Love Finds You at Home for Christmas (23 page)

“Well, tell us all about it,” Tom said after they prayed. “And don't let me forget I've got a takeout order for tomorrow from the teachers at school.” He was a middle school principal.

“I can't believe I can't come till Saturday!” Madeline interjected. She was a second grade teacher and had only thirty minutes for lunch.

“It was good,” Sophie said. “We were so busy, it was really like a whirlwind for me. But it was fun and definitely challenging. If I can get more organized, I think I will enjoy it.”

“Was all of your help good?” Tom asked.

“Well, yes—and no. Shannon was late, which stressed me a little bit. But of course when she got there, she was great. Everybody else showed up on time, except Andy, who didn't show up at all.”

“Oh no,” said Madeline. “Andy Mabry? That's not like him. I wonder what happened to him!”

“Poor kid—his grandma called me a couple of hours after closing to explain that he'd been in a car accident.”

Madeline gasped and put her hand over her pregnant belly.

Sophie hurried on. “It wasn't anything major, though. More like a fender bender. But he will probably need to rest for a couple of days.”

“What did you do about the dishes? Did you have enough?”

“That was unbelievable.” Sophie paused. “Jon Anthony was there for lunch, and he came back and washed dishes for nearly two hours.”

“Are you kidding me?” Tom looked at her, incredulous.

“No. I am not kidding. I saw him when he first got there, and then he came back to the kitchen when he was leaving to tell me good-bye. When he saw all of the dishes piled up, he just started washing. I don't know what we'd have done if he hadn't been there.”

“Well, my word,” said Madeline. “What a way to rekindle an old friendship.”

“I know,” agreed Sophie. “I hadn't seen him in years, but when he came in there rolling up his sleeves, it was just like it used to be. He really is a true friend. I don't deserve it.”

“Jon's a good guy,” said Tom. “He always was. I haven't seen him much since he moved back here though. I guess he's got a pretty busy schedule with all of his writing.”

“Yeah. Apparently so. He wouldn't talk much about it, but I think he's pretty successful. He's going to New York in a couple weeks.”

“Tom, you should have him speak at the school sometime,” suggested Madeline. “He's a real author that you know—right in this town. That'd be a neat thing for the kids.”

“That's a good idea. Are you going to see him again anytime soon, Sophie? Would you mind asking him about it?”

“I don't know when I'll see him…but I hope it's soon.” Sophie smiled at the thought. She realized it was probably her first real smile in a long time.

Chapter Eight

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Jon sat staring at his blank computer screen. Aslan groaned beside him as he rearranged his huge, furry form into a more comfortable position on the floor. Once settled, he looked like a giant white rug.

“My sentiments exactly, buddy,” Jon grumbled. He was usually energized by the challenge of a new, blank screen, like an artist in front of a blank canvas. But today it was frustrating, even exhausting, just to look at it. After two cups of coffee he still could not clear his head enough to concentrate on writing. At least novel writing.

Jon decided to get out his journal instead. Taking the brown leather volume and a black ink pen out of his desk drawer, he moved from his seat at the computer to a cedar Adirondack chair on the deck. Aslan followed.

Turning to a new page, Jon wrote:

Jon looked up from his writing and saw the river whirling below him. It was almost red today—colored by clay that had been stirred up from the bottom. Little eddies formed by undercurrents and big churning pools swirled quickly past, devouring logs and other debris. It was fast and furious—a hazardous day for fishing or any other activity.

Again Jon's gaze traveled up from his journal and swept across the landscape. Above the river sat the eternal mountains, Jon's own home among them. They steadied him somehow…kept the river in its place.

Jon put down his pen in the middle of the open journal pages and closed the book loosely. He got up, stretched, and walked to the end of the deck, peering over the railing at the edge of the cliff that plunged only a few steps in front of him. Down below he could see the treetops, and beyond them, the river. He was glad for the strong railing.

There were two oak trees enclosed by his deck—he had cut holes around them rather than chop them down—and squirrels had scattered a few acorns at his feet. Jon picked one up and threw it as far as he could. He watched it arc and then heard a faint rustling as it fell through the trees and, presumably, to the ground. He went back to his seat, picked up the journal again, and added:

Jon didn't write or even think the word “Amen.” Over the last few years he had found himself very naturally in the practice of praying continually. Unlike some of his friends, who had specific “quiet times” set aside each day for prayer and meditation—“like keeping an appointment with God,” one of his preacher friends had said—Jon just left the door open for whenever God chose to enter his thoughts. He figured the invitation went both ways. God was always there for him, and though he admired the discipline others seemed to have in their pursuit of holiness, that wasn't his style.

He reached down and patted Aslan on the head. The dog responded by laying his great white head across Jon's leg. When Jon stopped, he was mauled, gently, by Aslan's huge paw, prodding him to show more affection. After a thorough rub of his dog's head, back, and belly, and a subsequent lick on the face—Aslan's seal of approval—Jon went back in the house and washed his hands. Then he sat back down at the computer. He was ready to start writing.

Chapter Nine

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Sophie was getting into the swing of things, as Tom called it, and feeling a lot more comfortable with her abilities to manage the business. An old schoolmate-turned-CPA named Becky had set her up with the necessary paperwork and tax information she needed to run payroll and keep up her books. Madeline, who was good with numbers, and Tom, who was good with computers, helped her put it all into a system and walked through the process with her a few times till she got the hang of it.

