Makin' Bacon Page 2

  Releasing the fork, Tate nodded. “Yes, ma’am. They’re sweetened with local honey. Would you like something to drink?”

  “Hm. I usually drink coffee with my lunch, but I don’t know what fair trade means.” Mrs. Crenshaw’s eyes narrowed. “Do I have to wash my own dishes to pay for it?”

  Riley snorted, making the old woman jump, and then lowered the hand she’d raised to cover her mouth. “Goodness! I have no idea where that sneeze came from. Darn ragweed allergy.”

  Nearly choking on a laugh, Tate pressed her lips together until the giggle trying to get out finally gave up. “Bless you. Fair trade means the people who grow the coffee beans are paid fairly for their crop, their workers are treated properly, and the business follows sustainable practices. It costs a little more, but I want my restaurant to be socially and environmentally conscious.”

  “Oh, okay.” Mrs. Crenshaw opened her pocketbook and removed her wallet. “Coffee then too please. Black.”

  Tate entered the order on her iPad, grateful for another sale. Business had been steady since the grand opening of The Homegrown Café two days ago, meaning she might not have to dip into the money from the divorce settlement. She had no intention of relying on her ex-husband’s reparation fund for this particular endeavor. Only the child he’d passive-aggressively denied her would benefit. As paybacks went, it seemed infinitely appropriate, even though the plan to open her own business had taken longer to fund.

  She counted the change into her customer’s palm and added a coupon for a dollar off her next breakfast or lunch purchase. “Thank you. You can have a seat. Anabelle will be right out with your order.”

  “Anabelle Danforth? Wallis’s daughter? She works for you?” Mrs. Crenshaw leaned forward, like she expected a juicy bit of gossip.

  “Yes.” Don’t you dare say anything that’ll make me have to insist you apologize to that sweet girl.

  “I hadn’t heard. That’s wonderful!” A flowery cloud of what smelled like Chanel No. 5 masked the aromas of the three simmering soups when the woman reached across the narrow glass counter to cover Tate’s hand with hers. “Do you think the Garden Club could meet here the first and third Wednesdays of the month after lunch? Just for two hours. From closing time ’til four? We’ll be happy to order dessert and coffee if you’ll let us use the space for our meetings.”

  Riley smirked and snuck a thumbs-up behind the older woman’s back. She evidently had no qualms about exercising her right to an I-told-you-so. A verbal reiteration was sure to follow as soon as she wouldn’t be overheard.

  “Yes, I think we can arrange that.” Tate offered Mrs. Crenshaw a business card. “Would you send me the details? I want to be sure I have the correct dates and times when I complete the agreement and add your meetings to the calendar. Email or regular mail is fine. Both addresses are on the card.”

  “Thank you, dear.” Looking past Tate, Mrs. Crenshaw waved. “Anabelle! It’s so good to see you.”

  The young woman halted in the doorway between the kitchen and the order counter, the tray she carried wobbling slightly. She steadied it, the effort causing a scrunched forehead and a frown. “Hello, Mrs. Crenshaw. How are you today?”

  “I’m well. Thank you, Anabelle. Miss Madison said you’re working for her. Are you enjoying your new job?”

  After two more steps forward, Anabelle rested the edge of the tray on the edge of the counter and let out a noisy exhale. “I’m still learning, but like it a lot. Miss Madison is a good boss. She used to be a teacher like you.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that.” The older woman cast a thoughtful glance in Tate’s direction. “I think that might be my order, so I should go find a table.”

  “Okay.” Anabelle trailed Mrs. Crenshaw, her usual care showing in her slow pace.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Riley’s throaty chuckle drew the beady eyes of a trio of thirtyish businessmen who stood next in line. “Book Club on Thursday evenings. Garden Club twice a month on Wednesday afternoons. Pretty soon you’ll have all kinds of private meetings to supplement your income. You should put a sign in the window to advertise birthday parties and bridal and baby showers.”

