Chapter Six
Hank had finished his soup when the front door opened.
A pencil-thin, gray-haired gentleman, pulling a large orange cat on a leash, entered on a small gust of wind that looked like it blew him inside.
At first, Hank thought the man was a paying customer because he was dressed in a dark gray suit with a bow tie.
But then Bethany came running from the kitchen to help the old geezer to a table with a cup of coffee, and what looked like chicken scraps for the cat.
It was clear to Hank the man and the cat were another of her “special” guests.
“It’s grilled cheese and tomato soup today, Sam.” Her lips softened in a gentle smile. “Hi there.” She bent to pet the cat, which purred into her hands, before gobbling up the handout. Lucky cat.
Sam coughed and wheezed what sounded like a thank you. His hands shook where he held his cup of coffee.
Instead of going back into the kitchen, Bethany pulled out the chair across from him. “What’s the matter, Sam? Did something upset you?”
“Cameramen, Bethany. Outside. Lots of people. The police.”
“Oh.” Bethany looked up to catch Hank’s gaze.
She scowled before turning to Sam and patting his hand.
“Not to worry. They’re here because a famous television star’s in town.
But I have it on good authority he’s not sticking around.
He’ll be gone before you know it, and we can get back to normal.
Now you relax, and I’ll get your lunch.”
Sam nodded and Bethany was off to the kitchen in a blur of movement.
“Can we say hi to Mr. Sam and Gypsy, Mama?” Tia asked, from which Hank surmised Gypsy was the cat.
“Sure, but come right back. Mr. Sam looks like he’s having a rough day.”
The girls ran over with a chorus of hellos for Mr. Sam and then bent to pet Gypsy.
Rosie leaned in close and whispered, “Sam’s been sober for going on five years now. We’re all proud of him. He’s had a rough time of it.”
“Mr. Sam, Mr. Sam.” Tia turned to Hank. “We’ve made a new friend. He’s nice.”
“Who’s this?” Sam glanced toward Hank, his expression blank.
Sam must not own a TV. Hank found himself getting out of his seat and approaching their table to proffer a hand. Sam shot him a gold-toothed smile before giving it a shake.
“Great to meet you,” Hank said.
“Here’s Gypsy. Isn’t she nice?” Tana pointed at the cat lapping the milk that Sam had set down for her like it might vanish before she could get the last of it.
Hank nodded in what he thought was a proper response to meeting a cat.
He didn’t care for cats. They were far too particular, always fussing with their fur and coughing up hair balls.
Dogs were much friendlier—well, except for Woodrow, his current dog.
Hank hoped Woodrow wouldn’t bite Connor, his brother, who was dog sitting for the weekend.
“We can’t pet Gypsy while she’s eating,” Tia warned him, her face taking on the air of a parent imparting advice the child had heard a time or two. “But when she’s done, we can. Right, Mr. Sam?”
“Sure, as long as you’re gentle. Gypsy likes it when you pet her.”
“Girls,” Rosie called. “Let Sam eat in peace. Come finish your lunch; it’s getting cold.”
“Bye. Gotta go.” The girls waved and raced back to their mother.
“Where ya from?” Sam asked before Hank could follow suit.
“Uh . . .” Hank couldn’t remember the last time he’d been asked the question from someone who didn’t already know the answer. “I live in Los Angeles, but I’m not there much. I travel for my job.”
“Is that so?” Sam nodded as if Hank were the Dalai Lama and his words required deep contemplation. He settled back in his chair. “I used to travel quite a bit myself when I was in the Navy. Are you a military man?”
“Uh, no.”
“Hank’s an actor—the one in town causing all the fuss,” Bethany interrupted as if the words tasted like burnt popcorn.
She had come up behind him with a golden grilled cheese on a plate in one hand and a steaming bowl of soup in the other.
She set them in front of Sam with a sweet smile. “Can I get you anything else?”
“I see you have macarons today. I’ll take two of those, if you don’t mind.”
“Absolutely, I don’t mind. Let me get them for you.” Bethany turned and left without a word to Hank.
Hank couldn’t stop an eye roll. He might as well be wallpaper for all the attention Bethany gave him.
