Cause For Alarm (28 page)

I
t didn't take long for Kate to begin meeting The Bean's newbies. The first was Mr. Military, as Blake had dubbed him. Kate was dismayed to see that for once her melodramatic employees had not exaggerated—he was a very scary guy, cold as ice.

Kate approached him, introducing herself as The Bean's owner, intent on learning his name and what he was doing in Mandeville. She failed miserably. He made it clear that he had paid her exorbitant price for a cup of coffee and that he would like to enjoy it in peace.

She granted him his request, though not without a measure of dismay. Why, she wondered, had he decided to frequent her friendly little establishment?

The Jerry Garcia groupie strolled in next, her third morning back, reeking of incense and saying things like “cool” and “far-out.” Marilyn got into a lively no-nukes discussion with him, and Tess took a break to hear about his days traveling with The Dead.

Kate wandered over after getting Emma fed then down for her nap. “Hi, Steve,” she said and held out her hand. “I'm Kate.”

He smiled and shook her hand. She noticed that his skin was unusually smooth for a man's. “Figured as much,” he said. “Love your place. It has great vibes.”

“Thank you.”

“The stained glass is awesome, really. Tess tells me you're the artist.”

“Thanks again, and yes, I am.” She narrowed her eyes, studying him. Something about him seemed awfully familiar. “Have we met before?”

“Don't think so.” He sipped his latté. “Haven't been in town that long. You ever see The Dead in concert?”

She shook her head. “No, though I have a few of their CDs.”

They chatted some more, mostly about the Grateful Dead's music. After a few moments, she excused herself to return to the counter to help Blake with the group of college students that had just come in. When they had serviced the group, she leaned toward Blake. “Something's wrong about that guy,” she murmured.

He followed her gaze, then frowned. “Are you talking about Steve?”

“Mmm-hmm. Ever heard the expression, crazy like a fox?”

“Him?” Blake made a face. “No way. The guy's a Jell-O-head.”

“I don't think so.” Steve looked up suddenly, and Kate quickly averted her gaze. “Check out his eyes. I'm telling you, that whole hippie thing's a put-on. That guy's sharp as a tack.”

Blake shook his head. “Get real, Kate. First off, why would anyone actually want to pretend to be a seventies drug casualty? And second, the guy's a complete stoner. Pure and simple.”

Kate let it drop, though she didn't buy it. And she still felt certain that she and Steve Byrd had met before. She resolved to keep a close eye on the man.

 

Later that day, The Bean's last newbie made an appearance. If she hadn't already guessed by the man's Cleveland State T-shirt, Tess's
“Oh, my God, it's him,”
would have given it away. The young woman practically drooled in his double espresso.

“You must be Nick,” Kate said, holding out her hand. “Welcome to The Uncommon Bean.”

He seemed completely immune to Tess's reaction to him, and smiled at Kate, revealing the most beautiful, whitest teeth she had ever seen. He had a movie star's smile, she decided, disarmed. Tess was right—Nick Winters was quite an attractive man. She would bet the coeds at Cleveland State had lined up to take philosophy.

He took her hand. “And you must be Kate. Your employees have told me all about you.”

“Really?” She laughed a bit self-consciously and eased her hand from his. “Good things, I hope?”

“Glowing. They sang your praises.” He smiled again and shifted his gaze to Emma. “They told me all about your little miracle baby, too. May I?” He held out his hands. “I haven't held a baby in what seems like forever.”

Kate hesitated only briefly, then handed her daughter over. Any concerns she had were immediately alleviated—he handled Emma like a pro.

He held her up, admiring her. “She's beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She smiled. “I think so, too.”

He talked softly to her, making her grin and squeal. Kate watched them. “I see you've spent a lot of time around children.”

“I was the oldest of a brood of six.”

“Do you have children of your own?”

“Me? No way. Growing up with the responsibility of helping care for five siblings was enough.” He indicated one of the tables. “Come sit with me and chat a moment, if you have time?”

She glanced at Tess and Blake—they seemed to have everything under control. “All right. I'd like that.”

They sat at a table by the window. He bounced Emma on his knee as he sweetened his espresso. “Tell me about yourself, Kate Ryan.”

“What's to tell?” She lifted a shoulder. “I'm married and a mother. I make stained glass art as a hobby and am addicted to coffee. So addicted, in fact, that I opened my own coffeehouse. Pretty ordinary stuff. You, on the other hand, lead a very different and exciting life. I understand you've become a kind of nomad.”

He ignored her reference to his life. “That smacks of false modesty to me. I look at you and see a beautiful, accomplished and talented woman.”

Kate was a bit taken aback by his blunt and rather forward compliment. She felt herself blush, something she realized she hadn't done in years. “Well, thank you.”

“Take your stained glass. You call it a hobby, yet the love you put into it is more than evident. They're exquisite.”

She laughed lightly. “Today seems to be my day for compliments. Thank you. Again.”

His lips curved up, and he trailed a finger down Emma's velvety cheek. “What I don't understand is, why are you wasting your time running a coffeehouse? You should be making art full-time.”

She gazed at him a moment, uncertain if she should be flattered or insulted. “I'm too practical a person to count on sales of my art to make a living.”

“But some things are more important than money. You have a gift, you're wasting it.”

She stiffened as much at his audacity as at the fact that his words expressed the private battle she had waged with herself for years. “You're entitled to your opinion, of course.”

“Now I've offended you. That wasn't my intention. I'm sorry.”

“Not at all. But duty calls, and I must get back to work.”

