Midnight Sons Volume 3 (17 page)

“Perhaps you’d care to taste my strudel,” Mrs. McMurphy suggested.

“Only if you insist.” He shoved his empty plate toward her.

“I’m a widow,” Mrs. McMurphy continued as she sliced off an ample portion of strudel and lifted it onto his plate. “My children are grown now, with lives of their own.”

“Mrs. McMurphy—”

“Please, I’d be more comfortable if you called me Mary.”

“All right—Mary,” Ben said.

“The strudel is an old family recipe, as well,” Mary said. “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”

Ben slid a forkful into his mouth. If he’d been impressed with the cinnamon rolls, the apple strudel…well, the apple strudel was her triumph. The apples were tender and tart, and the delicate pastry seemed to dissolve on his tongue.

“Again, I use only real butter.”

“Butter,” he repeated, finishing the last exquisite bite.

“Yes. It’s my one stipulation when it comes to baking. Seeing that you enjoy sweets, I wish I’d baked a cheesecake.”

“I prefer the strudel.” The first piece was gone so quickly he hardly knew where it’d disappeared. He helped himself to a second serving, taking a thinner slice this time.

“I imagine you’re wondering why I left the Sourdough Café after five years,” Mary said. Ben felt a little—only a little—embarrassed that she had to conduct her own interview. After all, he was checking out her qualifications and couldn’t ask questions at the moment. His mouth was full. “It broke my heart to leave,” she explained, “but the café recently changed hands, and the new owner was cutting corners.”

“I see.” Mary McMurphy might be thin as a rail, but the woman knew her way around a kitchen. That much Ben would say for her. But there was far more to running a café than slapping together an apple strudel, he thought righteously.

It was as if the woman could read his mind. “In addition to the baking, I’m an excellent short-order cook. I can see from your menu that you offer hamburgers and so on. But I also have a number of specialties, including Southern fried chicken. People have been telling me for years that mine’s as good as any colonel’s.”

“Fried chicken?”

“I hope you aren’t partial to instant potatoes. Now, I realize that up here in the Arctic real potatoes might be hard to come by at times. I’m not a stickler for this the way I am about using butter in my grandmother’s recipes, but I do prefer to cook with real potatoes.”

“Mashed with cream?”

“Does one mash them with anything else?” she asked, her large blue eyes wide and questioning.

“What about sour-cream gravy? Can you make that?” It was going to hurt like hell to tell this woman he wouldn’t be able to hire her.

“I’ve never made sour-cream gravy, but if you have a recipe, I’m sure I could learn.”

“I have the recipe.”

Mary McMurphy smiled at him. She placed the leftover strudel and cinnamon rolls back in the wicker basket and draped the blue linen napkin over them.

“So it’s not a problem to use butter?” She regarded him expectantly.

Before he could respond, the door opened and Bethany walked in.

“Butter?” he repeated. “I use it myself for all my baking.”

“Wonderful!” Mary sounded genuinely pleased.

Slightly out of breath, Bethany approached the table. Ben knew she must have hurried over the minute school let out.

“Hello,” Bethany greeted them, her face wreathed in a welcoming smile. “You must be Mrs. McMurphy. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s mine,” the woman said with shy politeness.

“So,” Bethany said, looking from Mary to Ben, “how’d the interview go?”

Ben eyed the basket, praying Bethany wouldn’t learn about his lapse.

“Very well,” Mary said. “Ben’s agreed to hire me, and furthermore he has no objection to my using butter in my recipes.”

Hire her?
Ben hadn’t said one word about hiring her.

“Ben!” Bethany beamed with delight. “That’s wonderful.” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him enthusiastically.

“I’ll be able to start first thing Monday morning,” Mary said, smiling broadly. “Now if you’ll both excuse me, I’ll go freshen up.”

As soon as she left, Bethany took a chair. “I’m really happy
about this, Ben. Mrs. McMurphy’s a dear, isn’t she?” She paused. “You’ll have to forgive me for doubting you, Ben. I was so sure you were going to find some flimsy reason you couldn’t hire her. I was all prepared to wage war with you. I left the school with my cannons loaded,” she said, laughing lightly. “And to think it was all for naught.”

October 1996

T
RACY SAT STARING
out her office window. Located on the top floor of a Seattle highrise, it had a view that was the envy of everyone who saw it. Puget Sound stretched out before her in all its splendor—deep blue water, islands thick with green firs, boats with bright billowing sails. A ferry sounded its horn as it pulled away from the pier, headed for Bainbridge Island.

October, as always, had brought warm Chinook winds, and while it was already winter in Hard Luck, Seattle enjoyed a lingering summer.

