At least it couldn’t be a complaint about Toby. There’d been no more breakouts by his escape-artist dog.
“Ready to go, sweetie?” He laid his linen napkin on the white tablecloth.
She shrugged, picked up another sugar cube with silver tongs, and set it on her plate beside the other three she’d transferred. “Can I take these?”
“Sure. We’ll ask for one of those boxes.” He motioned toward Jeannette, who was beginning to distribute small white cartons to her patrons, many of whom hadn’t consumed all of their bite-sized goodies.
He shook his head. Hard to believe every single tray wasn’t bare. He’d polished off his food—and some of Molly’s—in the first twenty minutes.
Jeannette stopped beside their table and inspected their empty serving tiers. “You two did very well.”
“Molly has a few sugar cubes she’d like to take home, though.” Logan motioned toward her plate.
“Of course.” Jeannette set a box on the table and winked at the little girl. “I put an extra shortbread cookie in there for you and your uncle too.”
“Thank you.” Molly smiled up at her.
“I may have to touch base with you later if you want to talk. We’re getting a tad restless.” He indicated his niece.
“No problem. Everyone’s usually gone by four. If you’ll give me your cell number, I can call you as soon as I get a minute. Unless . . . did you come up with any other arrangement for Monday other than the one you mentioned?” She inclined her head toward Molly.
“No. Do you have an idea?”
“Yes.”
He pulled out a pen and found an old gasoline receipt in the pocket of his sport jacket. On the back, he jotted his number and handed it to her. “I’m open to any and all suggestions. And feel free to drop by if you’d rather talk in person.”
“Thanks.” She took the slip of paper. “Are you ready for your bill?”
“Yes.” He pulled out his credit card and handed it to her.
“Give me one sec.”
She wove back through the tables, toward a doorway that must lead to the kitchen.
Logan gave the space one last sweep. The back wall of the tearoom was almost all glass, offering a view over the lavender fields that would be stunning when the flowers were in bloom. A dozen tables of various sizes offered seating for about thirty people. Other than the lavender napkins, the place was classy without being froufrou.
And unless she had help hiding in the kitchen, Jeannette ran the whole operation by herself.
Amazing.
While she only served tea two days a week, the fancy offerings on the silver trays must take an enormous amount of time and effort to prepare.
Plus, she had to tend to the plants and make the products she sold at the farmer’s market.
Maybe it wasn’t that she didn’t want any downtime, as Charley had suggested, but that she simply couldn’t carve any out. This place had to be a more-than-full-time job.
But why was she doing it alone?
As he pondered that question, Jeannette returned, stopping to drop other checks off at various tables while she wound through the room to them.
“We’ll be home the rest of the day, whenever you have a minute—and waiting with bated breath.” Logan signed the check.
“Don’t get too excited until you hear my idea.”
He picked up the small white box and rose. “I have a feeling that if you thought of it, I’m going to like it.”
A flash of surprise flared in her eyes . . . and an instant later they shuttered.
Oops.
He must have gotten a bit too personal.
“Well . . .” She backed off a step, confirming his conclusion. “I’ll talk to you later. Bye, Molly.”
Without waiting for a reply, she moved to a nearby table to deal with that check.
Curious.
His neighbor was gracious and considerate. The perfect hostess for a tearoom. But she got skittish if the conversation edged into personal territory.
Why?
And was she like that with everyone, or only him?
Could there be a failed romance in her background that had left her gun-shy of men?
Since he wasn’t likely to get answers to those questions today, Logan took Molly’s hand and led her out the door and around the long hedge between the properties.
As they approached their house, Toby’s muffled barks seeped through the walls.
The pup did not sound happy.
But the crate was a necessity for short absences. No way was he letting the dog wreak further destruction in the empty spare bedroom.
It was a short-term measure, though. Once Toby got the hang of the electric fence, he’d have the run of the yard.
Which reminded him.
As soon as he talked with Jeannette, he’d better corral the pup for a training session.
And hope Toby was as diligent a pupil as he was a digger.
“Thomma? Is that you?”
He closed the front door of the apartment and shucked his jacket. “Yes. Who else would it be?” Irritation scored his words—but so be it. He’d risen at the crack of dawn and spent most of his Saturday on a fishing boat, the cold rain had seeped down his neck despite the slicker Roark had given him, and he smelled like salmon.
He wanted solitude, a hot shower, and food. In that order.
However . . . based on his mother’s resolute expression when she appeared in the kitchen doorway, she had another agenda in mind for him.
Her first sentence confirmed that.
“After you take a shower, would you play a game of Candy Land with Elisa? She says her stomach hurts, and she’s sniffling. I told her to stay in bed for the rest of the day. I’d play with her myself, but I’m making baklava and that will keep me busy for another forty-five minutes.”
He glowered at her. “Why didn’t you wait until another day to bake such a complicated dessert?”
“You like baklava. I thought it would be a special treat to celebrate the end of your first week on the job.”
Her expression was guileless—but her explanation was a lie.
’Ami was worried he was neglecting Elisa, and this was a setup to force him to spend more time with his daughter.
Which was the last thing he wanted to do.
Thomma balled his hands into fists . . . sucked in a breath . . . let the air hiss out through his clenched teeth.
How was he supposed to entertain Elisa when every moment he spent with her reminded him of Raca?
His daughter’s dark auburn hair, big brown eyes, delicate chin—they were all inherited from the woman he’d loved and cherished with every fiber of his being.
The woman who’d added light and laughter and hope to his days.
The woman who’d filled his life with joy and given it new meaning.
His stomach twisted, as it did whenever he thought about his wife.
A huge part of him had died with her in that church.
The best part.
He drew another ragged breath . . . and admitted the ugly truth he’d been dodging for months.
Much as he loved Elisa, if he’d had to pick who would survive the bombing—his daughter or his wife—Raca would have been his choice.
Now, Elisa required more than he had to give . . . and his neglect of her was shameful. He didn’t need his mother to tell him that. The guilt that gnawed at his conscience day and night was a constant reminder of his failings.