03_A Family To Call Her Own (5 page)

“Of course! Do you think a single woman who looks like her could come to a small town like this and not be pursued by every eligible man in the county? But she wasn’t interested. Period. In anyone. So I didn’t take it personally. We all had to settle for being just friends.”

“Hmm.”

“‘Hmm’ what?”

“‘Hmm’ as in, that’s interesting but I’m not in the market, anyway.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Right,” Zach repeated firmly. “As my boss told me, I need some time to decompress.”

Mark grinned. “I can think of worse ways.”

Zach chuckled. “Speaking of which, when do I get to meet your elusive fiancée?”

Mark smiled. “How about dinner tomorrow night?”

“Sounds great.”

“Listen, do you mind if I run next door for a minute while you finish your coffee? Then I’ll give you the ten-cent tour.”

“No problem.”

Mark slid off the stool. “Ben will keep you company while I’m gone, right Ben?”

“Sure.” A moment later the door jangled to indicate Mark’s departure, and Ben ambled over to remove his cup, wiping the counter as he spoke. “Nice girl, Rebecca,” he said conversationally.

“Seems to be,” Zach agreed.

“Make a good wife for somebody,” Ben commented nonchalantly.

“From what Mark says, the lady’s not interested in romance,” Zach replied, taking a leisurely sip of his coffee.

Ben snorted. “Well, if you ask me, she just hasn’t met the right man yet.”

Zach had a knack for discreetly ferreting out large amounts of information without people realizing just how much they were divulging. It came in handy in his job—and in situations like this.

By the time he left the diner he knew quite a bit about Rebecca Matthews. She’d moved to St. Genevieve three years before to open her restaurant, “Rebecca’s,” which was becoming quite popular with both locals and St. Louisans, who often came to the quaint town for weekend getaways. She’d even been written up a few times in area papers—his own included, if Ben’s information was accurate. A graduate of the Culinary Institute of America, she’d worked in a couple of prestigious restaurants before striking out on her own. She came from the small town of Jersey, in southern Missouri, where her father still lived. Her brother, Brad—a minister—and his wife, Sam, made their home in St. Louis. She’d been returning from there Thursday night after the birth of their daughter. As far as Zach could tell from Ben’s ramblings, Rebecca never dated. And she was apparently doted over by two maiden sisters who worked at her restaurant.

As Mark and Zach started off on their tour a few minutes later, Mark pointed out Rebecca’s restaurant. It was a modest building in the historic district, identified only by a discreet awning that displayed the name.

“Rebecca really is a wonderful chef,” Mark told him. “The food’s great. You’ll have to try it while you’re here.”

“Uh-huh,” Zach replied noncommittally. As a matter of fact, he intended to become a regular customer. And not because of the food.

“Rose, have you seen the tube of whipped cream with the star tip?” Rebecca called, her voice muffled as she stuck her head into the restaurant’s huge refrigerator.

Rose glanced at the work counter, where the tube lay in clear sight right next to the torte Rebecca was decorating. It was exactly where she’d laid it moments before. Rose glanced at Frances across the counter, and her sister shrugged, mystified. Rebecca was extremely organized, and they’d never seen her flustered. Until this morning.

“It’s right here, dear,” Rose said, pointing to the tube as Rebecca turned.

“Oh. Well. I guess my brain just isn’t in gear this morning. I haven’t quite caught up on my sleep since Thursday night,” she explained lamely, warm color suffusing her face.

“Frances and I will just finish up in the dining room and leave you in peace to work your magic on that cake,” Rose replied, motioning for her sister to follow.

“All right.” Rebecca distractedly wiped her hands on her apron and glanced around the kitchen. “Now where did I put that spatula?” she mumbled.

Rose ushered Frances out of the kitchen, and the two older women looked at each other quizzically. With their white hair pulled neatly back into identical soft, motherly buns, the sisters could almost pass for twins, although Rose was the older by two years and stood three inches taller than Frances.

“What do you make of it?” Frances whispered, her voice tinged with concern.

Rose shook her head, frowning. “I don’t know,” she said slowly, clearly puzzled.

“She almost put cinnamon in the quiche this morning, too,” Frances informed her sister worriedly.