She’d been back a week, but it seemed more like a year. What had once been so familiar now felt strange and…a little pointless. Every night she hurried home, waiting for some word from Duke. A letter, a postcard, a message on her answering machine. She knew better than to hope, but she couldn’t seem to make herself stop.

The only evidence of the sixteen hours she’d spent trapped in the downed plane was a thin red line on the left side of her forehead. And a heart that hungered for her pilot….

She could’ve disguised the scar with makeup, but didn’t. It was like a badge of honor. A souvenir of those hours alone with Duke. Unfortunately her heart wouldn’t heal as easily as her skin had.

She couldn’t think of him and not get choked up. A friend, a fellow attorney, had taken her to lunch earlier that day and suggested Tracy see a counselor. Janice seemed to think that because Tracy wasn’t interested in talking about the experience at every opportunity, she might require professional help.

Talk about it.
That was all Tracy had done for days. She was sick of the subject. She’d told the story countless times, answered a million questions. What more did people expect of her?

True, she’d been vague about some of the details, but those details weren’t meant to be shared. What had happened between her and Duke was special, and it belonged only to them.

She wondered if he, too, had been hounded with questions from his friends and what he’d told them about the time they’d shared.

Tracy had assumed—hoped, really—that once she was back to her normal life, she wouldn’t think about Duke as much. It hadn’t happened. He was with her day and night. With every waking thought. Every nonwaking one, too.

He often visited her dreams and she awoke feeling warm and happy, remembering the night she’d spent in his embrace. But the happiness never lasted. Maybe Janice was right. Maybe she did need to see a counselor. It probably wasn’t normal to prefer a life-threatening plane crash to waking up safe in her own bed.

Filled with nervous energy, Tracy circled her desk. She picked up one of the greeting cards she’d bought that afternoon while walking along the waterfront. Some were humorous. Some sincere. Others blank. But they all had one thing in common.

They were meant for Duke.

The temptation to mail him a card now was almost too strong to resist. It’d be nothing more than a friendly gesture to ask how he was, how his arm was healing. Or so she told herself. Still, she hesitated.

Duke wasn’t like any man she’d ever known. What applied to other relationships didn’t work with him. Always before, Tracy had been the one in charge. She decided when they’d date. Where they’d go, and most importantly, how often they’d see each other. This time, Tracy couldn’t set the rules. Duke was a man who followed his
own
rules.

The intercom buzzed. Tracy walked around her desk and leaned over to push the button. The receptionist’s voice came on. The office was technically closed, and it was late to be receiving phone calls.

“Yes, Gloria?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Ms. Santiago. I was just putting on the answering service and the call came through. I can ask the caller to try you again tomorrow if you want.”

“Who is it?”

“All I know is that the person’s a friend of yours from Hard Luck.”

Tracy literally fell into her chair. “Put him through.” Her heart felt as if it was going to leap right out of her chest with happiness.

Duke.

“This is Tracy Santiago,” she said, doing her best to sound nonchalant.

“Tracy, it’s Mariah. Christian and I got back last night, and we just heard the news. How are you? It was such a shock to learn you and Duke were in a crash.”

“I’m fine.” Hiding her disappointment was more than she could manage.

“You don’t sound so fine.”

“I am, really.”

“Christian and I leave for two weeks and it’s like the whole world goes crazy while we’re away. It must’ve been
terrible
for you.”

“No,” Tracy said honestly. “It wasn’t so bad.” Then, because she needed to know, she asked, “Have you talked to Duke lately?”

“Oh, yes, right away, as soon as we heard about the accident.”

“How is he?”

“He looks good.”

“His arm?” she asked anxiously. “Is it bothering him?”

“Not that he’s said.”

But then, Duke wasn’t the type to complain. What she wanted, Tracy decided, was to hear Mariah say that Duke was pining away for want of her. But that would’ve been too much to expect.

“How was the honeymoon?” Tracy asked, needing to change the subject.

“Oh, Tracy, I’m so in love!”

“Christian’s a good man,” Tracy murmured.

“I wasn’t talking about him.” Mariah giggled. “I mean I’m crazy about cruising.” Then she grew serious. “We had a marvelous time, and I’m more in love with my husband than ever.”

Tracy wasn’t surprised; those two were made for each other. Gathering her nerve, she said, “Listen, I need to get off the phone. The next time you see Duke, tell him I said hello, will you?”

“Sure.” But Mariah sounded hesitant.

“You won’t be seeing him?”

“Of course I will. He works with Christian, after all. He’s grounded because of his arm.”

