Chapter Eleven
Telford kept his sunglasses on in the Java Café on Marietta’s Main Street.
He probably looked like a rich poser. But he didn’t want to generate any more gossip.
It was unnerving that in the couple of days he’d been in town, so many people took double takes or worse, struck up a conversation assuming him to be a Telford and in town for the wedding.
He’d been dragged into three chatty conversations this morning at the medical lab when all he’d wanted to do—as Ayana so charmingly put it—was spit in a tube.
He paid and turned back toward the crowded café, already regretting that he hadn’t ordered their lunch to go.
The café, the lunch, the sitting at a table to take in local color had been, naturally, Ayana’s idea.
She happily engaged everyone in conversation to the point where he felt like a minor character in his life.
Coming to Montana was his plan. He should be leading.
“Stop looking like the sheriff is outside building a scaffolding for a public hanging,” she said biting into her veggie sandwich and humming happily about the curried relish—whatever that was.
“Think of lunch in public as reconnaissance.”
“So we’re spies now?” He picked up half of his grilled chicken sandwich, then put it down again.
“We can learn a lot about the Telfords, the town, and potential properties for sale by listening, seeming interested, or maybe acting dumb.”
He opened his mouth to object, and she practically shoved her sandwich in his mouth. “Taste this. It’s heavenly.”
He had no alternative but to take a bite and choke down the avocado and sprouts and squash—he grimly remembered her order.
He chewed and glared.
“It’s healthy. Taste my soup—it’s divine.”
“Cream of broccoli inspires nothing celestial.”
“Says you.” As if to taunt him, she spooned some of her soup in her mouth, moaned a little and then licked her bottom lip. “Gorgeous,” she said in a tone that reminded him of a Taylor Swift song.
Cam had been a huge fan, regularly blaring Taylor songs in the car or at the home-office gym as if he didn’t own a pair of earbuds.
She smiled cheekily. “You only think you’re going to enjoy your carnivore feast. You’re turning green.”
“That would be you eating your weight in chlorophyll.”
She laughed in delight. “I don’t think I’ve heard anyone use that word in conversation.”
He stared at her, one fry poised at his lips. She was fun. Taking delight in something so basic. She swiped the fry out of his hand and kissed his fingertips. “Thank you.”
He forgot how to breathe.
“Smile,” she encouraged softly. “We’ve got an audience.”
Oh. Improv again. The unexpected sparkle of the moment dimmed. The barista brought over their lattes. “Sorry about the delay. Here’s a cowboy cookie on the house.”
“Thank you.” Ayana smiled like she’d been comped a bottle of champagne. “You’re the best, Sally. I can never resist chocolate chips and walnuts, and this cookie has even more goodies. We’ll definitely be back to try more on your menu. This is my first pumpkin spice latte this season.”
“It’s popular.”
Telford hadn’t even noticed her name. Ayana noticed the details.
Made the connections he’d never bothered to make.
She was being a better partner than he was.
He sipped his drink and wondered at the next course of action.
They had a meeting with a realtor tomorrow to discuss what he was looking for.
It would help if I knew.
“So do you avoid all vegetables or is it just broccoli that’s the villain?”
He had a hard time not squirming. But he had to tell her something about his life, his past. They were married, even though it wasn’t a traditional marriage.
“My mom loved broccoli. She cooked it so many different ways,” he said.
And had to swallow hard and look away from the intent look in Ayana’s eyes as if he was revealing a soul secret.
“She …” He couldn’t tell her everything.
Not yet. Maybe not ever. “She died when I was eight, and I had to go into foster care. And the first group home was strict about food, and the home mom was not a good cook and I-I couldn’t choke it down.
Broccoli reminded me of everything I’d lost so …
I got punished a lot and ran away a lot and got punished for that. ”
She covered her hand with hers. He looked down at the table. His skin was darker. His hand larger. Hers was pale, smallish, but calloused. He wanted to flip his hand around so they’d be palm to palm. Something he’d seen couples do.
“Maybe, if we rent a place somewhere or find the property, we could try to recreate some of your mom’s recipes, if you wanted, or invent one of our own.”
He stared at her. That had never occurred to him. He’d just avoided broccoli.
“I never told Cam about the broccoli,” he mused.
She squeezed his hand. “You want to have a legacy for Cam, maybe one for your mom.”
