Cause For Alarm (9 page)

S
unlight spilled through the breakfast nook's bay window, falling over the antique oak farmer's table, warming its weathered top. The January day was brilliant but cold; the sky a postcard-perfect blue.

Kate sat at the table, one leg curled under her, hands curved around a mug of freshly brewed coffee. She brought the mug to her lips but didn't sip. Instead, she breathed deeply, enjoying the aroma almost as much as she would her first taste.

The beans were African, from the Gold Coast region. The roast was dark, the brew strong. The flavor would be bold, bright and complex. If it lived up to the roaster's claim.

She tasted, paused and tasted again. Smooth as well, she decided. She would add it to The Uncommon Bean's menu.

“Morning, gorgeous.” Richard came into the kitchen, still straightening his tie. He crossed to her and she lifted her face for a kiss, then restraightened the knot of his tie, patting it when she had finished. “There. Completely presentable now.”

He smiled. “I hate ties. A damn nuisance, I say.”

“Poor baby.”

“I'll bet our old friend Luke doesn't wear one of these boa constrictors.” He went to the carafe and poured himself a cup of coffee, then popped a couple pieces of seven-grain bread into the toaster. “I went into the wrong line of work. I should have chosen something artsy-fartsy. Like writing.”

Kate ignored his sarcasm and took another swallow of her coffee. She sighed with pleasure. “There's nothing quite as wonderful as a cup of hot coffee on a cold morning.” She glanced over at him. “I'm trying out a new bean. Tell me what you think.”

He took a sip. “It's good.”

“Just good?”

“Really good?”

“How would you describe it?”

“Hot. Strong.” He sipped again. “Tastes like…coffee.”

She wagged her spoon at him in a mock reprimand. “Tomorrow you're getting instant.”

“Okay.” He laughed at her obvious dismay. “Sorry, sweetheart, I'm just not a coffee connoisseur, it all tastes about the same to me.”

He carried his toast and cup to the table and sat across from her. Kate slid him the sports section of the
Times Picayune.

“I read in the money section that Starbucks coffee is thinking of moving into New Orleans in a big way.” She drew her eyebrows together in concern. “I hope they stay on that side of the lake. I don't need any more competition for this community's coffee dollar.”

“How are things at the nuthouse?” he asked, unfolding the paper.

“Nuthouse?”

“The Bean.”

“I don't know why you insist on calling the The Uncommon Bean a nuthouse. We're all quite sane.”

He spread a bit of whole fruit jam on his toast. “You're sane,” he corrected. “I'm not nearly so confident of that crew you have working for you.”

She laughed. Her crew was a bit unconventional; she couldn't deny that. “A coffeehouse is not a law office.”

“No joke.”

“My customers expect a bit of creative license. Besides, they're not nuts, they're characters. There's a difference.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.” Kate poured herself a bowl of muesli, sprinkled on some fresh berries, then covered it with half 'n' half. “I also say you're a stuffed shirt and need to loosen up.”

“I'm sure my clients would love that. Being a stuffed shirt is a good thing for lawyers. Inspires trust.” He cocked an eyebrow as she dug into her cereal. “Cream?”

“Mmm.” She licked her spoon, teasing him. “What's the matter? Jealous?”

“Not at all.”

“Liar.”

Richard was spartan in his tastes; she was excessive. He worked out religiously, ate low fat and whole grain and still had to fight acquiring a paunch. Kate ate sweets and fats and kept her workouts confined to long brisk walks along the lakefront—and still managed to remain slim and taut, her blood pressure and cholesterol ridiculously low.

It irritated him no end and he continually warned her that her life-style would catch up with her, that middle age would hit and she would have to suffer right along with the rest of the world. Kate laughed off his warnings. She came from a long line of people with uncommonly healthy hearts and in-the-cellar cholesterol and blood pressure. And if genetics failed her and Richard's predictions came true, well, she would cross that bridge when she came to it.

“Poor Richard. Want just a tiny taste?”

He eyed her bowl longingly, then shook his head. “I'm perfectly content with my toast.”

“I can tell.” She grinned, took another bite and washed it down with a sip of coffee. “I almost forgot. Last night you got in so late from your meeting, I didn't get a chance to tell you. Ellen called.” He looked up from the sports page, obviously not following. “Ellen, from Citywide. It seems we get an A plus.” Kate laughed. “We were the first couple in our group to get
all
our paperwork in.”

“The first?” His lips twitched. “Leave it to us, type A overachievers.”

She pushed her hair behind her ear, ignoring his sarcasm. “Determined. Enthusiastic. No way am I going to miss an opportunity due to procrastination.”