Tracy had suspected he wouldn’t be able to fly and knew that was probably the most difficult aspect of his recovery. Duke was more comfortable in the air than on land.

“He’s been sort of a grouch lately,” Mariah said.

That was understandable.

“If people ask him about the accident, he bites off their heads. I was in the office when Bill Landgrin made the mistake of mentioning how difficult it must’ve been for the two of you to be trapped in that plane together. Bill said something along the lines of you being a, uh, man-hater.”

Tracy didn’t hate men, although she’d been accused of it before. In fact, if she recalled correctly, it was Duke who’d made the accusation.

“Bill didn’t mean anything by it,” Mariah elaborated. “Everyone knows you and Duke have never gotten along. Neither one of you has made a secret of your feelings.”

“True.”

“Well, Duke went ballistic. Christian told me Duke shoved Bill up against the wall—and remember, he’s only got one good arm.”

“They…fought?”

“No, Christian broke it up.”

“Good.” Duke was in no condition to fight, especially with his left arm in a cast.

“But Sawyer and Christian talked it over and suggested maybe Duke should take some time off. He’s arguing with anyone right now.”

Tracy’s inclination was to defend him. Duke had been
through a far rougher ordeal than she had. If ever he’d needed his friends, it was now.

“The next time you see him,” Tracy said, chewing her lower lip, “tell him…” She didn’t know what to say, or even if he wanted to hear from her. Dejected, she continued, “Tell him I said hello and…and that I hope he’s feeling better.”

“Sure thing,” Mariah promised. “Take care, okay?”

“I will,” Tracy promised, and replaced the receiver. She eyed the greeting cards on her desk and sorted through them, trying to decide which one she’d send Duke.

J
UDGING BY THE SOUNDS
coming from downstairs, it seemed every available chair in the Hard Luck Café was taken. Nevertheless, Ben frowned. If he fired Mary McMurphy, he couldn’t very well claim it was because business was slow. She’d been with him for several days now and had won more hearts than a beauty queen.

Ben swore every man in town had gained five pounds on Mary’s cinnamon rolls. She baked a fresh batch every morning. He had it on good authority that his customers formed a line outside the café the minute she pulled those rolls from the oven. The aroma wafted through the cold morning air like nerve gas, attacking anyone within striking distance.

The café had done more business in the week since he’d hired Mary than in any seven-day period before that.

Ben had no cause for complaint—but the truth was, her popularity was a bit irksome. Soon folks would forget all about
him. His biggest fear was that his long-time customers would prefer Mary’s cooking to his own.

She’d proved to be so popular with his customers that he’d be in trouble if he laid her off now. He felt thwarted at every turn.

So he sat in his apartment above the kitchen, brooding.

Because he was officially still recovering from his heart surgery, he wasn’t allowed to do any of the cooking yet. Nevertheless it drove him crazy to hear all the commotion going on below. In his very own café.

The noise gradually died down, but it would take more than dollar signs to sweeten his sour mood. How quickly he’d been forgotten. All his customers really cared about was their stomachs, he decided.

“Mr. Hamilton,” Mary called from the foot of the stairs.

Ben ignored her.

“Mr. Hamilton,” she tried again, her voice closer this time. She marched up to the top of the stairs and waited. Ben sat in his recliner, pretending to be asleep.

“I hope I’m not disturbing your rest,” she said, despite his closed eyes. “There seems to be a lull, and I thought I’d bring you up a cup of coffee and the last cinnamon roll.”

Ben’s eyes snapped open. She’d brought him a cinnamon roll?

“I know Bethany’s worried about your cholesterol, and I don’t blame her, but if you watch what you eat the rest of the day, I don’t think one little goodie would hurt you.”

Ben couldn’t agree more. It’d been downright painful smelling those rolls day in and day out without being able to taste one.

“I’ll make sure everything in your diet balances out,” Mary told him as she set the mug and plate on the small table next to the recliner. “I was hoping you’d come down this morning,” she added hesitantly.

He grumbled a nonreply. No one wanted him around, not with Mary and her cinnamon rolls to satisfy them.

“Everyone’s asking about you,” she said.

Ben doubted that.

“I’m not nearly the conversationalist you are,” she stated matter-of-factly. “The men miss talking to you. It’s different having a woman there, they tell me.”

Ben brightened somewhat. So his friends hadn’t completely abandoned him. That was encouraging.

“Another thing,” Mary said shyly. “I can’t quite seem to get the sourdough hotcakes the right consistency. The customers like my rolls well enough, but they’re going to get tired of those soon. Then they’ll want their sourdough hotcakes, and I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint them.”

So maybe the woman wasn’t the paragon everyone assumed. “You’ll learn,” he assured her, feeling generous.