Rose considered that for a moment, and then her face grew thoughtful. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” Frances prompted.

“Unless it’s a man,” Rose replied reverently.

“A man?” Frances repeated, her eyes widening.

“Yes,” Rose declared, nodding vigorously, becoming more certain by the moment. “I’d bet my prize-winning recipe for pickle relish that there’s a man behind this!”

“You mean our Rebecca’s got herself a man?” Frances said incredulously.

“How else would you explain what’s been happening this morning? Have you ever seen her so disorganized or absentminded?”

Frances shook her head. “No.”

“Then there you have it! There’s a man behind this, all right,” Rose asserted.

“But who?” Frances asked, bewildered.

Rose sighed, her brow knitted in concentration. “I don’t know. But maybe that old buzzard, Ben, does. She had coffee there this morning.”

“He won’t tell us anything,” Frances lamented, shaking her head regretfully.

“He will if you drop by with a piece of that torte this afternoon,” Rose declared conspiratorially. “He has a sweet spot for you, anyway.”

Frances smoothed back her hair and sniffed, pretending indifference. “Well, I suppose I could try.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” Rose agreed.

“So what did you find out?” Rose asked eagerly when Frances returned from her mission later in the day, empty plate in hand.

Frances looked around carefully to make sure they were alone, then leaned close. “There was a stranger in there this morning with Mark,” she reported in a hushed voice. “Name of Zach. His car went off the road in the fog, and Rebecca drove him to the hospital. He’s a reporter from St. Louis, here to cover the flood. Ben says there was enough electricity flying between the two of them to run his toaster without even plugging it in. Said this Zach seemed like a real nice gentleman.”

Rose gave a satisfied nod. “Good job, Frances.”

Suddenly the front door of the restaurant opened, and both women straightened up guiltily. A young man carrying a large vase covered with green florist tissue entered the shop and made his way toward them.

“I have a delivery for Rebecca Matthews,” he informed the sisters, consulting the card attached to the tissue.

“I’ll get her,” Rose offered eagerly, bustling toward the kitchen. She opened the door and stuck her head inside.

“Rebecca, there’s a delivery here for you.”

Rebecca looked up from the soup she was stirring on the stove and frowned. “All our delivery people know to come around back.”

“It’s not that kind of delivery,” Rose replied, her eyes dancing.

Rebecca’s frown deepened. “What do you—” But Rose was already gone. Rebecca sighed. She was having a hard enough time concentrating today without all these interruptions, she thought irritably as she pushed through the swinging door.

She stopped abruptly when she saw the young man standing there with what was obviously a vase of flowers, Rose and Frances flanking him on each side like bodyguards.

“Rebecca Matthews?” the boy asked.

“Yes.”

“These are for you.” He walked over and handed the vase to her. Then, jingling his keys and humming under his breath, he headed back out the front door while Rebecca stared, dumbfounded, at the flowers in her arms.

“Well, aren’t you going to open them?” Frances prompted her. “Don’t you want to know who they’re from?”

Rebecca already knew who they were from. There was no other possibility. Carefully, her heart hammering in her chest, she set the vase down on a convenient table and tore off the green paper to reveal a dozen long-stemmed yellow roses artfully arranged with fern and baby’s breath.

“Oh, my!” Frances breathed in awe, reaching out to delicately touch a petal, as if trying to assure herself the roses were real. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

“Here’s the card, dear,” Rose informed Rebecca, extracting it from the flowers and holding it out encouragingly.

Rebecca took it gingerly, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. She tore open the envelope carefully and slid the card out, taking a deep breath before scanning the message.

“Please accept these with my thanks and apology. It was a memorable encounter. Zach.”

For some reason Rebecca suspected that the “encounter” he was referring to had occurred this morning, not Thursday night, and that thought sent a tingle down her spine.

“Well?” Rose prompted.

Rebecca looked up blankly. She’d totally forgotten her audience. “It’s just from someone I did a favor for,” she explained vaguely, her voice a bit breathless.

“It must have been some favor,” Frances commented.

“Yellow roses. Now that’s interesting,” Rose mused.

Rebecca looked at her curiously. “What do you mean?”

“The language of flowers, dear,” Rose replied matter-of-factly. “Yellow roses mean ‘I’ll never forget you.”’