“I'm just glad it's done.”

Kate agreed. The adoption program's paperwork had been grueling. It seemed there had been a form that covered every aspect of their life: their family's history, their personal health, their financial and educational backgrounds. They'd even had to get fingerprinted and have a police background check done.

But by far the most difficult part of the packet to complete had been the personal profiles. The questions had been probing, requiring each of them to delve into their most intimate thoughts and feelings—about their marriage, about adoption and parenting.

They had been asked to search their hearts and souls, then spill their guts on paper. All the while knowing that a potential birth mother would read what they had written—knowing the words they chose would influence whether that birth mother would select them to parent her child.

The process had been made all the more nerve-racking for Kate because they had been told that the profiles were the most important component of all they would do. For the great majority of the birth moms, Ellen had explained, giving up their baby for adoption was an emotional decision, not an intellectual one.

So, Kate had sweated over her profile. She had poured out her heart and soul and longings—praying the whole time that something she said would strike a chord in one of the birth mothers. Praying that somehow, she could make the other woman see how much she longed to be a mother. And how much she would love her baby.

“The only thing left is our photo album. I finished it last night and planned to run it across to Citywide in the next couple of days. No chance you're heading to the south shore today or tomorrow?”

“No chance. Although I may go over on Friday.”

“I'll keep that in mind, though I didn't want to wait that long.”

“Type A,” he teased.

“You think?” She laughed. “I just want it done.”

“Ready to sit back, relax and wait for a baby to fall into our laps, huh?”

“Relax?” She cocked an eyebrow. “Maybe you can, but not me. I'm more excited and anxious than I was when we had all that paperwork stretching before us. Now it's real. Now it could actually happen, anytime.”

“Take a deep breath, sweetheart. Remember what Ellen said? It could take a year. Even longer. That year's going to pass pretty damn slow with your panties in a wad the entire time.”

He was right. She knew that. But knowing it didn't change the way she felt.
Kate sighed. “I know, Richard. I remember what she said. It's just that I've…that we've—”

“Waited so long already.” He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “I know, sweetheart.”

She curled her fingers around his, grateful for his understanding. “Love you.”

He smiled. “Love you, too.”

From outside came the squeal of the school bus's brakes, coming to a halt at the stop at their corner. It came every day at 8:10 sharp. Richard looked at his watch and swore. “I've got to go. I'm late.”

“Me, too.” They both stood, carried their dishes to the sink, grabbed their things and hurried for the door. There, Richard kissed her. “You haven't forgotten our dinner with Sam Petrie and his wife have you?”

“Of course not. Dakota's, 7:00 p.m.”

“You got it. Why don't you wear your red silk? I love that on you.”

She laughed. “That's a pretty sexy choice for a weeknight, counselor.”

“And Sam Petrie could be a major supporter in my run for D.A.” At her shocked expression, he grinned. “Just kidding. You're beautiful in anything. Wear whatever you like.” He kissed her again, then stepped out onto the lower gallery. “I'll call you later.”

She watched him go, then grabbed her coat and purse and headed out after him.

O
ne of the many pluses of owning her own business, Kate had decided within her first month in operation, was the location she had chosen. Just three blocks down Lakeshore Drive from their home, most days she was able to walk to work.

Once upon a time the structure had been a guest house for the large home on the adjoining property. Both had been built well before air-conditioning or the Causeway, when wealthy New Orleanians had escaped the stifling heat of summer by trekking to the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain and the fabulous homes they had built along the lake.

She had found and fallen in love with the dilapidated cottage, and bought it—despite Richard's argument that it would cost too much to build out, that a location more on the beaten path, in one of the shopping areas or strip malls, would attract more patrons.

Kate had stuck to her guns and as she had known they would, customers had found her. None of the other coffee cafés had what she had: a panoramic view of Lake Pontchartrain, century-old live oak trees in whose high, thick branches egrets roosted at dusk, a feeling of history, and an undeniable charm that was the Old South.

Her regulars weren't the strip mall types. They weren't the two-point-two kids, minivan-and-dog types that heavily populated Mandeville. No, The Uncommon Bean seemed to draw the North Shore's uncommon residents. Artists and writers, college students and misfits, retired professionals, freethinkers, debaters and loners.

Even her employees were unique. Sometimes too much so, Kate thought as she stepped through The Bean's front door only to discover her two managers, Marilyn and Blake, deep into one of their famous discussions. She shook her head. Anyone who didn't know them would swear not only that they were arguing, but that they hated each other as well.

