Phoebe's Groom Read online

  “I even spent some time studying in Paris,” she continued. “Popular theory has it that France is where any aspiring chef is supposed to go to learn the secrets of great cooking, so off I went.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Honestly? It was okay, but there are a lot of other places in the world I’d like to experience.”

  “Guess I’m not a true aspiring chef, then, at least not by the world’s standards. I’ve never been to school,” he admitted as he put the finishing touches on the first three plates, and then slid them out the service window. “And I’ve definitely never been to Paris.”

  Too far to walk, Phoebe mused, now finding a little bit of humor in the situation.

  “Where did you learn to cook, then?” she asked.

  “Right here in this kitchen. My father taught me everything I know.”

  “Does he still work here?”

  “He passed away a few years ago. Mom, too. Now it’s just Aunt Jo and me, trying to keep the dream alive. This café has been in our family since the late 1800s, when the original Josephine Hawkins traveled out west as a mail-order bride. It’d be a shame to give it up now, what with all the history, and all.”

  “How neat that you’ve learned about your ancestry like that. I don’t know a thing about mine. So you have no other family?”

  “My wi—Lindsay used to bake the pastries here.”

  Phoebe heard the catch in his low, raspy voice, and she hadn’t missed the way he spoke of his wife in the past tense, either.

  Which was interesting, but it didn’t really tell her anything. A bad divorce could be almost as painful as a spouse dying. Whatever had happened between Chance and Lindsay, it was obviously still a fresh wound, and she wasn’t sure she should prod any further into that part of his personal life on such short acquaintance.

  She was still debating about whether or not to ask more about his wife when Jo entered the room, a pained expression on her face. She wobbled a little bit, looking faint, and was breathing heavily.

  Both Phoebe and Chance rushed to her side, easing her into the single chair in the kitchen. Phoebe was concerned with how peaked she looked. She tried to gauge what was wrong with the woman, but couldn’t tell, not having much experience with this sort of thing. She hoped it wasn’t a stroke or a heart attack.

  “Is it your hip again?” Chance asked, crouching before the old woman.

  Jo nodded. “Blasted thing is really acting up on me today.”

  “If you’d just listen to the doctor…” said Chance compassionately. “The doctor wants me to have surgery,” Jo snapped. “Replacing the hip God gave me with steel rods. I don’t think so. Not going to happen.”

  Phoebe was so relieved that it wasn’t something life-threatening that she almost chuckled at Jo’s spunky attitude, but she didn’t. It might just be Jo’s hip, but from the expression on Chance’s face, the situation was still serious.

  “Did you take your pain meds, at least?” Chance asked, laying a comforting hand on Jo’s shoulder.

  “You know that medicine makes me loopy,” she replied, making it sound like a chastisement. “I’ve got customers out there expecting their coffee.”

  “I’ll call Shelley and see if she can come in to help you,” Chance offered, standing.

  Jo’s hand snaked out, grasping Chance by the wrist and pulling him back.

  “You’ll do no such thing. This is Shelley’s only day off this week. She’s already working more than is proper. I’ll not have her take over for me.”

  Privately, Phoebe wondered why Jo didn’t just hire more help, but now was not the time to ask such a question. Whatever the reason, Jo clearly would not be able to continue working, no matter how she felt about it.

  Phoebe met Chance’s dark, concerned gaze over the top of Jo’s head.

  “I’m on it,” she declared, plucking the pad and pencil from Jo’s hand. Jo tried to protest, but Phoebe wouldn’t even think of it.

  “You,” she said in a no-nonsense tone as she gestured at Jo, “go home and get some rest.

  “And you,” she said to Chance with an authoritative smile, “keep cooking up those good country meals. Show me what you can do with that grill. Who knows? Maybe Serendipity will turn out to be the next Paris.”

  Chapter Four

  STATUS UPDATE: PHOEBE YATES: No offense to @JosephineHawkinsMurphy, but the guy I’m working with here at the café isn’t exactly the easiest person to get along with. I think the Lord is trying to test my patience.

  JOSEPHINE HAWKINS MURPHY: None taken, dear. I’m the first to admit my nephew can be difficult. But I think if anyone can reach him, it’s you.

  Chance’s head was spinning. Unconsciously, he reached for the counter to keep himself upright—at least physically. Mentally he wasn’t so sure.

  Phoebe had taken over running the café as if she’d been working at Cup O’ Jo all her life. A complete stranger to all of them, she’d gently but firmly laid down the law where Aunt Jo and her aching hip was concerned.

  And Aunt Jo had listened to her!

  This very moment, Aunt Jo and her beloved Bessie the truck were on their way back to the house. She had even caved in to Phoebe’s insistence that she go straight to bed to rest. Chance couldn’t think of one other instance where Aunt Jo had followed someone else’s orders. Not even her husband, Chance’s Uncle Paul, had been able to bend her to his way of thinking unless and until she was ready to go there on her own.

  While Chance had heard Phoebe threaten to check on Aunt Jo when they arrived home, he couldn’t believe that was the reason the older woman had become so suddenly complacent and mild, either. He’d made enough threats of his own over the years, which Aunt Jo had always completely ignored.