He followed her to her feet and handed over her daughter. She took Emma and started off, only to stop and look back at him when he called her name. “I enjoyed our talk very much,” he said. “I think you're an exceptional woman.”

Kate felt herself flush again. She didn't know how to respond, so she just smiled and returned to the counter area, face on fire.

“What was
that
all about?” Blake asked, his voice low.

“What was what all about?”

“You and Nick Winters.”

“I don't know what you mean. We were just talking.”

“You don't know what I mean? You're still blushing, Kate. I think the guy has a crush on you.”

“Don't be ridiculous. He doesn't even know me. Besides, I'm a married woman.”

“Which doesn't have a thing to do with whether he has a crush on you or not.”

Kate shrugged off her employee's teasing about Nick Winters that day and every day for the next week, though secretly she wondered if Blake wasn't right. Every day Nick asked her to join him at his table, and every day he engaged her in conversation. They discussed their views on marriage and parenting; they discussed such hot-button issues as capital punishment and prayer in the classroom; and he encouraged her to talk about Emma and share her feelings about being an adoptive mother.

She had to admit she was flattered. Besides being an extremely attractive man, Nick Winters was highly intelligent, well-read and worldly.

It had been a long time since any man but Richard had so openly admired her and it felt nice, she decided. Very nice.

K
ate took the following weekend off to recoup from her first two full weeks back at work. Emma needed the rest, too, and slept away most of Saturday and a good part of Sunday.

By Monday morning they were both refreshed and eager to begin the week. Kate carried Emma into The Bean, taking her directly to her play area. After two days away, the infant was more than ready to play with her Bean toys, and she squealed with delight when she saw them.

“Morning,” Blake called from behind her. “Have a good weekend off?”

“Great.” Kate made certain Emma was situated, then turned to Blake. “And how was your—Oh, my God, where is it?” Her favorite piece of stained glass was gone. Oversize for a large picture window like The Bean's, it depicted egrets roosting in the gnarled, winding branches of a centuries-old live oak tree.

“It sold. Saturday.”

“Sold?” she repeated. She loved that piece, and had been certain it would never sell—at five thousand dollars, the price had been exorbitant. “Who bought it?”

“Nick Winters.”

Nick had paid five thousand dollars for a piece of her work?

Kate stared at Blake, not quite believing her ears, uncomfortable with this turn of events. “You're sure?”

He laughed. “Of course I'm sure. I have the check stashed under the cash drawer.” He popped the register open, lifted the drawer, dug the check out and handed it to her.

She made a sound of surprise. “This is a cashier's check.”

“Yeah, I know. I figured the register was the safest place for it. Thank God we weren't robbed. I almost told him to wait until you—Speak of the devil, here he is now.”

Kate turned. Nick Winters stood just inside The Bean's front door, his gaze upon her. She mustered a weak smile. “Hello, Nick.”

“I see you got the money,” he said, crossing to the counter where she and Blake stood.

“Yes.” She looked at the check, then back up at him. “I'm overwhelmed.”

“I'm sure.” He smiled, ordered a double espresso, then moved toward one of the tables. “Sit with me.”

It seemed to Kate not so much an invitation as an order, and she wondered if he thought that buying an expensive piece of her art was the same as buying a piece of her, or that she owed him something now. Some people were like that. If he was one of them, she would set him straight, fast.

“Did I surprise you?” he asked, as they sat.

“You could say that. I almost had a heart attack when I looked up and saw the empty window. It was my favorite piece.”

“I don't doubt it. It was the best of the lot.” He sweetened his espresso, then brought the demitasse cup to his lips and sipped. “Did you know, in some cultures they believe the artist gives up a little piece of his soul with each act of creation?”

She narrowed her eyes. “No, I didn't know that Nick.”

“Interesting, don't you think? Ceremonies are performed to cleanse the objects of any negative spiritual residue, as if an inanimate object could possess a life force.”

She was uncomfortable with this conversation, and she sensed he knew it. Sensed he was getting pleasure from her unease. “You know what that means, don't you?” he continued.

She shook her head.

“That I own a little piece of your soul.”

Something about his expression, something in his eyes, chilled her to her core. She fought to keep her feelings from showing. “If one bought into that sort of thing,” she said.

“Exactly.” He brought the demitasse cup to his lips and sipped, the motion oddly feminine and disturbing. He set the cup carefully on its saucer. “It points to how personal, how private and unique the act of creation is. Some artists call it a bloodletting, some an act of the subconscious, others one of sheer will. What is it to you, Kate? How would you describe it?”

She wasn't about to discuss her personal creative pathos with this man, wasn't about to describe the joy and frustration, the fear or passion. It was none of his business, and she didn't know why, but she had the feeling that whatever she told him, he would find a way to twist it to his own liking.

How had she ever thought him attractive and interesting? she wondered. How had she allowed herself to preen under his attention. The thought made her sick.

“I find it relaxing,” she answered. “Enjoyable.”

“You're a poor liar.”

“The thing is, Nick,” she said, working to keep her tone light, “I'd like to buy that piece of stained glass back from you. You see, I…I feel a little silly about this, but at that price I never thought it would sell. It holds a special place in my heart and—”

“I'm sorry, Kate, but that won't be possible.”

Her stomach sank. “May I ask why not?”

“It's no longer in my possession. I had it crated and shipped to my home in Ohio.”

“I see.” She tried another tact. “But surely, since you travel so much and won't be home to enjoy it, you—”

“I'm sorry, Kate.” He smiled, the curving of his lips conveying anything but regret. “You're too late.”