He hated to admit it, but he was starting to feel a teensy bit annoyed by her treatment.
Even if he weren’t a well-known Hollywood figure, he was still a paying customer.
He hadn’t seen many of those since he’d entered her restaurant.
“She don’t much like actors.” Sam mumbled the words around a mouthful of grilled cheese.
“Yeah, why is that?”
Sam raised a brow and wiped his face with a napkin.
“Doesn’t trust ’em. Can’t say that I blame her.
” He took a sip of his coffee. Hank watched fascinated as Sam’s Adam’s apple moved with each swallow, and then he set down his mug with a clang, almost spilling what was left in the cup.
“She got her heart broke by one of them theatrical types. Grab a seat, why don’t ya. ”
Hank couldn’t stop himself from pulling out a chair, which screeched against the hardwood floor. One of the legs was shorter than the other. He sat, and the chair lurched to one side with a thump. “Who was it?”
“Huh?” Sam looked up from his plate like he’d forgotten Hank was there.
Hank moved and the chair tilted in the opposite direction with his weight. “The actor who broke her heart. Someone on television?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Sam picked up the bowl and drank from it, making loud slurping sounds.
Hank waited for him to finish. Watching Sam eat was a study in characterization and a lesson in patience. When Sam set the bowl down, he wore a tomato soup mustache, which he dabbed at with his napkin.
“Yeah, she don’t say much about it. Some fast-talking bum from the Big Apple.
He took her money and broke her heart, I guess.
I don’t ask questions. She’s a sweet lady that deserves better, that’s all I know.
She takes care of everyone.” Sam’s face lost its friendly expression.
He squinted at Hank. “What did you say your last name was?”
Hank sighed. “I didn’t—it’s Haverill.”
“Oh.” Sam wrinkled his brow and tapped a shaky finger against his lips. “Sounds familiar. How do you spell that?”
As if his ego hadn’t already taken a stomping, Sam was present to finish the job. Hank clung to what was left of his dignity and cleared his throat. “H-A-V-E-R-I-L-L. Haverill.”
Sam cocked his head and nodded. Hank grimaced, waiting for the inevitable. Sam may be old, but unless he lives in a cave . . .
“Scottish?”
Wow. Sam lives in a cave. Hank was saved from answering by the arrival of Bethany and two large chocolate-cherry macaron cookies, which covered the entire plate she placed in front of Sam. Nice lady indeed.
“Here ya go. I made them this morning.” She turned to Hank. “I upheld my part of the bargain—you’ve been fed. I hope you can now see the quality of the food and how special this place is to everyone.”
“Sure I can.” He suspected Bethany had a lot to do with what made the place special.
“And how devastating it would be to this community if we couldn’t continue to operate?”
“I can imagine.”
“So you’ll continue renting to us?” Bethany turned hopeful gray-green eyes on him.
“Well, I don’t know . . . why don’t we discuss it over dinner tonight?” He flashed her a smile women tended to find persuasive.
She hesitated, frowning, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. “Sorry, I can’t. The restaurant stays open late.” She motioned behind him. “Your bill’s on the table.”
He looked over to see a yellow piece of paper tucked underneath his empty bowl next to the fifty. Rosie and the girls had vanished, but a few of the other tables were occupied with what looked like regular customers.
“You can pay up front.” No warm smiles. No free meals. She wanted him to leave. She hadn’t bothered to disguise it. He was being dismissed.
And she was right—he should go. He had only meant to take a small break from his responsibilities—he’d stayed far longer than he’d intended.
Elizabeth would be frantic by now. Hank needed to find her and get the interviews over with.
Then he would head to his hotel and have a nap.
What did he care if Bethany gave him the time of day or not?
He rose to his full height of six foot four. Problem was, he didn’t care for the feeling of being brushed aside. It felt like a challenge.
He made a show of walking to his table, pulling out his chair, and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. The chair remained solid and straight on the floor, thank God. He had begun to feel like he was on a ship.
She followed him as he’d expected she would. “You’re not finished?”
He kept his expression serene and blinked up at her. “I can’t leave without trying one of your amazing whoopie pies. Rosie told me they’re quite good. Speaking of Rosie, where did she and the girls disappear to?”