He felt almost dizzy from the new perspective.
“Do you have a food aversion from childhood?” he asked, curious.
“Nope. I’ll eat almost anything.” She popped up, and he felt as if the tenuous thread between then snapped. “A lotta years I was broke, so food was necessity—not so much a pleasure. I need to get a box for the other half of my sandwich. Need anything?”
“I can get it.”
“Sit,” she said like he was an obedient dog. “Savor.”
Telford tried to remember the last meal he’d savored. Had food become a necessity for him as well, not a pleasure?
Ayana hadn’t even made it to the counter before she stopped to chat animatedly to two women, both carrying large takeout bags.
The women were a study of contrasts. One was an auburn-haired beauty with killer curves, and a throaty laugh that carried across the café.
The other was pretty, delicate-looking blonde with twin braids that started at her center part and skimmed her waist. But both dressed like working cowgirls—worn Wranglers, buttery leather boots that looked beat up, and comfortable long-sleeve, soft cotton T-shirts, plaid western-style shirts, knotted at the waist, and barn coats.
Ayana stood up, turned a circle, arms out, head back, an amused smile on her features.
The long knitted—no she’d said it was crocheted—vest with leather fringe woven into a vee around her shoulder blades and then fringed at the bottom flared out as she spun.
Arms wide, holding the vest out, she executed a curtsy.
It was so unselfconscious, so light-filled, he just stood there staring at her as if she was some fantastic fantasy creature from a storybook come to life.
The two women touched the vest with awe, talking excitedly. Ayana shrugged out of it—held it out to the blonde, whose eyes widened with surprise. Her cheeks pinked, and she looked at her friend, quickly, but then shook her head, saying something, he couldn’t catch.
The three of them pulled out their phones and leaned in toward each other, maybe sharing contact information?
Why? They were in a café. Random strangers.
The woman with the auburn hair lifted her phone to take a picture, but Ayana shook her head and held out the vest again to the women, holding up her phone.
The auburn-haired woman shrugged on the vest and stylishly struck a few poses, and the blonde did the same thing, laughing.
Ayana took pictures and smiled her thanks.
The moment seemed so natural, everyone smiling, looking at the pictures. The blonde hugged the vest to herself for a moment before taking it off and handing it back to Ayana. While she put her jacket back on, she asked Ayana something. Ayana nodded, took out her phone, and made a voice memo.
After a few more seconds, they group-hugged, laughed, and Ayana waved them off. The women exited the café, with that fluid stride Telford had always associated with working cowgirls, who’d grown up and worked with horses. His mother had moved with purpose like that.
She sat back down, placed her sandwich in the box and resumed eating her soup.
“What was that about?” he asked, wondering if he was stepping over the line.
“That was serendipity and a potential business lead.”
“Your vest?”
“Yeah, Sherlock.” She grinned. “I don’t make enough to live on with my designs, but it’s a solid side hustle, and since I don’t like to sit around and do nothing and am obsessed with color and texture and being useful … I do a lot of crafting.”
She spooned in the last of the soup. “I’m thinking I’ll have more time to research and create this year so maybe I can come up with some new designs and patterns and sell them online as well—scale up my business model.”
He noted she’d said year, not six months, and that felt like progress.
“I did find out there’s a yarn store in town.”
“I’m sure we’re headed there after lunch.”
She grinned. “You’re not wrong, but approaching those two was also reconnaissance. I recognized the blonde from my Telford family research and wanted to accidently bump into them to get a feel. My duster vest did the heavy social lifting.”
“Clothing as a spy tool.”
She pointed at him and palmed her latte.
“Exactly. The two women, who were super friendly, loved my duster vest and wanted to know where I bought it. I blabbed about how we just arrived this Friday and that I’d been so inspired by the whole historic western vibe of Main Street so I’d Amazoned some western-style craft supplies to the Graff, and I asked them where I could find a local supplier for my knitting and crochet designs.
People in small towns appreciate it when you shop local. ”
He wondered what thread of the conversation he was supposed to grab and pull.
“Why did you give them so much information?”
“To get information. To disarm them. They know I’m newly married, so they won’t worry about their men or see me as a threat. They know you’re loaded because of the suite at the Graff, and I have a useful talent, so they opened up. But they also want to help me.”