And no wonder; the two couldn't be more different. Marilyn was a blond bombshell with a Minnie Mouse voice and an IQ to rival Einstein's. At twenty-five, she was working on her fourth college degree, this one in ancient religions. Blake, on the other hand, at twenty-eight, was still on his first go-round at college. Gay and proud of it, he was outspoken, funny and a bit too flamboyant to be living comfortably on the rather conservative North Shore. But he did anyway, he said, because he liked the trees.

Their heated discussions had become legendary with the regulars. Some swore they came in not for the coffee, but to witness the fireworks. Even so, the two never got truly angry with one another and made a good working team.

“Honey,” Blake drawled to Marilyn as Kate approached, “I'm telling you, when it comes to size, all races have not been created equal.”

Marilyn made a sound of disgust. “Not only are you gross, but you're playing to cliché and racial stereotype. A civilization that depends on stereotypes—”

“Excuse me,” Blake interrupted, placing his fists on his hips and cocking his head at her. “But just how do you think clichés get started?”

“Usually as a form of hatred and oppression.” Marilyn swiped at a spot of water on the counter, her cheeks pink. “My God, as a gay man, I'd think you'd be more sensitive to this sort of thing.”

“Exactly. I mean, just for argument's sake, how many big, black—”

“Enough, guys!” Kate said, stepping in. “This is inappropriate. We have customers.”

“S'okay with me,” called Peter, a regular sitting in the booth closest the register. “I was kind of getting into it.”

“Me, too.” Joanie, a romance writer and another regular, said as she sauntered to the counter for a refill. “Grist for the mill and all that.”

“No,” Blake murmured. “Kate's right. But before we move on to a less…controversial subject, I feel obligated to say one more thing. Anyone who says size isn't important, either has a teeny little wienie or is having a relationship with one.”

Marilyn gasped, Joanie nearly choked on her refill, and Kate fought back a laugh. Before Kate could reprimand her employee, Peter chimed in, “I've never said that, Blake. Believe me. Quite the contrary, I always say size is the most important thing.”

That brought a fresh round of giggles and groans from the group. Just as it looked as if the conversation were going to slip back into the realm of the totally inappropriate, a mother and her two young children entered The Bean. Marilyn and Blake became instantly professional.

Kate shook her head, fighting a sound of amused exasperation. She could imagine Richard's reaction if he'd witnessed the goings-on at The Bean. He already thought the place a nuthouse; no doubt he would judge them all, including her, certifiable.

She glanced at Marilyn and Blake, chatting with the woman as they filled her order, then smiled. She enjoyed The Uncommon Bean. She enjoyed the people, the ones who became regulars and the ones who only stopped by occasionally. She enjoyed her employees, their eccentricities, being involved in their lives.

Though her first love was art, she had decided early on that she was
not
going the starving artist route. She had grown up with that. Living hand-to-mouth, from sale to sale, watching her parents wait with growing bitterness for the recognition that had never come. Seeing how disappointment had sucked the life out of their marriage.

They had divorced the year Kate graduated from Tulane. The year after that her mother had been killed in a traffic accident, and her father had left New Orleans to become artist-in-residence at an art colony north of San Francisco. Though they spoke often and affectionately, geographical distance kept them from spending much time together.

No, after watching her parents Kate had decided on a degree in business and had relegated her beloved art to a hobby. Now, instead of on gallery walls, her stained glass creations hung in every window of The Bean. She created them because she loved the craft. Not for money. Not for recognition. Now and then she sold a piece, and when she did she was pleased. It was freeing not having to deal with the pressure of
having
to sell.

Kate knew how lucky she was. She could have been stuck working nine to five, pushing papers in a job she derived little pleasure from. And doing it day after day, just to keep a roof over her head.

And she would have, and made the best of it, because she was a practical person.

Something Luke had never been able to understand.

Funny, she thought, picturing him in her mind's eye. They had both come from low-income homes, both had attended Tulane on scholarship. Yet Luke had been determined to stick to his dream of being a novelist. He had refused to even consider journalism or copywriting. He had believed in himself that much.

What would it be like to have that kind of confidence? she wondered. To have that much courage?

The woman and her children served, Kate motioned to her managers. “If I can trust you two to keep your conversation respectable, I'll be in my office working on payroll.” Kate looked from one to the other. “That is, if you want to get paid today?”

“Go…go.” Blake waved her toward the back. “I'm broke.”

Marilyn clucked her tongue. “You need to manage your finances better. There will be a tomorrow, you know.”

He sniffed. “Words of wisdom from the queen of the college loans.”

“Screw you.”

“Sorry, darlin',” he drawled, “but you're not my type.”

“You don't have to worry about
me
keeping it respectable, Kate,” Marilyn said, looking pointedly at Blake. “
I
have the ability to think about other things.”

