28. Noelle
Chapter twenty-eight
Noelle
I stared at the hand-lettered chalkboard on the wall of Bean There, Done That Café. How hard was it to pick a coffee?
For myself? Easy. Caramel macchiato. Decaf (ugh).
But my bright idea to bring Cal and Khia a treat this morning as a surprise had backfired.
And now I was overthinking everything. Khia was simple—hot chocolate all the way.
But Cal? He hadn’t been a huge coffee drinker while we were together.
Unlike me who’d been drinking pots of the stuff since I was sixteen.
He’d been more of a hot chocolate fan back then.
But sometimes he got flat whites. What if he hates chocolate now?
“If you stare at the board any harder, mein lieber, it’ll break.” Mrs. Klein shot me an amused smile as she slid a cinnamon roll into a brown bag for the customer ahead of me.
I laughed weakly. This is a horrible idea.
Mrs. Klein’s coffee eyes softened. “Welcome back.” Even after thirty years in America, her German accent was still strong. “You still take your caramel macchiatos extra hot, ja?”
I nodded. “And, uh, decaf please.”
She gaped in horror. “Noelle Shepherd, you drink”—her voice dropped to a hiss— “decaf?”
I laughed for real this time. My coffee obsession was well established, even back then. “The price we pay for getting old.”
“If you’re old, I’m a relic, and I’m not ready for that.” She tsked and started making my drink.
The cozy shop hadn’t changed with its timeless pinewood and cream accents.
Brass fixtures and Edison bulbs lent an air of sophistication and magic.
The wall of adventures—littered with dozens of travel photos patrons brought in—held memories from all four corners of the world.
The broad front windows and comfortable seating encouraged gathering with friends, while the soft lull of customer conversations and calming lo-fi music threaded through the inviting space.
Everything about the Bean made you slow down and appreciate the moment.
“Lee’s happy to have you back,” Mrs. Klein said, adding a sprinkle of cinnamon to my milk foam, exactly how I liked it. “I haven’t seen the man so excited since he was chosen for jury duty.”
I chuckled. Given Dad’s crime obsession, I could easily picture his thrilled reaction at being handed fifteen bucks with a “help us solve the crime, bestie.”
“It’s good to be back.” The words were getting easier to say—and mean.
She slid my drink across the counter. “How would you feel about working part-time?”
“You . . . want me to work for you?”
“You were the best barista I ever trained.” Mrs. Klein leaned in with a conspiratorial wink. “Don’t tell Ruby. The girl tried, but it wasn’t her gift.”
I chuckled. Ruby grew up with Dad’s coffee, and her tastebuds had been murdered by a lifetime of ashtray-beverage exposure. “I’d be happy to, if part time works,” I said. “I’m nannying for, uh . . . Cal.”
“So I heard.” Mrs. Klein’s eyes twinkled, but she didn’t press further. She might be my new favourite person. “Can you start tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.” I grinned at her. “And can I have two hot chocolates to go?”
“Why, of course.”
She didn’t let me pay for any of the drinks—her welcome-back-home gift—and my heart tripped over itself as I drove back home. I set the drinks down on Cal’s welcome mat, and once I was safely back inside the confines of the cottage, I shot him a text.
ME:
Check your doormat.
CAL:
you shouldnt have
ME:
Chocolate helps everyone feel better.
CAL:
is that medical advice? if so, i want your kind of nursing
ME:
Consider it a Noelle specialty.
CAL:
oh i do. very much
Working in the coffee shop brought back a lot of memories, both of Serenity Springs and New York. When I first got to the city, it was the only marketable skill I had, so I’d slung coffees like tomorrow wasn’t coming until I could enroll in nursing school.
There was something calming about the rhythmic routine, although a Serenity Springs morning rush was infinitely less chaotic than a New York one. Have you seen how desperate New Yorkers are for coffee? Working in that high-stress environment prepared me for the emergency room.
Midmorning, I ran an order of coffees and pastries over to the fire station. It was practically tradition, even when I was in high school. Every Friday like clockwork. I was nearly back to the café when a cold wave washed over me.
A determined platinum bob with its effervescent fuchsia streaks marched up the sidewalk in my direction. Serenity Springs’s official welcoming committee—the founder and sole member, Mrs. Elvira Gulliver.
She was a woman on a mission, and I was her next target.
No, no, no. The Bean was halfway between us. There was no way I could make it. Did that keep me from speed-walking? Absolutely not. Unfortunately my gait was more like speed-limping. But I’d go down in a cloud of delusion.