  Somehow, the unaccounted for change in the situation had something to do with Phoebe herself. Chance couldn’t put his finger on what exactly it was, only that it was there. One thing was certain—she had a strong, vibrant personality, which was probably part of the reason she had risen so high in her chosen career—that, and the fact that she presumably baked well. The jury was still out on that one, since he hadn’t tasted her cooking yet.

  But back to the point, Aunt Jo was no lame duck. Chance could have pleaded and pressured her all day, and Aunt Jo wouldn’t have budged an inch. She wouldn’t have taken the time to rest in his kitchen, never mind at home.

  Chance scoffed and shook his head. Phoebe Yates definitely had a way about her. He would have to be on his guard when she was around.

  Curious as to how she was faring as a waitress, he stood to one side of the order window and peered out, careful not to be seen. He felt both conspicuous and a little silly. What did it matter if she saw him looking at her?

  But as ridiculous as it might be, it did matter. He didn’t want her to think he was interested in what she was doing, even if he was.

  And why shouldn’t he be? This was his café—sort of. Or at least it would be, someday. He had a right to see how Phoebe was treating his customers.

  More than that, he wanted to see how the customers were taking to her. The people of Serendipity were friendly folk, but Chance knew they would be wondering about this newcomer to town, the woman who would be taking over the baking at Cup O’ Jo.

  Taking over Lindsay’s job.

  He hissed as the breath left his lungs. That punched-in-the-gut feeling never quite went away. It never stopped hurting. Ever.

  Phoebe was hovering near the table where the three old men from the hardware store had finished eating and were preparing to leave. She leaned forward and said something Chance couldn’t hear. The men laughed in unison.

  With a pencil alternately tucked behind her ear and in her hand, she moved from one table to another, scribbling on her pad. When she had visited four tables, she approached the order window.

  “It’s about time,” he said gruffly. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten that I need the orders to cook the food.”

  She chuckled, not
at all the response he’d anticipated. She didn’t seem to let anything get to her at all, most especially his perpetually bad mood.

  “Hardly,” she said, tearing off four sheets of orders and sliding them across the counter toward him. Each was written in a bold, round script. “I just wanted to see if you could multitask.”

  Chance grinned. He couldn’t seem to help himself. “Just watch me.”

  Phoebe went back to order-taking and Chance turned his attention to the grill with a sense of determination he hadn’t felt in ages.

  He’d show her how well he could multitask.

  A half an hour passed with hardly a word between them as they worked through the breakfast crowd. It wasn’t easy to keep his mind on his work with her distracting him the way she was—smiling at him every time she slid orders across the counter or picked up food. Couldn’t she just do her work without being so unendingly cheerful?

  He was so lost in his own musings that he was startled when he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. He jumped back and the yolk of the egg he was frying broke and spread into a yellow mess all over the grill.

  “Hey, lady,” he complained curtly. “Hasn’t anyone ever taught you that it’s not a good idea to sneak up on a person that way?” He scooped up the ruined egg with his spatula and flipped it into the trash, then turned to face her.

  “Sorry.” She smiled again—or maybe the grin had never left her face at all. Annoying woman.

  And she definitely didn’t sound sorry. Or look it, for that matter. She was clearly amused, though she did look a little frayed at the edges. But then, who wouldn’t be, having been tossed into waitressing a busy breakfast lot? Actually, she’d done a remarkable job, especially considering that he was sure waiting tables wasn’t in her usual job description. It was a role quite beneath her renowned chef status, and yet she’d handled herself with both grace and efficiency.

  “I just wanted to ask you where the bussing tub might be. There are quite a few tables that I need to clean up before the lunch rush hits.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll get to it. This is probably the last breakfast order—once I fry up a new egg, that is.”

  He probably should have felt bad for teasing her, but the priceless look on her face was worth it—her widened hazel eyes and the way her full lips made a silent O. But just as quickly her expression turned into a mock glare.

  “You aren’t going to let me forget about that, are you?” she asked, perching her hands on her hips.

  His grin widened. “I’ll see how much mileage I can get out of it first.” He gestured to the chair. “Why don’t you sit down and rest your feet for a moment while I get this last order done? Then I’ll get those tables bussed.”

  She looked genuinely surprised, maybe even offended, though at what he could not say. Her hazel eyes took on the glitter of determination and she shook her head.

  “Just point the way to the bussing tub, please,” she insisted.

  He shrugged. “Your call. Don’t say I didn’t offer. You know your feet are going to be killing you by the end of the day, what with you wearing those heels and all.”

  “Believe me, long hours on my feet is something I’m well acquainted with, heels or no heels. The tub?”

  “Under the sink.”

  He realized there was no sense arguing with her. The woman was as stubborn as a mule on a hot day.

  But there was something intriguing about a world-renowned chef pulling a battered gray bussing tub from under the sink and then heading out to clear the tables at some hole-in-the-wall café in the middle of nowhere. She wasn’t full of herself at all, not like he would have expected her to be.

  She just saw what needed to be done and did it—without a word of complaint, and without calling undue attention to herself.

