Chapter 2
two
E lisa Bergeron had always hated surprises—because they were usually bad. And if Noah Hebert sitting in a coffee-soaked booth wasn’t further proof of that, she had no idea what was.
“I’m so sorry.” She jerked the carafe away, but the damage had been done. And maybe she didn’t feel entirely all that bad about it, save for the accident gave away the fact that Noah Hebert still affected her. After all this time.
Bless it.
She fisted a handful of napkins from her apron pocket and tossed them on the coffee, but it felt a little like tossing a sponge into Magnolia Bay. Embarrassment heated her throat. “Here.” She handed a few more to Noah, but he was already sliding across the booth, wincing. Okay, so maybe she did feel bad. That coffee was hot .
He moved to the end of the seat. “I think this requires a trip to the men’s room.”
“Of course.” She stepped back to give him space, but not before he crowded her at the edge of the table, smelling like a mixture of spicy soap and a forest after a hard rain. Good gravy, but she hadn’t smelled that particular mix in over a decade. Not since the last time she’d snuggled in close to his neck on a beach blanket, stretched across the bay’s sand.
Then he stood, taller and more imposing than she’d remembered, and her mouth dried at his flannel-coated proximity. “It’s that way.” She pointed to the restroom.
“I’ve not been gone that long.” He raised a dark brow at her.
And now she was back to no longer feeling bad. “Well you know what the Good Book says about a day being like a thousand years?—”
“Elisa, why don’t you get us a towel?” Dad’s expression revealed nothing—how did he always do that?—as he calmly moved his work folders out of the way of the spreading puddle.
“Right.” Guilt from reacting poorly in front of her father washed over her like—well, like a massive coffee spill. She avoided Noah’s eyes as he stepped past her to the restroom hallway. “Be right back.”
Once he’d cleared the wall full of various inspirational sayings Delia had framed over the years, she dashed for the kitchen, attempting to look more like she was on a mission for a towel than a personal quest to hide her burning cheeks. Her pulse accelerated, and she shoved through the swinging doors, nearly slamming into her co-worker, Trish Gamble.
“Whoa!” Trish pulled back a round tray of water glasses just in time. “I’d ask where the fire is, but it seems to be burning your face. You okay?”
Elisa fanned her flushed cheeks with her free hand as she set the carafe on the stainless-steel island. “I dumped coffee on table fifteen.”
“See? This is why they shouldn’t let managers do a waitress’s job.” Trish set her tray down with a grin, looking more like a college student than someone in her late-twenties. “Isn’t that right, Mama Delia?”
Delia Boudreaux cocked one rounded hip and laughed as she stirred the black beans simmering on the industrial stovetop. “I plead the fifth.” Tendrils of graying hair had freed themselves from Delia’s trademark blue handkerchief, and her furrowed brows did nothing to hide the amusement dancing in her wise eyes.
“Cheater,” Trish teased. She cast Elisa a sympathetic look. “Want me to go clean it up so you can save face?”
“You’d be a daisy if you did.” Elisa braced her elbows on the island and buried her face in her hands as Trish grabbed a rag and bustled out of the kitchen. But her shut eyes only provided a backdrop for the last few agonizing minutes to replay in slow motion. Along with a few replays from one particular summer—a movie she hadn’t indulged in for quite some time.
Several minutes ticked by and she realized she was afraid to move.
“You okay over there?” Delia’s familiar voice held a smile, though Elisa couldn’t be certain with her closed eyes.
She slowly raised her head, straightening to a half-draped position over the island. “That man could intimidate the petals right off a tulip.”
“Oh, what man?” Trish was back, tossing the coffee-soaked towel into the giant hamper under the back row of counters. Her red ponytail skimmed her back as she checked over one shoulder, as if said man might be in the kitchen with them.
Delia pointed the long-handled spoon at Elisa. “Your father?”
Elisa snorted. “That depends on who you ask.”
“Now I’m pleading the fifth.” Trish raised both hands. “Not that I know him well. But he can be scary.”
“Dad used to be a lot gentler before…well. Before Mom died.” He used to be a lot more of a lot of things before her mother passed. “But no, I wasn’t talking about Dad. Even though he’s out there right now…with Noah Hebert.”
Blood roared in her ears at his name, and she tried to temper her visceral reactions. Be a good girl and calm down .
“Noah’s out there?” Delia perked up at the stove, even as she reached around and massaged her lower back. Though forever young in spirit, Delia’s age seemed to be creeping up on her, but she remained determined to keep cooking for the café. No one else would remember to put love in her recipes, as she put it. “What did he say?”
“Nothing. I was pouring Dad coffee, then I spilled it. Not a lot of opportunity for chit-chat.” Not that she’d wanted to give Noah any. This diner was her safe spot—and he was an intruder.
