Chapter 3
Dax rose, not needing an alarm. He’d always been able to tell himself what time he wanted to get up the next morning—and it just happened. He dressed quickly for his daily run and was out the door a little before four in the morning.
He made his way around the square and turned onto Main Street, running down the middle of the road because no one was out driving this time of day. Except for the cops, of course. A patrol car had stopped him during the first time he ran in Lost Creek, unfamiliar with him and wanting to protect the citizens in town. Since he hadn’t been carrying any ID on him, he’d been politely asked to step into the vehicle for an escort home. On the way, Dax told them his name and how he’d purchased two spaces on the square, where he’d be opening a coffeehouse in the near future.
That had done the trick. Both cops already knew his name and that he’d bought—not rented—the two stores. It was his first introduction to a small town and how everyone knew everyone’s business. The cops had even gone inside the space with him, first to check his ID, but second, to offer their opinions. Dax had planned to do most of the work himself since he was handy. The cops had walked him through the permits he would need, and one of them, Scott Bartlett, had offered to lend a helping hand. Bartlett had recently divorced and told Dax he needed to keep busy to keep from going insane.
Dax put his new friend to work, and Scott had suggested several ideas which Dax ran with. Scott had worked several days a week after his police shift, doing everything from knocking down walls to sanding floors to painting. Dax had insisted on paying Scott, and the policeman hadn’t protested, eventually revealing to Dax how the divorce had wiped him out financially. Once Java Junction opened, Scott had asked if he could stay on as a barista on weekends. He picked up how to make various coffees quickly, and Dax had made Scott weekend manager. It freed him up so that he didn’t have to be at the coffeehouse seven days a week. Conveniently, he lived upstairs, so he could always pop down for a stroll through the place to see how things were running.
The coffeehouse had been open since mid-March. Two months later, it was beginning to thrive. He usually was home by five from his run and after showering and shaving, downstairs by five-thirty, getting things set up for the day. Java Junction opened at six weekdays and seven on weekends. He stayed busy until ten on weekday mornings, first from the going to work rush, followed by the moms who either put their kids on the bus or dropped them off at school crowd. They stayed about an hour. The third group, which came anywhere between seven and eight, were the old-timers, the retirees who liked to meet every morning and sip coffee and gossip. They left by ten, and things slowed considerably, when he only had a skeleton staff in place.
It gave him from ten until four on his own. Yes, he kept the books and placed the necessary orders, but most of those six hours were for him. Dax continued his day trading, which usually took a couple of hours, and still proved quite successfully. He’d done so well that he’d been able to put down cash for the coffeehouse once he’d decided to settle in Lost Creek.
The town had called out to his soul. He’d never visited the Hill Country before. Hell, he’d never really visited anywhere because of growing up poor in Dallas, having no memory of the dad who left before Dax turned two. With his mom juggling three part-time jobs, Dax had begun contributing to putting food on the table by the time he was ten. He delivered newspapers. Retrieved lost golf balls and later caddied. Mowed lawns and delivered pizzas. He saved up enough money to buy equipment to begin DJ-ing and had done that during high school and throughout college. After his marriage to Shailene, he’d kept his nose to the grindstone and hadn’t been much of anywhere. Shailene had taken a few girls’ trips with her friends—and probably Alex—but Dax had never strayed far from his roots.
He”d decided he wanted to stay in Texas after his marriage ended, but he wanted out of the hustle and bustle of Dallas. Houston traffic was even worse, and he’d eliminated that city after visiting it. Dax then simply read about different places online, and the pictures of the Hill Country appealed to him more than anywhere else. He’d driven down, going through towns such as Bandera and Boerne as he weaved through the region.
When he’d hit Lost Creek, it had immediately seemed like home. The town only had about twenty thousand residents. It had enough conveniences, while still laying the claim to small-town charm. The surrounding landscape in every direction was spectacular. It also had a river running nearby, which emptied into Lost Creek Lake. He determined to take advantage of the both the river and lake, thinking it would be fun to take up fishing or boating.
In the meantime, he ran, enjoying the peace and serenity of these early mornings when it seemed as if he were the only resident awake in Lost Creek. The time in such solitude was also spent thinking about songs. Dax had bought a secondhand guitar years ago and taught himself to play. He had a decent voice, and he enjoyed writing songs. He’d pulled out all the ones he’d written before his marriage, tinkering with some while discarding others. Ever since he’d arrived in Lost Creek, he’d also begun writing new ones. When the time was right, he would debut some of these original songs at the coffeehouse.
But he wasn’t ready just yet.