Mrs. Gulliver picked up the pace. The woman was an Energizer bunny and one baton short of a marching band leader.
My legs wobbled, strongly protesting my current speed. I slowed down, resigned to my inevitable fate.
“Yoo-hoo! Noelle!” she hollered, waving her oversized pumpkin-orange handbag. How seasonally appropriate.
I’d have to be blind to miss that display. It was big enough to flag a ship into safe harbour.
“Mrs. Gulliver, how are you?” I paused in front of the café. So close, but so far.
Ignoring my niceties, she went straight for the jugular. “The prodigal has returned! Let me hug you, dearie.” And without a by your leave, I was swallowed into the bone-crunching hug of a septuagenarian woman whose cloying aromatic cloud of gardenia rivaled a perfume shop.
My eyes watered with the overwhelming scent of her, but I patted her back lightly.
“We’ve been praying for your wayward ways, and here you are.”
I barely refrained from snorting. Mrs. Gulliver had such a way with words.
She shifted, holding me at arm’s length, which allowed me to read the T-shirt knotted at her waist. The woman had more style than I did. I blinked and reread the shirt. Or maybe not?
In the same font and fashion as the I Love New York tees every tourist and their pampered pooch wore, I Love Jerry was sprawled across the front, along with a picture of said feline menace.
“Um . . . nice shirt.”
She beamed. “Isn’t it? We’re selling them now that our little town earned its place on the map thanks to my sweet Jerry.”
Only she would ever call that fiend sweet. The rest of us preferred spawn of the underworld.
And Serenity Springs was already on the map as a popular tourist spot thanks to our proximity to nearby hot springs. All without Jerry’s help, I might add.
Mrs. Gulliver’s bright smile morphed into a frown while she ran a hawklike eye over my person.
“You’ve let yourself go.” She tutted. “How are you supposed to catch a man with that expression? Wait, do you have a man? Your father didn’t mention it, but you know how men get over things like that.
No father wants to think about his little girl dating.
But if you are looking . . .” She trailed off, expression hopeful, like she expected me to confirm or deny the idea.
No doubt so she could herald the information all over town.
When I didn’t take the bait, she sighed.
“Well, you know what they say, cheeriness is next to godliness.”
And she went there. I tacked on my professional, the-customer-is-always-right smile. Where did I even start this conversation? Ignoring the subtle probing in my love life, I went with, “Silly me, I thought it was cleanliness.”
Mrs. Gulliver waved a hand. “Naturally, but after that.” She tugged one of my loose curls. “You should do something with this. The Snips and Curls ladies—”
The café door swung open. Hallelujah!
Dallas popped his head out. “Excuse me, ma’am”—he nodded to Mrs. Gulliver—“but I need to have a word with Miss Shepherd.”
Mrs. Gulliver’s eyes widened, placing a hand to her chest. “Of course, Detective. I wouldn’t stand in the way of the law.” She shot me a look of pure horror and disapproval.
Great, now I was not only the black sheep of the town but a delinquent one at that.
But maybe it was worth it. Anything to stop Mrs. Gulliver from pulling out her phone and calling Ms. Cheryl to set up a salon appointment for me.
If I stepped into Snips and Curls, that was as good as broadcasting my personal life on the news.
Hairdressers—particularly of the small-town variety—were wizards at drawing out your life story and childhood trauma.
You went in for a trim and a style in exchange for your darkest secrets.
It was a regular black market of information.
Mrs. Gulliver patted my arm. “We’re so glad you’re back, dearie. Do come to book club next Thursday.”
I pasted on a fake smile and offered a noncommittal grunt. Book club was code for a gossip meeting where me and my life story could be picked over and deboned like a roasted chicken. No thank you.
Dallas tugged me inside as Mrs. Gulliver toddled down the sidewalk.
“What were you doing?” I hissed. “She thinks I’m in trouble with the law now!”
“I could have left you to the wolves. I can call her back if you prefer.” Dallas’s lips twitched.
I smacked him. “Don’t you dare.”
“Assaulting an officer, Miss Shepherd? A simple thank-you would do.”
I wrapped my arms around my waist to keep from smacking him again. “If my alleged lawbreaking streak is front-page gossip on The Vine tomorrow, you are dead to me.”
He chuckled. “You’re welcome, kid.” And with a salute of his to-go cup, he slipped out to patrol the streets. Or whatever a detective did in a small town. We hadn’t had a murder here, but that might change any day now.
I growled and stalked towards the counter, donning a yellow apron. A fraction of the tightness in my chest eased. I could reintegrate into the community I’d left behind. And I would, even if it killed me.