“Who’s Noah?” Trish crossed her arms over her apron-clad waist. “You know, this is one of the downsides to being new in a small town. I get zero tea.”
“There’s sweet tea in the fridge, hon.” Delia gestured toward the double fridge across from the industrial sink.
“Not that kind of tea. Gossip. You know… like, spill the tea?” Trish gestured with her hands, as if pouring from a teapot.
“All that slang. Your generation makes communicating so much harder than it needs to be.” Delia waved one hand in the air and resumed stirring with the other. “Noah moved away when he was a teenager but spent every summer here with his grandfather at the Blue Pirogue Inn. Noah and Elisa were…well. They were?—”
“We just were . Once upon a time. Past tense.” Elisa hated labels. Especially ones that were impossible to define.
Trish wiggled her eyebrows as she headed for the kitchen door. “I’ve gotta check him out.”
“Trish!” Her protest was in vain. Her redheaded coworker was already peering through the rounded window in the double-hinged kitchen door. “Didn’t you see him when you cleaned the table?”
“No one was there except your dad.” Trish tilted her neck as she squinted to see. “Noah must have been drying off. That was a lot of coffee, Elisa. What’d you do? Trip and throw the entire pot?”
Elisa joined her at the second of the two doors and peeked through the circular glass pane. Noah wasn’t back yet. “I was startled.”
Mostly by the force of his direct eye contact, but Trish didn’t need those details. Hopefully Elisa had managed to save face. She didn’t have much left by way of Noah Hebert, but she had her pride. Didn’t she?
“Speaking of coffee spills, I appreciate your extra help today, even if you did try to drown my customers,” Delia called from behind them.
“Anytime, Mama Delia.” As manager these last three years, Elisa didn’t often wait tables, but they were short-handed when she’d arrived that morning and it was packed as usual for the morning rush. Her father could have warned her that rush was going to include meeting up with Noah Hebert.
She turned back to the window. “Why didn’t Dad warn me he was meeting him here?”
And why had no one warned her Noah’s hair had gotten deliciously longer?
Trish sucked in her breath as Noah approached the table once more. “That’s got to be him. Dark hair?”
“And flannel shirt.” As always. Funny how it never used to annoy her so badly.
“Mmm, like the guy in those paper towel commercials.” Trish made a tsking sound. “I’d have been flustered too, sister.”
Elisa frowned, pulling back from the window to glare at her friend. “Not like that.”
Delia coughed, and Elisa shot a warning look over her shoulder. “Mama Delia, you got something in your throat over there?”
She hummed. “Don’t mind me. Just wondering how long your nose is going to grow.”
Trish let out a burst of laughter. Elisa turned back as Noah looked up—straight at them. “Duck!” She grabbed Trish’s wrist and yanked her down.
Delia kept talking, as if her two best employees weren’t currently performing deep squats in front of the kitchen doors. “When did you see Noah last, honey?”
“Twelve years ago?” Elisa shifted her weight, waddling like a crab away from the window before she resumed standing. “He came to town for his grandfather’s funeral six months ago, but we didn’t attend.” Bergerons and Heberts never expected that of each other.
So yeah, she hadn’t been privy to Noah up close and personal in about twelve years now, Yet today, she’d been close enough to count the hairs forming his not-even-close-to-five-o’clock-yet shadow to notice the few that were already turning gray in a sophisticated lumberjack-type way…
Bless it, he was like that paper towel guy.
“So what did Noah do when you flirted with him?” Trish performed the same side-step crab walk away from the door, amusement lighting her freckled face as she awaited Elisa’s answer.
“I didn’t flirt.”
Confusion etched between Trish’s brows. “But you flirt with everyone.”
Elisa bristled. “That’s different.”
“Why don’t you take Noah a plate of pancakes? To apologize for the spill.” Delia plated a short stack from the oversized griddle next to the stove. “I’ve got a few ready right over here.”
“Me or her?” Elisa and Trish pointed at each other as they spoke simultaneously.
“I’ve been called many things in my years, but never a busybody.” Delia lifted her chin as she returned to her beans—a special recipe that was the perfect side for the café’s famous Cajun breakfast tacos. “I’ll let you two decide.”
“I like paper towels.” Trish grinned.
“Be my guest.” Elisa gestured toward the diner, ignoring the completely misplaced twinge of jealousy sparking through her veins.
Delia waited until Trish had backed out the swinging door, plate in hand, before catching Elisa’s eye. “Seems to me those proverbial tulips you mentioned earlier aren’t the only things affected by Noah’s presence today.”
“ Delia .” Elisa tossed her apron on the counter and crossed her arms. “He’s a Hebert. Not to mention the last person I’d ever trust again.”
“Hebert, hmm? Sounds a little like ‘ Montague’ if you ask me.” Delia pointed at her with the spoon again, thick sauce dripping back into the stock pot. “Ms. Capulet .”