He finished the loop he was running, one of several routes he’d established, and approached the town square again. This time, though, he saw something he’d missed when he headed away from the square. A mural. Well, the beginnings of a mural. It had been started on the brick next to the hardware store. He wasn’t quite sure what the artist wanted it to be yet, but it was a terrific idea, welcoming residents and visitors alike to the town square. Lost Creek was deep in wine country and drew its fair share of people passing through who wanted to sample wines, do a little antiquing, and just get away from city life for a brief respite. The area was filled with BBs, and the square had a variety of cool shops, selling clothing, knickknacks, and cheese and sausages, as well as housing a sports bar, a diner, bakery, and a restaurant.
He quit running in place and continued back to where Java Junction stood. He stopped two doors down and popped inside, greeting Ethel, the owner of The Bake House.
“Morning, Dax. What’ll it be?”
“A sausage roll, Ethel.” As she took it out and placed it in the microwave to heat it slightly, he added, “I think we should do some business together. People stop in here for your donuts and Danish, and then they walk down to Java Junction for a hit of caffeine. It would be nice if they only had to make the one stop. What if I ordered a set amount of breakfast items from you each day and had them delivered to the coffeehouse? To make sure you get credit, I’d put up a sign that let people know the goodies were from The Bake House. What do you say?”
“I’ll think about it,” she said, removing his sausage roll and slipping it into a paper wrapper. “Stop by when we close today, and we’ll talk.”
“You’re on. Thanks,” he said, holding up his roll in farewell.
Dax exited The Bake House and returned to Java Junction, downing an obscene amount of water as he ate his sausage roll and readied himself for the day. Being the boss—and liking a casual atmosphere—he dressed in a T-shirt and shorts and went downstairs. Jeanine Jones, his morning barista, was already there, prepping for opening the doors.
“You’re early today,” he said.
“Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d come in and make myself useful.”
Jeanine was a widow, and her last kid had gone off to college several months ago. She was an excellent worker and knew practically everyone who came in the door by name.
“I’m thinking of carrying a small selection of food in the mornings,” he shared, telling her about his conversation with Ethel.
Jeanine shrugged. “I don’t see why Ethel wouldn’t go for it. She’d have a guaranteed sale each morning, plus she’d get credit for the baked goods and wouldn’t have to wait on as many people at The Bake House. And it would be more convenient for customers, too. I think she’ll give you the green light.”
Their morning rush started, both working quickly and efficiently. Dax was beginning to know the regulars by name, as well as little things about them. It made him feel a part of the town. He spied Sam Farrow, the owner and operator of Bluebonnet Montessori Academy. His wife Dianne also worked at the academy, while their daughter Finley was a teacher at one of the local elementary schools.
“Morning, Sam. Usual lattes for you and Dianne?”
“You read my mind.”
“How’s Charlie doing?” he asked.
“That dog will be the death of me,” Sam said. “He got out last night and wound up chasing Jean Bradley’s cat up a tree. She called the fire department to get Spooky down.”
After hearing too many stories about Charlie’s bad behavior, Dax had decided that he didn’t want a dog. Nor did he want a wife. Dogs seemed to be too much trouble. As for another wife?
That was never going to happen. Been there, done that.
He chatted with Sam as he readied the lattes, watching the door open as Ethel Frederick came in, two bakery boxes in hand. She set them on the counter and opened them.
“No charge. Offer them up and see if they move this morning.” Ethel turned around and left.
Sam’s eyes wandered to the boxes. “Mind if I grab a donut or two?”
He shrugged. “You heard the lady. They’re for the taking.”
Setting the lattes in a small carton since Sam had his hands full now with a donut, he handed it to Sam, who had lifted a chocolate glazed donut from the box.
“Let me grab you a napkin,” Dax offered, getting a stack and setting it between the two boxes.
Sam took the carton with one hand and brought the donut in his other hand to his mouth, claiming a bite. “I’ll take the napkin, but I think I’ll eat the donut on the way to the car. Too messy to eat it inside it.”
He made a mental note, thinking other customers might feel the same. While those who stayed at the coffeehouse to consume their coffee probably would enjoy a donut, he decided to order some of Ethel’s sliced banana bread and sausage rolls, thinking those would travel better with commuters.
When the morning rush ended, Dax left things in Jeanine’s capable hands and made himself an Americano before strolling out the door and down to the mural. He hoped the artist would be at work.
No one was there.
He returned to his apartment and did some trading, eating lunch as he did, and tinkered with a song he was working on, changing chords here and there as he focused on the melody. Sometimes, the melody came before the lyrics. Other times, the lyrics drove the music. Either way, he was happy with the progress he’d made.
Looking at his phone, he saw it was a little after three. Dax went to The Bake House, tapping on the door so Ethel would let him in. They spoke briefly, and she agreed to provide items for him to serve seven days a week. He ordered a couple of boxes of three things, telling her he wanted to see what moved and how quickly it did. They would touch base again before the weekend and discuss how those two days might be a little different since more customers stayed longer at the coffeehouse than on a weekday.
