Logan returned Charley’s grin as they approached. “We’re always in the mood for your tacos—as is everyone else in this town, from what I can gather. I’m surprised we didn’t have to wait in line.”
“Your timing was perfect. I just opened. Two orders or three?”
“Two. Why would I want three?”
“I thought you might have another beach picnic in mind.”
“Not tonight.” Geez. The man had a memory like an elephant. He should never have mentioned his thank-you plans for Jeannette the day of Mariam’s accident, when he’d picked up tacos for their impromptu picnic.
“How are you doing, Molly?” Charley pulled an avocado from the cooler and began slicing it.
“Fine.”
“How goes the search for a friend?”
“I finded one. Her name’s Elisa, and her mommy and grandpa and brother and uncle all went to heaven in a war.”
“That’s very sad.” Charley paused and shook his head. “I’m glad she has you for a friend.”
“Me too.”
“Speaking of friends . . .” He set some fish fillets on the grill. “Here come two of mine.” He waved a hand toward a pair of seagulls that swooped in and landed several yards away.
“Is that Floyd and Gladys?” Molly studied them.
“None other. You want to go say hello?”
“Will they fly away?”
“Not if you take it slow and easy so they don’t get scared. You may have to practice a little, but if you stick with it, they’ll let you get close. That okay with you, Logan? You can keep an eye on her while I finish up your order.”
“Sure. Have at it, Molly.”
Despite Charley’s assurance that the birds would stay put, the interlude wasn’t likely to last long if Molly invaded their comfort zone. But she’d get a kick out of trying to get up close and personal with them until they flew off.
“On the subject of friends, how goes it with Jeannette?” Charley began dicing some peppers.
Better set the record straight on that, in case the taco-making artist had any ideas about future beach picnics.
“To be honest, I don’t know that I’d call us friends.”
“No? How come?”
Not for lack of trying—but he left that unsaid.
“She’s very protective of her privacy and her space.”
“That’s a fact.” Charley tossed the peppers on the griddle. “I expect there’s a reason for that.”
“I do too—but she’s not talking . . . to me anyway. Do you know why she’s such a loner?” A long shot—but worth a try.
“She’s never told me her story.”
So much for his last potential source. If Charley and Marci didn’t know any of the details of Jeannette’s background, there wasn’t much chance anyone in town did.
It was a shame she kept to herself, though. He could use her advice with Molly again, since last Sunday’s walk on the beach hadn’t led to the kind of heart-to-heart talk he’d hoped it would. His niece had sidestepped all of his attempts to reintroduce the subject of loss and feelings.
“However . . .” Charley flipped the fish, continuing as if there’d been no gap in the conversation. “I expect it’s a very sad story. No one cuts off other people unless they’ve been badly hurt. Trouble is, those kinds of people are the ones who most need friends.”
“It’s hard to get close to someone who isn’t receptive.”
“That’s true.” He pulled out some corn tortillas. “But sometimes it’s a matter of persistence. Just hanging around or showing up can make a difference. You have the perfect excuse with Button.”
Logan blinked. “How did you know about him?”
“Your neighbor happens to be one of my regular customers.”
“Jeannette told you about the cat?” Strange she’d bring that up, since she’d taken it in under duress and intended to get rid of it as soon as possible.
“People tell me all kinds of things.”
That didn’t surprise him. Charley had an uncanny ability to engender confidences.
“I agree the cat sounds like a perfect excuse—but she made it clear she doesn’t want us to drop in to see him.”
“There are other ways to initiate contact. She does run a tearoom, you know. You could take Molly.”
“I did that once—but Jeannette’s busy at those teas. She wouldn’t have any time to chat with us.” He checked on his niece.
She was hunkered down not two feet from the seagulls, who didn’t appear to be in the least perturbed by her touching-distance proximity.
It seemed Charley was right again.
“You could always drop by her booth at the farmer’s market some Friday.”
Neither of Charley’s suggestions were bad. Molly would enjoy both—and at the rate they were going, that sort of contrived meeting could be his only chance to see his neighbor.
“I’ll have to think about that—though it’s not like I’m in the market for another challenge. I’m plenty busy with Molly and the new job.”
“Some challenges are worth tackling . . . and they often pay dividends far beyond what we can imagine.” Charley finished assembling the tacos, wrapped them in white paper, and slid them into a bag. “Two orders, all set to go.”
Logan handed over some bills and took the bag. “These won’t last long.”
“Music to a taco-maker’s ears. You two enjoy your evening. Bye, Molly.” He waved at the girl and turned to the next customer in the line that had formed.
“Bye.” She called the farewell over her shoulder but remained by the birds.
“Come on, sweetie. These will get cold if we don’t eat them fast.”
After lingering a few more seconds, she rose and walked over to him. “Did you see how close I got to Floyd and Gladys?”
“Yes. They must like you.”
“I just did what Charley said and went real slow and careful so I wouldn’t scare them. He knows a bunch about birds.”
Yeah, he did.
Also about people.
And his advice about the seagulls might also be appropriate for Jeannette.
His neighbor did need a friend, whether she realized it or not—and slow and easy could be the key with her . . . as well as with his niece. Perhaps his progress with both of them was meant to be marked in tiny increments rather than great leaps.
Not his usual dive-in-and-get-it-done style, but he could live with small steps forward—as long as they advanced.
He took another gander at Charley as they strolled back to their car.
Funny.
He’d been on the verge of giving up on Jeannette until he’d talked with the man.
But maybe he’d hang in for a while after all.
Because if he succeeded in breaking through her barriers, the dividends Charley had referenced might be well worth the effort—for both of them.
“Papa?”
At Elisa’s tentative question, Thomma shifted around in his seat at the table on Anna Williams’s patio.
His pajama-clad daughter stood ten feet away, clutching her Raggedy Ann doll in one hand, a book in the other, her demeanor somber.