  “Fine, you were right about having breakfast and lunch hours, but I’m going to have to hire at least one more part-timer if I add any more events to the schedule. Wally and Anabelle agreed to her working ten hours a week until we see how she adjusts.” Tate added the task of contacting the local Down syndrome support organization again to her to-do list and then tapped the New Order button on the tablet. “Cup of butternut squash soup and a side salad with mango ranch dressing?”

  “Make it a bowl, skip the salad, and add a peanut butter cookie. Vanilla rooibos. Hot. To go. I have a Chamber of Commerce meeting in twelve minutes.” Blonde curls tumbled past the wide collar of her form-fitting jacket as Riley cocked her head to the side and let out a huffy sigh. Then she moved backward, the slender heel of her lipstick-red pump landing on the instep of the man directly behind her.

  He jerked away, bumping into the men waiting in line with him. “What the hell!”

  “Oh my! Did I step on your foot?” Pivoting toward him, she raised her fingertips to her matching lips, but her congeniality stopped there. “Totally an accident, as I’m sure your hand on my butt was. You know, your mother would be appalled at your behavior. And, yes, I’m old enough to be your mother, young man. Is that icky enough to be a deterrent, you pervert?”

  The man’s cheeks paled, evidently grossed out by the suggestion that he’d felt up someone his mom’s age. His snickering companions looked away when he aimed a glare in their direction.

  “Sorry.” As apologies went, it sounded far from sincere.

  Tate cleared her throat and employed her annoyed-teacher voice, the childish antics of adult males too much to bear after twelve years of marriage to their ringleader. “If you’re going to behave inappropriately, you can take your business elsewhere. I don’t tolerate that kind of conduct here.”

  Grabbing his buddies by their sleeves, the groper marched through the center aisle between the tables. “Damn, feminazis.”

  A wall of denim and plaid blocked their path at the exit. Jimothy removed his cap, causing his sleeve to tighten on his bicep and revealing his cute mop of curly hair. “Twerps like you make the rest of us look bad. Now apologize for pawing Ms. Fenniman and for disrupting Ms. Madison’s place of business.”

  Riley perched her hands on her hips and shook her head. “Jim, they wouldn’t know an apology if it grabbed them by the nu— Nose. If they know what’s good for them, they’ll behave like polite little gentlemen next time. Right? Oh, and smile pretty for the security cameras, boys.”

  Leaning across the counter, Tate smacked her new friend on the elbow. “Antagonizing them won’t help. Just let them leave, Jim.”

  He frowned and stepped aside. “Okay, but I’ll be watching to make sure they don’t cause any more trouble.”

  The tickle in her tummy morphed into a backflip, but Tate focused on entering Riley’s order. An attraction to the possible DNA contributor of her future child was a distraction she couldn’t afford. “I’ll be with you in a minute, Jim. I need to get this order ready.”

  “No hurry.” His husky just-rolled-out-of-bed voice stirred up another round of acrobatics in her belly.

  Escaping to the kitchen, she willed her hormones to save themselves for insemination. As much as she missed sex, her bucket list didn’t include a sexual or romantic relationship.

  Been there. Done that. Have the divorce to prove it. And no child custody agreement.

  By the time her employee returned with the empty tray, Tate had ladled a bowl-sized helping of soup, bagged the cookie, and filled a to-go cup from the hot-water dispenser. “Anabelle, do you remember how to take orders?”

  The young woman nodded. “Yes. I practiced at home last night.”

  “Terrific.” Tate pulled a single teabag from the box on the supply shelf. “Will you please take Mr. Cochon’s ord
er while I finish here?”

  “Yes, Miss Madison. I like Big Jim. He let me watch the piglets being born once.” Anabelle’s apron fluttered as she whirled toward the front of the shop.

  Their conversation carried to the kitchen—from his cheerful greeting to the young woman’s alternating questions about his lunch choices and his pigs—while Tate spooned vanilla rooibos into the teabag, tugged the drawstring tight, and packed all but the cup of hot water in a reusable tote. Jim’s laidback, friendly interaction could easily convince her heart to become infatuated with the perfect man to father her baby. Too bad she wasn’t in the market for a boyfriend, not that dating Beau’s best friend was a good idea. The age gap posed another sound reason for steering clear of him.