Kate threw up her hands. “You two will never change. I'm going to stop trying, just don't scare all the customers away. Okay?”

Not waiting for a response, Kate made her way to her office, checking supplies as she did, making notes of what she needed to order. The time cards were stacked neatly on her desk, waiting for her. With a sigh, she took a seat and got to work.

She had only been at it a few minutes when Blake tapped on her open door. “We have a problem.”

She looked up and motioned him in. “What's up?”

“It's the baker. Again. He didn't show Saturday. Consequently, we were out of half our pastries before the after-movie crowd even arrived.”

“Did you call?”

“Of course.” Blake frowned. “I got the machine. Twice.”

“And he still hasn't called back.” She made a sound of disgust. “How many times does this make?”

“Four. The jerk.” Blake lifted the heart-shaped paperweight from her desk, weighed it in his hand and set it back down. The Baccarat crystal heart had been a gift from Richard last Valentine's Day. “I really hate irresponsibility.”

Kate smiled. That's what made him such a good employee. “I'll take care of this, Blake. There are other bakers in town, and we're going to find ourselves one.”

“Thank God.” He wagged his finger at her. “And this time you're not going to listen to any sob stories, right? It doesn't matter if his dog died or his wife left him, he has a commitment to us and our business. You're much too nice, you know.”

A notorious soft touch, that was what Richard called her. Con men and door-to-door salesmen could see her coming. She smiled. “No hard luck stories, no excuses. That Pillsbury Dough Boy is history.”

That brought a smile to his lips. “Good. Thank you.”

Blake started out of the office. Kate stopped him. “How was business this weekend?”

“Excellent. Though it would have been even better if we'd had a full stock of desserts.”

“How did the new kid do?”

“Beanie?” Beanie, so nicknamed because he wore a different hat every day, was the newest member of her crew. And the youngest. She had hired him because she thought he would do a good job and because she feared she might be his only chance at gainful employment. “He did okay. I had Tess stay right with him. Consequently, he made no major goof-ups that I saw and the customers seemed to like him. Not bad for his first shift.”

Tess, Kate's other employee, though a good worker, tended to be a bit of a flake. Kate arched an eyebrow. “Tess? Training?”

Marilyn popped her head into the office. “Kate, telephone. It's Ellen. From Citywide.”

Kate nodded, catching her breath. “Thanks.” She picked up the phone. From the corner of her eye, she saw Marilyn nudge Blake. The two eased out of the office, closing the door behind them.

Kate smiled. All her employees and most of the regulars knew she and Richard were adopting. They also knew what she had been through and how badly she wanted a child.

“Hi, Ellen,” she said. “What's up?”

“Good news.”

“Good news?” Kate repeated, her heart beginning to pound.

“We've got a new birth mother in the program. She's beginning to review profiles. Yours is one of the ones I've selected for her. But before you get too excited,” she added quickly, “you and Richard are only one of several couples she's initially considering. Although I see you as a good fit, she might not. Be prepared, before this is all over, I'll probably be showing your profiles to a dozen birth mothers.”

“Oh.” Kate took a deep breath, so disappointed she hurt. “I understand.”

Ellen laughed, but with sympathy, not amusement. “No, Kate,
I
understand. You have every right to be excited. But I feel obligated to warn you, adoption can be every bit the emotional roller coaster of infertility treatments. You have to pace yourself.

“I know it's hard,” Ellen continued before Kate could respond. “The waiting is hell and the ups and downs are worse. Knowing that, the best you can do is strap in for the duration.”

“Pace myself.” Kate laughed, a bit self-consciously. “You sound like Richard. Relax, he says. All things in their time.”

“He's a wise man.”

“I know, it's just that…that—” To her embarrassment, tears flooded her eyes and when she spoke, her words came out soft and broken. “We've waited so long, Ellen. I've…we've wanted a child for such a long time.” Her voice cracked, and she cleared it. “I'm sorry. You must think me a complete dope.”

“Far from it,” the other woman murmured. “I think anyone who wants a child as much as you do is going to be a very good mother.”

Kate regained a modicum of composure, grateful for the woman's understanding. “Thank you.”

“I'll tell you this, Kate, from speaking with this birth mother several times now, I believe she's committed to adoption. I sense no conflict in her over whether to parent or give up her baby. And,” Ellen added, “she
is
interested in you and Richard. You have many qualities that are important to her. With that in mind, I was wondering when you could get your photo album to me.”

“I finished it last night and planned to run it over in the next few days.”

“The sooner the better.”

“I'm bringing it now. See you in forty-five minutes.”