeymoon with his new bride, who was touring with a ballet company. And Mandy was with her fiancé, Lane, fighting a wildfire in Canada. Tara whispered a simple prayer that they all came home safe and sound.

“Are you going to be ready to open in time?” Addie started to gather the trash, always busy taking care of everyone.

“Relax, Ad.” Tara reached out to grasp her sister’s arm. “Just toss everything the pigs aren’t getting in that barrel.” The trash can was filled with a variety of boards, paintbrushes, plastic and everything she’d swept up. “Not like there’s anything to really clean yet.”

“You don’t need any more work,” Addie admonished. “Gentlemen, clean up after yourselves.”

The look that passed between DJ and Wyatt made Tara laugh. They looked more like the kids they used to be than the men they were. It was nice.

Tara loved these people. Her family. Her siblings. She was proud of them, proud to be one of them.

Wyatt owned and operated one of Texas’s most successful cattle ranches. DJ helped him, though her brother was still a soldier at heart despite his injuries. Addie was a teacher who focused on tough kids. Her other siblings, who weren’t here—though they would be if they were in the state—were just as successful.

She was determined to be successful, too.

She looked around at the half-done diner she was trying to turn into a popular, busy restaurant. Their comments and reactions from the other night returned and sparked her feeling of inadequacy again.

What if their concerns were proven right and she failed? What if no one came here to eat? What if that Sylvie woman was right and it was an ugly mistake? The delicious burger turned to dust in her mouth.

Tara felt an arm slip around her. “Do what you always do,” Addie said softly.

“What’s that?”

“Ignore us completely.”

CHAPTER TWO

TARA’S INSPIRATION FOR the Someday Café had come from the kitchen where she’d grown up. Mom’s kitchen had been the warmest, most wondrous place in all the world—the center of the house and the center of Tara’s life. When Mom had died, Tara had grieved nearly as much about losing her safe place as she had about losing the woman she’d loved.

Now, with the café’s walls painted the soft, robin’s-egg blue, the wood floor newly refinished and all the counters and appliances fixed and cleaned, the large room sat empty.

Not for long.

She’d spent the past few months—in between meetings with Jason about the legalities, real estate and staff—roaming yard sales and flea markets to find the perfect things to decorate her new space. Now all those things were coming out of storage.

First, though, she purposefully went out to the truck and gently lifted the dining room chair that she’d taken from Mom’s place the day after the funeral.

Each of her siblings had the chair that meant the most to them. None of them matched, actually. Mom and Dad had bought the dining room set, the thick table and six chairs, at a garage sale when they were newlyweds. Six kids had done a number on nearly every chair in the house.

Tara wasn’t even sure if any of the ones they had taken were originals. The final set was a mismatched bunch of wooden chairs. Some with ladder backs. Some with straight backs. Some with curved wooden arms. Some without.

All precious and familiar.

Wyatt had the big captain’s chair with its curved arms and sturdy back that had been Dad’s. The finish on both arms was thin from Dad’s movements, rubbing the wood when he was deep in thought, and later from when DJ had had to use the arms to stand after he’d come home injured.

This one had always been hers. As the youngest, she’d been the smallest, so the Jenny Lind style had fit her best. She’d loved it. Still did.

Carrying it in, she set it near the long diner counter that was lined with the only seating places at the moment. Perfect.

“Where do you want this?” DJ’s voice echoed in the empty space. He easily carried the square wood table over his broad shoulders. She smiled and pointed to the corner.

She’d planned where every single piece was going to go. She’d imagined it all.

Wyatt and Lane came in with an oval dining table. “Right here.” Smack in the middle of the room. The biggest table, it would be the centerpiece for larger parties and events.

“I got this one, Aunt Tara.” Tyler had a lone chair—his enthusiasm warmed her. He had the same determined look as his father had carrying the table.

“Put that by the table your dad just set down.”

For the next hour, they all carried furniture and arranged to her directions the assorted, mismatched tables and chairs. Then finally, once the room was full, they brought in the boxes of knickknacks and decorations.

DJ started hanging pictures where she indicated. Tyler watched and handed him nails from a bucket.