Bethany’s eyes narrowed as she gathered his empty plate and bowl. “They’re in the kitchen. They help out on Fridays.” Her hands brushed by him. The scent of vanilla hung in the air. “There are camera crews outside looking for you.”
He groaned. “All the more reason for me to stay inside.”
She paused over the dishes. “I thought actors loved the camera?”
He fiddled with his glass. “I do, most of the time.”
“Then why are you in hiding?”
He thought about lying. He didn’t owe her the truth. She would laugh in his face. She had made it clear that she didn’t think much of him.
He glanced up to catch large eyes, framed by long eyelashes. Eyes he could drown in. Their color was somewhere between the sky on a cloudy day and the deep green of the sea.
“I’m exhausted.” And feeling sorry for himself after his girlfriend Melanie had left him. They’d fought for most of their relationship, so he wasn’t exactly sorry to see her go, but he didn’t enjoy being discarded like a piece of trash.
“You can’t take a vacation?”
“Not in the middle of the season.”
“So take a vacation when the season ends.”
“I can’t afford it.”
Her face lost all expression, and her eyes frosted over like a pond in winter.
She picked up the dishes, the spoon rattling in the bowl.
“If you want me to feel sorry for you, it’s not working.
You own this building. You have a place to sleep and food to eat and I’m sure a hefty paycheck.
There’s plenty of folks around here who have nothing. ”
He sighed and closed his eyes. He had nowhere to go and no one he cared to spend time with.
And even if he had, he needed the money to pay his bills.
He’d told the truth. Although he had coughed up the funds to buy the building, he couldn’t afford a vacation at the moment.
He’d made a series of bad financial decisions when he was younger.
He had a slew of staff dependent on him for income.
Hell, the taxes for his Los Angeles home alone cost half a million a year.
And with Melanie’s lawsuit, he had massive legal fees to pay, not to mention the price of his publicist, agent, assistant, stylist, bodyguard .
. . to name a few. His show wasn’t going to last forever.
There were rumors it was on the chopping block.
He needed to look for work, not go on vacation.
He opened his eyes. Bethany had paused again, staring at him like he had a pair of devil’s horns poking through his scalp. The sight must have been fascinating because she didn’t look away. Hank found himself running a hand over his head to verify it was horn free.
He lifted his shoulder in defeat. He hadn’t expected her to believe him. She was a stranger. She didn’t like actors. And now he owned her building and would put her out of business if he opened that darn fitness center. It wasn’t surprising that she didn’t trust him. “I’m not looking for sympathy.”
The truth is I’m depressed. My girlfriend’s gone, my show’s going to be canceled, and I don’t feel like being in front of a camera right now. “I do want to taste a whoopie pie, though. And I wouldn’t mind some company, if you’d like to join me.”
Bethany’s expressive face fluctuated from suspicion to worry to fear before settling on wary. “Why?”
“I don’t like to eat alone.”
Hank watched as she took in his statement and weighed it for validity.
Though he couldn’t help a small grin when he noticed the smudge of flour that dusted her forehead.
Her eyes sifted him within their depths, searching for truth maybe—or honesty?
Whatever she saw brought another rosy sheen to her cheeks.
The hardness in her eyes softened and dissolved, reminding him of frozen grapes.
Underneath the frost, there was nothing but sweetness.
“I’ll bring you a whoopie pie.”
She took off with a rattle of dishes. Minutes later, she returned with a giant whoopie pie on a blue china plate that could have been served at a tea party and a tall glass of milk.
“Take a break and talk to me while I eat?”
His gaze followed hers as she shook her head and glanced toward the clock, whose fork and knife hands were almost at the one. Underneath hung a worn dollar bill inside an old-fashioned frame that looked as ancient as the building.
“I shouldn’t. I have snickerdoodles in the oven and need to roll meatballs for soup. And then I need to make quiche for tomorrow’s breakfast and reprice products on the shelves.”
He put on his best smile—the one People Magazine had labeled “most magnetizing.” “Please.”
Her cheeks flushed like roses in bloom. “Well, I suppose I can spare a minute or two.”
Hank found himself grinning like a crazy fool, but he didn’t much give a damn.