  But you agreed to a date with him.

  The invisible Jiminy Cricket on her shoulder had a valid point.

  She carried the to-go order to the counter and handed it to Riley. “See you at book club this evening. Seven o’clock sharp.”

  “I can’t wait!” The amusement in Riley’s eyes warned Tate the discussion was sure to be interesting. “I’ll be here at ten ’til. I have a secret to share with you.”

  “A secret, huh?”

  “Mm-hm. And it’s a really good one.” With a wink, Riley strutted toward the exit, her stilettos clicking on the tile floor.

  Every male eye in the room followed her across the room and out the door—except Jim’s. He held out his credit card and pursed his kissable lips as he locked a disconcerting stare on Tate. “Are you okay? Do you want me to talk to the police chief about sending a patrol around every so often and checking in on you?”

  “That’s sweet of you, but it isn’t necessary. I’ve taken several self-defense courses and, besides video surveillance, I had an alarm system installed during the renovation. Besides, I really doubt they’ll be back. They seem more like the burger-and-fries type anyway.”

  The worry lines around his mouth softened. “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.” She reached out, wanting to reassure him, but withdrew her hand before she made contact with his arm. “Um, Anabelle, why don’t you go check on the customers at their tables while I fill Jim’s order since the lunch rush has slowed down.”

  “Okay, Miss Madison. See you at the picnic on Saturday, Big Jim.”

  “See you Saturday, Anabelle.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and licked his lips. “Is it okay if I come in the kitchen with you? Easiest to empty your bucket too since I’m parked out back. I hope it’s okay that I moved you up in my pickup route. With you closing earlier in the day than most everybody else, it makes sense to do you first.”

  First, last, and everywhere in between.

  A vision of Jim doing her against the kitchen counter triggered a uterine tremor that probably registered at least four-point-seven on the Richter scale.

  Holy cow.

  His cheeks flushed almost as red as the retro tables she’d chosen for the dining room and probably matched her own. “Pick up, I mean.”

  “Of course. Yes, you can come with me.” As she pivoted away from the order counter, a strangled masculine choke stalled her midturn. Oh God. What’s wrong with my brain? “In the kitchen. You can come in the kitchen with me. Go. To the kitchen. Yes, let’s go to the kitchen.”

  Biting her tongue to keep any more innuendo vomit from escaping, she hurried to the adjoining space. Steady boot steps announced the presence of her partner in embarrassment as she stopped in front of the order screen above the work counter.

  He continued past her to the service door without slowing. “I’ll grab your waste while you… Food waste. The bucket.”

  “Okay. Careful. I dropped a handful of nuts earlier. I’m not sure I found them all.”

  “Nuts.”

  “Mm-hm. Pecans. Might be slippery.” Stop. Talking.

  He cleared his throat, his mind evidently going the same direction as hers. “Back in a minute.”

  Cool air rushed in as he walked out, chilling her heated face and chest. When did I turn back into a bumbling teenager? It’s not like I’ve never had sex. Most of it mediocre, but still sex. Sex meant to conceive, at least by one of us.

  She plunked a stack of six containers on the counter, determined not to let Haydon’s deception turn her into a bitter divorcée, at least in the typical sense. Having a man in her life—or not—didn’t define her. All of the friends she’d made since her return to Wellington were single women, every one over forty and doing perfectly fine on their own.

  So what if she was attracted to a younger man?

  She didn’t have to do anything about it—except ask him to give her some of his sperm.

  Chapter 3

  “Sorry I’m late.” Riley plunked into the empty chair beside Tate and pulled the closest serving platter toward her. “My cousin is such a fucking asshat.”

  Wallis snitched a Brie puff as she slid the last hors d'oeuvres plate in front of Riley. “She’s dropping the f-bomb already. What did he do now?”

  “He wants me to sell him the north end of the property.” Riley’s scowl confirmed Tate’s guess that her friend was more ticked off at her cousin than usual. Riley stuffed a spanakopita bite into her mouth and added a generous assortment of appetizers to her plate while she chewed. “That’s where my water supply comes from. Does that fuckwad really believe I’m stupid enough to sell to him, when he wants to use so many toxic chemicals he’d kill every goddamn plant and insect in the entire county? And probably some humans too.”