During the week after the café's grand opening, she and Shannon established a good routine in the kitchen, working out the times it took for certain dishes and always finishing the set-up work before eleven o'clock. The servers were exceptionally good, and with Debbie as their natural leader, they managed the front quite wonderfully. After a rough start, Andy the dish washer had consistently shown up for work on time, and he worked hard. He was even growing on her. Now she was actually finding time to go out and visit with customers at their tables whenever a little lull came to her cooking duties in the kitchen.

It surprised Sophie to see who came in to eat each day. Other than the annoying encounter with Misti Clarkson, there had been very few difficulties or even less-than-pleasant experiences for her to face. Sometimes she could hardly believe there were so many residents of River Bend she'd never known. And the ones she did know were for the most part enthusiastic and very kind toward her, so much so that many of her initial inhibitions about coming home faded. She was actually enjoying herself.

In the past few days she'd seen her old second grade teacher, Eleanor Sigman, who had hugged Sophie and told the other ladies at her table how smart Sophie was and how much spice she had added to her elementary classroom. “Just like she's adding to River Bend now!” Mrs. Sigman had chuckled.

Harvey Weinberg, from the print shop, had also come in a few times, always bringing someone different with him—usually an old friend she remembered from years past in her father's church. It was fun to see them. “You are all grown up!” or “We're so glad you're home!” they would say.

Adelaide and Earl had come in for a late lunch twice, and Adelaide had complimented Sophie on her desserts both times, which she didn't take lightly. The older woman even asked her to collaborate on holiday baking, and they had already taken orders for seven cheesecakes, four pumpkin pies, and eight pecan pies for Thanksgiving.

Sophie's favorite new people so far were a couple of friends named Brandy and Paula, who met for lunch every day. They always had tea, one with lemon and one without, small grilled chicken salads, and loaded baked potatoes; no dessert.

Brandy Jones was a redhead in her midforties. From what Sophie could gather, she was one of those women who had never been just a girl, meaning when she was fourteen she looked—and acted—like a woman. She had a twenty-eight-year-old son who had never met his father and a fifth grader whose father had taken off with another woman while Brandy was in the hospital having a hysterectomy, leaving their son at a babysitter's. Brandy worked alongside her daddy in his trucking business and was currently in the process of being divorced from her husband of five years, a police deputy twelve years her junior. When Brandy ordered, she always wanted a straw with her drink, and she had Sophie reserve a special—to go—every day for her daddy.

Brandy's lunch partner was Paula Masters, who had big brown hair and ten piercings in each ear. The women had been friends ever since Paula began doing Brandy's nails at Patsy's Kut and Kurl a few years ago. Both women always had very colorful fingernails and toenails, and they were eager to show Sophie each time they changed to some new theme. Paula liked to get creative, and Brandy humored her. On the first day of fall, she was decked out in leaves—each nail a different color.

“Just wait till you see my snowmen,” Paula told Sophie in anticipation. “I'll start doing those in January after all of my Christmas stuff.”

Sophie was a little surprised by how much she liked Brandy and Paula. There were probably not two women in River Bend who were more outwardly different from her; they both wore more makeup in a day than Sophie wore in a month. But something on the inside connected them. Perhaps they were determined to see Sophie make her restaurant a go. Perhaps they saw, as women, underneath the surface of Sophie's skin to a heart that had been broken—and offered what they could do to fix it.

They came every day, rain or shine.

Sophie's other favorite was an ancient priest from the Catholic community nearby, who loved Sophie even more than he loved her omelets.

Father Hillary came in quietly every day at eleven o'clock. He sat by the window in the front room, sipped coffee, and read. He was small, with a wrinkly face and white hair worn wavy and combed back like Billy Graham's. Sophie met him when she went to his table to ask whether she could interest him in something more colorful than the plain omelets he'd been ordering every day for lunch. He'd told her that as long as she left out the meat, she could surprise him.

From that day on, Sophie had taken several liberties with the priest's breakfast. She made him Italian omelets with cheese and fresh basil and tomatoes, omelets with Parmesan and artichoke hearts, spicy omelets with peppers, onions, and Monterey Jack cheese, even omelets with mozzarella, onions, and little bits of pineapple. He seemed to delight in every one.

If Sophie wasn't too busy, she delivered the omelets herself in order to chat with Father Hillary for a few minutes. One day he surprised her by pointing out a movie advertisement in the paper he was reading.

“This is my favorite story,” he said. “Have you seen it?” Sophie looked over his shoulder to find an ad for
Les Miserables.

“No, I haven't seen the movie, but that is my all-time favorite musical. I saw it in London—the first real musical I'd ever seen. I was a student, and the only ticket I could afford was in the nosebleed section behind a pole.” She laughed at the memory, not mentioning that Stephen was with her. “I was captivated. I had those little binoculars, but I didn't really even need to see to understand the story. The music was so powerful I was just blown away.” Stephen had fallen asleep halfway through it, jet-lagged, but she had hung on every word.

The priest smiled till his eyes disappeared.

“Me too,” he said. “I've seen it many, many times. I wonder what the movie will be like without the music. But, of course, the book is very good without the music.”

They both grinned.

A few days later, when she delivered Father Hillary's omelet, he held out a little bag, motioning for her to open it.