He sampled the roll and was reminded anew why his customers stood in the cold waiting for the café to open each morning. But Mary was right about her pastries being a novelty that would wear off, he thought smugly. She’d sell plenty, but there’d be a need for his hotcakes, same as always, within a week or two.

Mary lingered, nervously shifting her weight from foot to foot. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d like to go over the dinner menus with you.”

“Sure. Now’s as good a time as any.” He motioned for her to sit. He couldn’t very well keep her standing while he remained in his recliner.

“It won’t take long, I promise.”

“No problem,” he muttered, and because it was true, he murmured, “I don’t have anything better to do.”

“I found a large prime rib in the freezer,” Mary said, glancing over at him. “Were you saving it for something special? If not, I’d like to put it on the menu for Friday night.”

“There’re probably several in there. Sure, go ahead.”

“Do you have any particular way of cooking your prime rib?” she asked, deferring to him again.

The last time he’d made one had been at least three months ago. “I slow-cook the roast in a bed of salt. Takes a few hours, but it’s worth it.”

“My, that sounds wonderful,” Mary said, scribbling notes on her pad.

“I’ve got the recipe in the kitchen somewhere. Want me to get it for you?” He just hoped he could find it before Friday.

“That would be perfect.” Her face glowed when she smiled. “If the rib is as good as you say, we might consider making it a regular Friday-night special.”

“We might,” he said, but he was unwilling to commit himself. In the past he’d saved those rib roasts for special occasions such as Founder’s Day—commemorating the arrival of Adam O’Halloran in July 1931—and other important dates like Christmas and Easter. He hadn’t thought about making it a weekly special. Hmm. She might be on to something.

“I should’ve started with Monday’s dinner, instead of Friday’s, shouldn’t I?” Mary continued, raising a hand to tuck a few wisps of hair behind her ear. Ben found her nervousness rather endearing.

“What’s for dinner this evening?” he asked, pulling his attention back to the matter at hand.

“Shrimp linguine with lemon sauce,” she said. “If that suits you?”

Actually it sounded great. With all his cooking experience,
Ben had never gotten the hang of preparing shellfish. He made a fairly decent shrimp Creole, but that was about it.

“I think you’ll like the linguine,” Mary said, “and I promise you won’t even suspect it’s low-fat.”

Ben frowned; he sure hoped Mrs. McMurphy hadn’t turned into another Bethany. He didn’t know if he could tolerate any more veggie burgers.

“I promise you’ll never guess,” she repeated, giving him a bright smile. He noticed that her back stiffened at his skeptical look. “I’m a woman of my word, Mr. Hamilton. If you find the linguine unsatisfactory, I’ll cook you the meal of your choice. Agreed?”

He didn’t hesitate, because he knew what he wanted. A cheeseburger. It’d been weeks, no,
months,
since he’d last sunk his teeth into a good old-fashioned burger. “Agreed.”

As she’d said, Mary was a woman of her word. Ben ate two helpings of shrimp linguine and would’ve asked for more, but she ran out. It seemed the dish was as popular with his customers as it was with him.

Midmorning the following day, Ben walked carefully down the stairs. It was the first time he’d made the trip when Mary was actually cooking. She must have heard him, because she turned around, spoon in hand. When she saw it was Ben, she smiled broadly.

“Why, Mr. Hamilton, this is a pleasant surprise.”

He grumbled something about being bored. He noticed several cookbooks spread across the counter and wondered what she was doing now. No cook he’d ever known cooked from a book, except on rare occasions.

“You couldn’t have come at a more opportune time,” she said. “Would you mind testing something for me?”

He couldn’t think of a reason to refuse, and his breakfast of yogurt and fresh fruit had worn off long ago. “I suppose.”

The next thing he knew, he was sitting at the counter. Soon Mary appeared with a filled hamburger bun divided into fourths. She wore an apprehensive look. “I’m having my first taste of this, as well.”

“Hamburger?”

“No…it’s something different.”

He let Mary try hers first, watching as she took a bite. Her face remained expressionless for several seconds, then she smiled and nodded. “This isn’t bad.”

“What is it?” Ben felt a man had a right to know what he was tasting.

“Just try it,” she urged.

He would’ve refused if he wasn’t so hungry. He bit tentatively into the bun. He wasn’t sure exactly what was in the filling, but whatever it was tasted…exotic. In fact, it was downright flavorful.

“Not bad,” he agreed. “What is it?”

Mary McMurphy smiled. “A veggie burger. I combined several recipes and added a few ingredients of my own.”