Finally, as the sun slanted through the French doors that looked out over the wide stone patio she hadn’t even started on yet, she stepped back and admired their handiwork. She smiled with pride and anticipation. Things were finally coming together.

Wyatt came to stand beside her and slipped his arm around her shoulders. “You did good. It looks great. Mom would love it.”

For the first time since Mom had passed away, Tara felt at home. She smiled at her brother and hugged him. “Thanks for helping.”

“Anytime.”

Tyler walked over and grinned. “So, when do we get to eat?”

The room filled with laughter and Tara couldn’t resist joining in. Everything was falling into place, just as she planned, just as it was supposed to be.

* * *

MORGAN CRANKED THE stereo in the semi’s cab. The windows practically rattled, and he was certain he’d lost at least a couple years of hearing in his old age. He didn’t care. He needed something to get this anger and frustration out of his system. Geddy Lee’s voice with a screaming guitar at full volume was the perfect solution.

Outside the windshield, the sun fell behind the horizon, a fiery ball of light that painted the west Texas hills with a wide, red brush. This was normally what he loved about driving. But tonight? He just wanted this trip to end. He wanted this chapter of his life done. He was ready to move on.

The past week had brought nothing. No new info. No more sightings. Nothing. Damn it, Sylvie was still screwing up things.

Was he a bad father for even wondering if he should quit looking for her and Brooke? He wouldn’t, and he couldn’t, but some days he flirted with the idea of letting go. Of just giving up.

He didn’t think Sylvie would ever really hurt Brooke. In her way, she loved their daughter. But Sylvie thought of the girl as a mini-adult, expecting her to do things a kid had no clue about. Brooke took care of Sylvie more than Sylvie took care of Brooke.

No, Sylvie wouldn’t ever intentionally physically hurt her, but she’d easily neglect and emotionally scar Brooke with her expectations.

That was worse—if there was such a thing as worse—abuse.

He’d promised himself this was his last serious run. Didn’t mean he would stop looking, he just had to do it differently. Despite good intentions, the police were too overwhelmed to focus on a year-old case. He’d already talked to a private investigator who could take on the search. But Morgan knew no one would put the heart and energy into the hunt like he had.

Like that had gotten him anywhere. Sylvie and Brooke were still missing. Maybe it was time to hire someone who actually knew how to do this. All he needed was the money to pay for it.

Morgan didn’t hear his phone ring, but the lit-up screen caught his eye. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, but Jack rarely called. And when he did, it was usually business-related.

Pausing the pounding beat, Morgan answered, “Yeah?”

“Hey.” Jack’s voice was soft. Strange.

“What’s the matter?”

Silence. Heavy and thick. “Nothing’s the matter.” Another long pause. “We got a lead on Sylvie.”

“What?” Big rigs did not stop on a dime, but Morgan couldn’t drive. Not now. He wanted to hear every nuance of this conversation. “Let me pull over.”

Time stretched out as Morgan slowed and eased the eighteen-wheeler to a safe place along the side of the road, a spot barely wide enough for the trailer, but enough for him to feel safe on this deserted highway should anyone drive by. When he geared down the big engine, the empty countryside moved in close.

“Tell me,” he finally demanded.

“We got a call from one of Ben Walker’s drivers. He said there was a woman matching Sylvie’s description at a street fair over in Haskins Corners last week.”

“That’s it?” Why did that fill him with disappointment? Because a week had passed, and she could be anywhere by now. “Does he know for sure it was her?”

“No.” Jack was silent for a moment. “She had a little girl with her.” Another painful pause. “A girl carrying a purple dragon.”

Jack’s voice faded into the approaching night. Morgan stared at the emerging stars just above the hills and vaguely wondered why they blurred. He scrubbed a hand down his face. He wanted to scream and cry and curse all at the same time.

He’d been in Haskins Corners yesterday.

Close. So, close. He stared at the clock in the dashboard. Only a few hours away. In the opposite direction of where he was headed. Pulling a U-turn was a bitch, but doable.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jack said. “Deliver that load, Morgan. Leave the trailer. I’ll get Kyle to pick it up. Then you can head back to Haskins Corners in the morning after you’ve slept. You’re gonna need a clear head.”