“You know how it is with our families. Most kids got bedtime stories growing up.” Elisa yanked open the dishwasher door, desperate to do something productive. “I got stories about the feud between the Bergerons and Heberts.”
“You’re doing that thing where you angry clean.” Delia cranked off the burner and turned to face Elisa. “Which means—you are still hung up on this man.”
Elisa grabbed a plate from the stainless steel sink opposite the stove, providing the perfect opportunity to turn away from Delia’s all-knowing assessment. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m an old woman. I can be anything I want.”
“What’s that?” She hastily loaded two more plates, the dishes clinking together. “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you, Delia.”
Not deterred, Delia simply raised her voice. “I pay someone else to do that.”
“As the manager. I oversee all operations—including labor.” Elisa jammed another coffee mug onto the top rack. Delia had given her a job as a waitress in her late teens, cheered for her when she went off to culinary school with the dream of one day starting her own restaurant, and welcomed her back with open arms into a management role when all those dreams—and her heart—had dissolved. She owed Delia a lot. The Magnolia Blossom Café felt like home because of the woman’s generosity and kindness.
“Tell me. What is it about Noah?” Delia abandoned the stockpot and headed to her favorite cutting board on the island.
Elisa shut the dishwasher door, then glanced around the clean kitchen. She was officially out of distractions. “What do you mean?”
Delia lined up a carrot on the wooden board. “You two got along quite well for a time if I remember correctly. Feud or no feud.”
“That was a lifetime ago.” Elisa rarely allowed herself the luxury of remembering that summer. When sunsets stretched long and lazy, when fireflies filled the humid evening air like fairy dust and late-night bonfires on the beach transitioned into early morning kisses…
“Well, you know what the Lord says about time—a thousand years is like a day, and all that.” Delia began chopping.
Elisa zipped the charm on her favorite necklace along its dainty gold chain, ignoring the words she’d just used on Noah. “That feud runs deep in these parts, and you know it. Sometimes I wonder if Sheriff Rubart isn’t even more upset about everything than Dad.”
“I think Noah’s adolescent escapades might have contributed to that.” Delia smirked. “When Sheriff was a deputy, he had to clean up quite a few messes after Noah and Gilbert. He’s a good boy, though.”
Elisa tilted her head. “You never took sides, did you?”
“It’s just land, darling.” Delia shrugged as she worked the knife against a celery stick. “Plus, I wasn’t around when the whole thing started before my time. I surely don’t see any point in punishing anyone for their last name.”
If only the rest of the town shared her sentiment.
Delia examined the knife in her hand, then dug a sharpening tool from the drawer under the island. “Trish was right, by the way.”
“About Noah looking like a paper towel ad?”
“About you flirting with everyone.” Delia glanced up from the knife.
Elisa crossed her arms and stared at the chipped tile near the sink. “It’s harmless. And serves a purpose.”
She’d learned right quick after a decade of waitressing, culinary school, and restaurant management that being the one to flirt first created an ideal barrier—one she could control. Leave ’em guessing, treat ’em all the same. She kept her male customers at arm’s length, and they kept the tip jar full…and her heart safe. Win-win.
Except she’d never attempted that formula on someone she’d truly liked.
“Maybe it has a purpose.” Delia tested the knife’s sharpness on the carrot, then began chopping. “But Noah’s different, isn’t he?”
He was, but not in the positive way Delia kept implying. Maybe that was Elisa’s way out—maybe she needed to reverse tactics and flirt a little bit. Put Noah in a category she could handle. He’d flustered her, but if she treated him like everyone else, maybe she could hide the truth.
She leaned one hip against the countertop, fiddling with a floral-print oven mitt. “Noah is a puzzle.”
“Good thing you like puzzles, then, Ms. Treasurer of the Puzzlers Club.” Delia’s smile turned into a wince as she rubbed her lower back. “Crank that thermostat down a few notches, will you, honey? It’s warm in here.”
It wasn’t any hotter than usual in the kitchen, but Elisa obeyed anyway, moving to the unit on the far wall. “For the record, Noah is the kind of puzzle you buy only to discover all the pieces aren’t in the box.” Detrimental to one’s plans and sanity, at worst. An aggravation, at the least.
“I bet.” Delia shot her a knowing glance, then her face contorted in pain.
“Are you okay?” Elisa tossed the oven mitt on the counter and started toward her boss.
“Of course. Just the old hip acting up—” Delia’s leg suddenly gave out and she grabbed for the counter, but missed, slapping the long handle of the butcher knife instead. It flipped into the air as Delia grasped for a hold on the cutting board, the island, anything—yet only found air.
“Delia!” Elisa lunged, but couldn’t reach her before the older woman disappeared behind the island. The knife clattered to the ground, along with the cutting board full of vegetables.
Then everything went deathly silent.