Rebecca’s face flamed and she lowered her head, tucking the note into her apron pocket. “I doubt whether anyone knows that these days,” she remarked, striving for an offhanded tone. “It’s just a coincidence.”

“Maybe,” Rose replied, her eyes twinkling. “And then again, maybe not.”

“Well, I don’t have time to speculate about flower messages,” Rebecca declared briskly. “There’s too much to do.” She picked up the vase and, without a backward look, headed for the kitchen.

The two sisters watched until the door swung shut behind her. Then Frances turned to Rose.

“Do you think they’re from him?” she asked eagerly.

“Absolutely. Who else would be sending Rebecca flowers?”

“So our Rebecca really does have a beau,” Frances breathed in awe.

“Looks that way,” Rose affirmed. “Now let’s just hope she gives him a chance.”

“Rebecca, some friends of yours are here,” Frances announced as she came bustling into the kitchen to pick up the salad course. “That nice couple from St. Louis.”

“Nick and Laura?” Rebecca said in surprise, turning from the stove where she was stirring the sauce for chicken Madeira. Normally she checked the reservations, but she simply hadn’t had time today.

“Mmm-hmm,” Frances confirmed.

“Tell them I’ll stop by and say hello at dessert, would you?” Rebecca asked over her shoulder.

“Of course.”

Rebecca smiled as she added some lemon juice to the sauce. She didn’t get to see her childhood friend often enough. Laura’s business as a landscape architect was booming, and her free time was pretty much devoted to Nick, “the man of her dreams,” as she called him. And Rebecca couldn’t blame her. Nick Sinclair would make any woman’s heart beat faster. Rebecca didn’t know much about Laura’s first marriage, but apparently there had been serious problems of some sort. Serious enough that Brad, who was not only Laura’s friend but her minister, had once told Rebecca that he doubted whether Laura would ever remarry. But then along came Nick, who somehow convinced Laura to take a second chance on love.

Rebecca was happy for her. She remembered that even as children, Laura, who was several years older than Rebecca, had always taken it upon herself to watch out for her younger friend and make sure she was included in the games and activities. Rebecca never forgot her kindness, and she was truly happy that Laura had found her own Prince Charming. And she also had Laura to thank for getting Sam and her brother together. If Sam hadn’t been Laura’s maid of honor, Sam and Brad might never have found each other. The Lord really did work in mysterious—and wondrous—ways, Rebecca reflected with a smile.

An hour later, as Rebecca put the finishing touches on the chocolate mousse with zabaglione, she was glad once again that she limited dinner service to a single seating on Friday and Saturday nights. Until she could afford to hire another chef, one seating was all she could manage. And when she had a full house—as she did more and more often lately—she was a zombie by Saturday night. But it was satisfying to know that her efforts were paying dividends, and not a day went by that she didn’t give thanks for her success.

Rebecca stepped back and surveyed the forty servings of dessert, nodding in approval. They were picture-perfect. She shrugged out of her apron, and as Rose and Frances entered the kitchen with two of the high school students who helped out on weekends, she picked up two servings of dessert and stepped into the dining room. Her gaze immediately went to Nick and Laura’s “special” table, the same one they’d sat at on their first visit, in the early stage of their relationship. They always asked for it when they made reservations.

As she joined them, Nick rose and pulled out a chair for her.

“Thanks,” she said with a smile. “But I’m not staying long. I don’t like to intrude on my guests’ dinner.”

“Oh, Rebecca, we want to visit a little,” Laura assured her. “We hardly ever get to see you anymore.”

“Life is busy. What can I say?” she replied with a grin. “And I’m not complaining. In this business, busy is good.”

“Mmm, I can see why you’re busy, with desserts like these,” Laura complimented her, closing her eyes as she savored the rich, creamy confection.

“I’ll second that,” Nick added appreciatively.

“It’s a good thing we don’t come here too often, though, or my figure would certainly suffer. Not that it will matter soon, anyway,” Laura said, smiling tenderly at Nick, who took her hand in a gentle clasp, his eyes warm and caressing as he gazed at her.

Rebecca glanced from one to the other as suspicion turned to certainty. “Does that mean what I think it does?” she asked with a smile.