“I’m going now.” He had to.

“It’ll be nearly midnight before you get there. You won’t find them. And if Sylvie sees that truck? She’ll get spooked. You could lose them again.”

Morgan hated it when his younger brother was right. He pounded his fist against the oversize steering wheel. “I know you’re right. But—” Why hadn’t he seen them? Why hadn’t he found them? “Okay,” he reluctantly agreed.

Jack ended the call, and Morgan turned the rig onto the highway, forcing himself not to floor the gas pedal, his heart and mind screaming for him to follow them instead of Jack’s common sense. But Jack was right. Morgan had to be smart about it. This time.

How many times had he driven all these small towns scattered around the Texas countryside? Dozens? Felt like hundreds. He knew the locals as well as if he was one of them.

He didn’t think Sylvie would immediately recognize this rig. They’d bought it after she’d taken off, and he’d purposefully not put the company logo on it. But she’d be suspicious of any eighteen-wheeler since he’d always driven.

And that was part of why they’d grown apart. The steering wheel survived another pounding—barely.

* * *

TARA GREW UP in a house full of brothers and sisters. One of six. As the youngest, she’d been the “cute” little sister. From the moment at Dad’s funeral where everyone looked at her with that “poor little baby” look, clear up until last week when she’d gotten her final permit from the city for this restaurant, she’d struggled to be taken seriously.

Now, standing in the center of the unoccupied dining room, she wondered if she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life. Every penny, every drop of sweat and several drops of blood were invested in this place.

She’d finally sent everyone home. She’d hired a good crew and they’d all worked hard to put in the final touches and last-minute cleaning.

She loved the result. Loved just standing here, soaking up the sense of homecoming this place exuded.

Tomorrow, she and her staff would return and start on what they all wanted to do. Cook and serve amazing food.

Slowly, Tara walked behind the counter, through the prep area, then through the big, metal swinging doors into the spacious industrial kitchen. She turned and frowned at the nondescript door at the back of the kitchen. The door led to the tiny closet she’d converted into an office. An office that held a small desk, just big enough for her computer and printer, a small two-drawer file cabinet and her chair. The chair from her mother’s house.

Tara had been only two when their dad died, so her memories of him were vague and little more than flashes. Her brother, Wyatt, was more dad to her in her mind, though he’d been only fifteen when he’d stepped into that role.

Mom, however, was strong in her memory. Tara had been the last to leave home and had gotten the most time alone with their mother after the others had left the nest. She hadn’t realized how precious that time was until Mom was gone.

Tara walked to the door and opened it. The desk lamp lit up the room, barely. Pulling out the chair, she settled in the well-worn wooden seat. It felt so good. “I think you’d like this place, Mom,” she whispered.

She often talked to her mom’s spirit, feeling, like now, that her mother was nearby. Hoping so anyway. “I’m going to use most of your recipes.” She knew her mother wouldn’t mind. Helen Hawkins had loved to cook, loved making big batches of food. Tara had inherited that love, and Helen had been more than willing to share the kitchen with her youngest child.

Tara remembered standing on this very chair, its back pushed against the counter, to stir a mixing bowl of something with a big wooden spoon. Those had been the happiest times of her life.

For a while, she sat there, letting the contentment and sense of accomplishment settle over her. She’d done it. She’d finally done it.

Tomorrow, the doors would open and peace and quiet would vanish. Tara stood, flipped off the light and turned to leave. Closing the office door, she headed across the kitchen toward her purse and the jacket she’d draped over the rack by the door.

Her fingers curled around the fabric the same instant a horrendous crash broke the quiet of the peaceful night.

“What the—” After she’d jumped nearly a foot, she yanked open the back door, realizing too late how stupid that was. It could be anything—or anyone—out there in the darkness.

The megawatt spotlight above the door shone bright as daylight, and she blinked to adjust to the glare. One large trash can was on its side. The lid was open, half the contents scattered on the pavement.

Great, just great. Now she had a mess to clean up before she could go home. Hopefully, the new Dumpsters would be delivered soon so this wouldn’t be a common occurrence.