Ben wouldn’t have believed anyone could make vegetables appetizing enough to serve on a hamburger bun, but she’d done it. He polished off the first quarter and reached for the second.

“Do you like it?” she asked eagerly.

He probably should’ve played it cool, let her think the food was just passable, but her eyes were so wide and hopeful. For the life of him, Ben couldn’t dash her spirits. “It’s good enough to eat, which is more than I can say about Bethany’s. That stuff could kill a man’s appetite for years to come.”

Happiness radiated from her smile. “Thank you, Ben.”

To the best of his knowledge, this was the first time Mary McMurphy had called him anything other than Mr. Hamilton.

D
UKE STOPPED
and checked his mailbox at the Hard Luck post office once a week or so. He hardly ever received more than bills. Occasionally he got a letter from his mother, but that only happened a few times a year.

He unlocked Box E and retrieved one envelope. The first thing he noticed was the handwriting. Not a bill; his bills were computer-generated. As soon as he saw the return address—in Seattle—he knew the letter was from Tracy.

He resisted the temptation to rip it open then and there. Back at the bunkhouse, he sat on the end of his bed and tugged open the flap. Inside was a business card, with her name scrawled across the front in bold letters, and a greeting card, with a note inside. He read it eagerly:

Fondly.
What did that mean?
I still think of you.
What was she saying? Duke read the card a second time and then a third. He
scowled, wondering exactly what Mariah had told her about his clash with Bill. He hoped she didn’t know how angry and aggressive he’d been, how much he’d overreacted. Losing control was out of character for him. Granted, Landgrin was a jerk, but a verbal putdown or two would’ve sufficed. No, Duke had lashed out for only one reason—he missed Tracy.

For days now he’d been fighting memories of her. And losing the fight. This kind of weakness was foreign to Duke, but he was beginning to realize he couldn’t ignore the effect she’d had on his heart. Even his mind was playing tricks on him. Thoughts of her invaded his sleep. Night after night, she was there to greet him when he closed his eyes.

He missed her. He missed her smile and the way the corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly, as if she didn’t want him to see how amused she was. He missed her sarcasm and her opinionated ideas. He even missed their verbal battles, although he was no longer interested in finding fault with her.

Reading the card she’d sent intensified the feeling of emptiness a hundredfold.

The amount of time he spent thinking about Tracy contradicted all his beliefs about personal discipline. He couldn’t
stop
thinking about her. He wondered if she’d taken his advice and broken off her relationship with that “sensitive” character she’d been dating. He wondered if she lay awake at nights remembering the kiss they’d shared. That woman really packed a wallop.

Unsure how to respond to Tracy’s card, Duke tucked it inside his locker. Because he needed to think, he wandered over to the Hard Luck Café for a cup of coffee.

Ben Hamilton was up and around a little more these days, and if Duke was lucky, he might find Ben alone. He wanted a chance to talk with him for a few minutes. Privately.

Ralph and Ted were sitting at the counter when Duke walked in. He hadn’t expected to find his fellow pilots lingering over coffee this late in the morning. It was quite obvious that they weren’t any happier to see him than he was to run into them.

“Duke, good to see you,” Ben greeted him. At least one person in Hard Luck hadn’t turned traitor. “How’s the arm?”

“Don’t ask,” Ralph advised the cook. “He’s liable to chew your head off.”

Duke didn’t take the bait. While it might be true that he’d been a bit short-tempered lately, he didn’t think his friends should hold it against him. He was a pilot, after all, and any pilot would react badly to being grounded.

“How about coffee and a cinnamon roll?” Ben invited.

“Sure thing,” Duke said, purposely sitting several seats down from the other men.

Ben brought over the coffee and pastry, and Duke glanced at the men he’d once considered his friends. In retrospect, though, he didn’t blame them. He
had
been in a foul mood since his release from the hospital. His inability to fly wasn’t their fault—and it wasn’t the only reason for his bad temper. If he was looking for something—or someone—to blame, it would be Tracy.

“I imagine you’re feeling…restless these days,” Ben said, leaning casually against the counter.

“Yeah, you could say Duke’s restless,” Ralph muttered, his elbows propped on the counter while he held his mug with both hands. His eyes seemed riveted straight ahead.

Duke’s jaw tightened. He and Ralph had argued just the other morning; Duke really couldn’t remember why. Over something trivial, no doubt.

He wasn’t accustomed to having this much free time. He’d thought he could work in the office during his convalescence, but all he seemed to do was get in the way. Mariah’s replacement had been trained, and everything was under control there. Sawyer took pity on him, now and then offering him some menial administrative task. On a good day he could count on killing an hour, maybe two, in the Midnight Sons office.