  Tate poured a cup of rooibos chai from the nearly empty teapot and placed it out of reach of her friend’s gesturing hands. “That kind of compromises the organic part of your farm. Did you sic your lawyer on him?”

  “Kind of? Georgie’s busy with a big case this week, but she said she’d send a letter to him and his crackpot lawyer.” Riley raised an eyebrow at the fourth attendee of their first book club meeting. “Hey, Petra, will you teach me how to use a meat cleaver? I promise to disinfect it when I’m done.”

  The tall brunette’s slow blink preceded a wide grin. “I’ve been thinking about taking up axe throwing as a hobby. Want to join me? That way you can make his demise look like an accident instead of having to prevent cross-contamination on my meat-prep equipment. I’d get shut down if the health department thought I was making Soylent Green in the back room.”

  Nearly inhaling the grape she’d put in her mouth, Tate coughed until she could spit it into her napkin. “That thought is enough to make me give up meat completely. Axe throwing is a thing?”

  “Oh yeah.” Petra practically purred the words. “There’s a place in Medina that has indoor throwing lanes and private party rooms. No worries about the weather. Only about a half an hour from here. Want me to set up a reservation for next week?”

  Riley licked her lips and then picked up a baked mac-and-cheese ball. “Count me in. We can go axe shopping this weekend.”

  “They supply the axes. We’ll wait until after we get the feel for throwing to buy our own.” With real caramel-cream-cheese dip smothering half an apple slice, the butcher leaned over her plate and took a bite. Her eyes drifted closed as she chewed. “Oh ma gawd. Dis is so good.”

  Wallis added another of each appetizer to her plate and snickered. “I think Petra just had an orgasm.”

  Wiping her fingers on a napkin, Riley leaned back in her chair. “If that’s the case, pass that dip and a spoon my way. I ran out of batteries last week and haven’t had time to stop at the hardware store for more.”

  “You could ask your accountant to help you with your spread...sheets.”

  Raucous laughter rang through the dining room at Wally’s quip, especially given this week’s reading selection—a story about the dating escapades of a middle-aged woman after her husband of thirty years left her for a perky young intern at his accounting firm.

  Tate thanked her lucky stars she’d found a group of friends as genuine as the main character’s. “From what I
hear, he’s very good at handling assets.”

  Wallis winked. “And he’s good-looking.”

  “I’ve heard he’s a master with a grill. You’re going to need some fortification for the fornication.” Seemingly over her food orgasm, Petra shoved the apple dip toward their silent companion. “Get laid so we can live vicariously through you.”

  Riley dunked her index finger in the bowl and sucked off the gooey glob. “Mm. That’s damn good stuff, Tate. Deacon Jeffries is an excellent CPA and I don’t want to have to find a new one, not when a decent toy can perform as well as any man.”

  “Didn’t I tell you Tate’s a genius with cheese?” Petra reached across the table to dunk another piece of apple. “You know Deke has the hots for you, don’t you? I watched him watching you leave the butcher shop last month. The poor man’s tongue almost hit the floor when you bent over to pick up Mrs. Crenshaw’s keys for her.”

  “If I want someone drooling over me, I’ll get a dog. Oh, that’s not a bad idea. Then I can train it to chase my cousin the dickhead off my property.” Riley popped another treat in her mouth and tapped the screen on her cell phone. After several more taps and scrolls, she looked up. “I get to choose next week’s book. Another I-must-have-a-man-to-be-happy story, and I may puke. What the hell is wrong with being single and independent over forty?”

  “She has a point.” Getting up to refill the teapot again, Tate stifled a yawn. “I’m happier now than I’ve been in a long time. No lies, no manipulation, no trying to make somebody love me when he doesn’t. I wasted a lot of years pursuing an impossible ideal.”

  Wally joined her at the service counter and gave her a sideways hug. “My marriage wasn’t perfect, but at least I knew I could always count on Bobby. He was a good man. Speaking of stories, we need a name for the book club. Any ideas?”