Leaving the bakery, he decided to walk down to the mural again. No one was there, but he was surprised that it had been added to since he’d seen it a few hours earlier. Curiosity burned within him, and he decided to enter the hardware store and see if Mayor Charles Bennett could give him some information about the artist who was painting on the brick wall. They had become friendly because of all the many times Dax had stopped into the hardware store, needing this or that as he worked on the interior of the coffeehouse.
He hung back while the mayor finished up waiting on a customer and then moved closer.
“Afternoon, Dax. What can I get you?”
“A little information,” he replied. “I saw the mural going up outside. Who’s the artist?”
“Ivy Hart.”
He was familiar with the name, even though he had yet to meet any of the Harts. “Hart as in the Harts from Lost Creek Vineyards?”
Charles nodded. “The daughter. She’s been working in Houston at some fancy-schmancy art gallery. Ivy’s always been a painter at heart, though. Heard she didn’t have the time to do much of it working at her gallery all kinds of crazy hours, so she’s come home. Working as the tasting room manager at the winery these days. Did you know they’re building a new one? And an event center?”
He had heard because the town was full of gossip about it.
“Yes, a few people have mentioned it to me.”
“Ivy’s sister is the one who’ll manage the events. She planned things like weddings and parties and corporate events in Austin.” Charles shook his head. “A shame what happened to her.”
Bennett let the words dangle in the air. Dax knew enough to ask a follow-up question. That’s how it worked in a small town.
“What happened to her?”
“Poor Harper was getting married in Austin. To the lieutenant governor’s son, no less. Boy broke it off—and broke Harper’s heart. She couldn’t stay in Austin. I mean, everywhere she turned, she would’ve run into Armistead people.”
Dax didn’t like Armistead’s politics. If the son was anything like his father, Harper Hart had gotten off lucky not being chained to him.
“True,” he agreed. “So, both the Hart sisters are back in town.” He paused. “I’m not sure what the mural will be. I wondered about who was hired to paint it.”
“I gave Ivy free rein,” Charles told him. “She’s that good. And being on the end of the square, it’ll really draw an eye to my place. You know, you should think about having Ivy do one for you since you’re also on an end of the square. I can put you in touch with her if you’d like.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “I think I’ll watch the progress on your mural and give it some thought. Maybe touch base with her if I see her painting and go from there.”
Dax returned to the coffeehouse, keeping busy until closing at eight that night. He ate a light supper and watched a little TV before going to bed.
The next morning, he completed his run, once more passing the mural-in-progress, wondering about Ivy Hart. He paused, taking in what he saw, seeing the artwork starting to take shape, liking the idea of having a mural on the side of his own brick building.
He got caught up in the morning rush and then spent a few hours trading and talking with suppliers. Before he reported back downstairs, Dax decided to stroll down to the mural again, hoping to catch the artist in action.
This time, Ivy was there, high on a ladder, brush in hand as she contemplated the wall.
“Hey!” he called up, causing her to look down.
“Hi,” she said, her voice low and quiet.
She descended the ladder and as she reached the bottom, he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you climb down.”
Frowning, she looked from him to the wall. “I was headed down anyway. I needed to get the big picture perspective again.” She fell silent, her gaze moving up as she contemplated the wall.
Dax started to introduce himself but didn’t want to interrupt her focus. Instead, he studied her. Ivy was about five-five, with brunette hair and remarkable hazel eyes. As they peered at all parts of the mural, they changed colors, drawing him in, as did her hourglass figure. He told himself he had no interest in her or any woman, in general.
Then a brilliant smile lit up her face. “I have it. I know where I’m going now.”
That smile did him in.
Dax had never seen such a genuine, beautiful smile, one that not only turned up the corners of her mouth but reached her eyes and filled her face with joy.
It knocked the breath from him.
She turned, offering her hand. “I’m Ivy. Ivy Hart.”
“Dax Tennyson,” he managed to get out, surprised he could even recall his own name.
Maybe he had written off women too soon.
Pointing across the square, he said, “I own Java Junction. Stop in when you finish working, and I’ll get you something on the house.”
Her smile faded. Her face grew serious. She gazed at him a long moment.
“Maybe I will,” she told him. “For now, I need to get back to work.”
Ivy mounted the ladder again, dipping her brush into a jar of paint resting on top of the ladder. He realized she was completely engrossed now and had no idea he remained behind.
So much for making a good impression on her.
Still, Dax had hope that she would come by the coffeehouse.
Because he was interested in knowing all he could about Ivy Hart.