  “You’re different than I thought you’d be,” he admitted as she returned to the kitchen with a tub full of dirty plates and utensils. He took the tub from her and put it next to the sinks.

  “How so?” she asked, stepping up beside him and filling the first sink with hot, sudsy water and a drop of bleach, as all good dishwashers knew to do. Apparently her expertise in the kitchen didn’t begin and end with pastries.

  He took her gently by the shoulders and moved her in front of the second sink, stepping into the first position himself.

  “I’ll wash, you rinse,” he stated, scooping up a handful of plates and submerging them in the water.

  “Okay,” she agreed easily, reaching for the sprayer. “But you still haven’t told me just what you expected.”

  “I didn’t mean that in a bad way.” He stopped himself before he could spout any more untruths. “Okay, maybe I did. I’m a little cynical, if you haven’t already noticed.”

  “A little?”

  He shrugged. He’d already admitted too much. What was it about this woman that made him open his mouth and insert both feet?

  She stared at him for a moment, her head tipped to one side and a thoughtful look on her face. It didn’t take him long to feel uncomfortable under her intense scrutiny.

  “What?” he asked when he couldn’t stand her staring at him anymore.

  “Nothing,” she replied, turning back to the dishes. “I won’t pry.”

  “Humph,” he answered. In his experience, prying and women went together like hotcakes and syrup. “Well, good.”

  “Good,” she agreed with a nod. “Now, tell me what kind of person you thought I was going to be.”

  He wished he’d never made that comment in the first place. He really didn’t want to elaborate on the subject, but he had the distinct impression she wasn’t going to let the subject drop.

  At least the heat was off of him.

  For now.

  Somehow, he didn’t think her discretion regarding his personal affairs would last very long. Even if she wasn’t actively looking for information on the subject, she was bound to hear the people in town talking about him, and then she’d wonder about him all the more. And then she’d ask. And he didn’t want to talk about it.

  He wished he could come up with some way to divert her—at least for now. Too bad for him that every thought in his head was either defensive or just plain lame.

  “All I meant was that you’re some highfalutin pastry chef with a name every cook worth his salt has heard about.” That wasn’t quite how he wanted to word it, but there was no turning back now.

  “Have you? Heard of me, that is.”

  How had she twisted his words around again? That she was right only made it worse. He gave a clipped nod.

  She grinned, clearly pleased that she’d made some sort of impression on him even before she’d ever arrived in this little town.

  “And yet here you are waitressing tables in this rickety old shack of a café,” he continued. “You weren’t even above bussing dirty tables when the need arose.”

  “Why would I be?” she demanded, sounding genuinely offended. “I’m just as much a human being as you are, thank you very much.”

  With that, she reached out and sharply pinched his shoulder between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Ow!” he complained, rubbing his arm with his palm. “What was that for?”

  “Just making sure you are human.”

  “Most people in this town think that’s up for debate,” he muttered.

  “Well, I can see why, if you won’t even take a ride to work when one is offered to you. In good faith, I might add.”

  Chance had been enjoying their banter—having a surprisingly good time, in truth, but her words instantly made him tunnel in on himself, back into that pitch-black cavern where he usually lived.

  He knew his sudden change in demeanor wasn’t lost on Phoebe.

  “I’ve said the wrong thing, haven’t I?” Her soft, compassionate tone touched him more even than her words did—right to his heart.

  Chance swallowed against the burn in his throat and shook his head, knowing—and fully aware tha
t she knew—that he was denying the truth. She had said exactly the wrong thing.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized softly.

  “For what?”

  “For whatever I just said that caused you pain,” she answered.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “If you say so.” She turned the sprayer on and started rinsing dishes faster than Chance could wash them. Clearly she was giving him a moment to regroup, which was kind of her. It was an uneasy silence, but Chance didn’t know what to say to fill the empty air, so he said nothing.

  When the dishes were done, Phoebe folded napkins while Chance filled the salt and pepper shakers.

  “You met a lot of new people today,” he said, desperately searching for some neutral ground on which they could field a conversation. Phoebe hadn’t said a word in fifteen minutes, and it was starting to bother him. “What did you think of the residents of Serendipity? They’re a colorful bunch, aren’t they?”

  “They’re wonderful,” she said after a long pause.

  “They sure are. Many of the folks here in town visit the café at least once a day. Some even more than that. Maybe when the lunch crowd arrives I can give you a better idea of who’s who.”

  “That would be nice. Getting thrown into waitressing on my first day is probably a better way for me to meet the people of Serendipity than simply working back in the kitchen would have been.”

  “Can’t hurt,” he agreed. “But I can do one better than that.”

  “Which would be?”

  “A friend I went to school with, Cody Sparks, and his family are having an old-fashioned country barn-raising on Saturday. It’s an opportunity for folks around town to help them out. Unfortunately, a tornado took out their old one earlier this month.”

  “How awful for them,” she said sincerely. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Not a one of them. Even the animals got out all right. If you ask me, their old barn was an eyesore to begin with. It needed to be replaced, anyway. Now it’s just sooner, rather than later.”

  “That’s a good attitude,” she commented softly.