Sweet Surprises (5 page)

“Did Belinda go to bed?”

“Hours ago. She was worn out from all that crying she did.”

“Today was a tough day,” he said. “Tomorrow will be better.”

Angel cocked her head to the side, offered a hesitant smile. The first she'd ever given him. “Belinda says that all the time.”

“Yeah. I know. She raised me. I guess a lot of what she taught me stuck,” he responded, grabbing an empty pop can from the floor. There was a chip bag right next to it, and he picked that up, too.

He didn't say a word about the crap Angel had been feeding her kid. Pop. Chips. Burgers from the diner where she worked. What she needed was milk, homemade yogurt, salads filled with vegetables and topped with lean protein.

“What?” she snapped, and he realized he was staring, thinking about that kid she was percolating and wondering how healthy it would be when all she'd fed it was junk food.

“You hungry?”

She blinked, her face suddenly so childlike, he wondered if she was younger than the nineteen years she claimed to be. “Nah. Huckleberry cooked.”

“And you're all still living?”

She laughed. “Yeah. He's a good cook. We had meat loaf, little red potatoes, and green beans.” She patted her belly, the T-shirt riding up just enough to reveal the edges of a tattoo. “The baby is happy.”

“He might be happier if you didn't drink this crap all the time.” He held up the pop can, and she shrugged.

“I gave up the cigarettes, the alcohol, and the weed. I think the kid will survive a little caffeine. But
she
probably needs more sleep, so I'm going to bed. 'Night.” She waddled from the room, her narrow shoulders stiff with anger.

Obviously, she'd felt judged.

And, just as obviously, he should have kept his big mouth shut.

He flicked off the light, walked into the dining room and did the same. Then went into the kitchen. Huckleberry sat at the table there, a laptop opened in front of him, earbuds on. His foot tapped against the black-and-white tile floor, his eyes closed as he bobbed to whatever music he was listening to.

River tossed the can into the recycling bin, threw away the empty chip bag, all while Huckleberry still tapped along with the music.

More than likely, he knew River was there.

More than likely, he was ignoring him.

The kid had a chip on his shoulders almost as big as the one River used to carry.

Brenna's words echoed through his head. He
did
still have a chip on his shoulders. He just hid it a lot better than Huckleberry.

“Food in the oven for you, bro,” Huckleberry suddenly said, pulling out the earbuds and opening his eyes.

It was probably the freckles that made him look so young.

Or the copper-colored hair.

Whatever the case, Huckleberry looked about fifteen.

“And I'm really sorry about the fudge,” the kid continued, his gaze dropping to the box River held. “I told Ms. Belinda that, and she said it was just fine, but it wasn't cool. I should have thought before I ate.” He stood, grabbed the battered laptop and a cup that had been sitting beside it.

“I'd appreciate it if you keep your paws out of the new stuff.” River set the box on the counter.

“And me and the rest of the group would appreciate it if you'd stop walking around the house like you got a stick up your butt,” Huckleberry replied. He washed the cup and set it in the drainer, the laptop under his scrawny arm. “Everything was fine around here until you showed up.”

“Everything was a free ride until I showed up. Belinda did everything, and the rest of you sat on your asses and let her serve you.”

“A lot you know,” Huckleberry spat. “We all worked together and made sure Ms. Belinda was okay. Then you drove into town thinking you were some kind of superhero and tried to take over.”

“I wasn't interested in taking over anything. I was interested in making sure Belinda was okay.”

“She was fine. We all were fine. You're just too much of a butt wipe to admit it, and too much of a control freak to go back to whatever rock you crawled out from under and leave us alone.” Huckleberry yanked open the door that led to the backstairs, walked into the narrow stairwell, and slammed the door shut with enough strength to shake the door frame.

“Damn kid,” River muttered, hoping to God that Huckleberry hadn't woken Belinda.

Damn kid who put a plate of food in the oven for you
, Dillard would have said.

He'd have been right, but that had been Dillard, always seeing the big picture, always looking for the good in the people around him.

River was more of a cynic, and at thirty, he had no intention of changing. Huckleberry had cooked dinner, and he'd cleaned the kitchen. It was spotless: every dish put away, the table cleaned off for the first time since River had returned. No spots of food on the floor. No overflowing trash can. Even the window above the sink had been polished. The place looked like it had when River had lived there.

Kind of made him wonder why it hadn't looked like that in the weeks since he'd been back.

He opened the oven. He wasn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't moist meat loaf topped with brown gravy, fingerling potatoes tossed with butter and parsley, and glossy beans mixed with garlic and onion. Looking at the food—plated neatly and begging to be eaten—made River feel exactly like the butt wipe Huckleberry had said he was.

A perfect end to the perfect day.

He hoped to God that tomorrow would be better, but seeing as how he was meeting with Adeline Lamont to discuss Belinda's tax problems, he wasn't holding out much hope.

People in town said Adeline was a miracle worker when it came to taxes. Based on what he'd seen when he'd looked through Belinda's books, River thought she might need to be even more than that.

By eight thirty in the morning, Brenna had broken every vow she'd made about keeping her language PG. She'd cursed the chocolate bark that had broken into seven thousand pieces when she'd tried to take it out of the pan. She'd cursed the caramel that she'd let burn on the stove. She'd even cursed her clumsy fingers when she'd dropped the only decent batch of bonbons she'd managed to make.

And now?

Now, she wanted a cigarette, and she wanted one bad.

She'd settle for some eggs or toast or a salad or soup or anything other than chocolate, fudge, nuts, or coffee. Of which she'd had one or two (or ten) cups too many.

Her stomach growled.

“Hungry?” her grandfather asked as he pressed a cutter into glossy peanut butter bars.

“I'm fine.”

“So you are. Take a break anyway. Go to the diner and get yourself something to eat. Or go to the store and get some groceries. I didn't think to fill up your fridge before you got here.”

“Mom left me potpie. It was enough for three people.” She'd devoured it in one sitting, because she'd been hungry enough to eat that and the remainder of a sleeve of crackers she'd found in the Chrysler.

“You ate that for breakfast?”

“No.”

“Then, go get yourself something. You're skinny as a rail. I've got to fatten you up if we're going to find you a new man.”

“First, I don't want a new man. Second, we're already behind on production.” She filled a pan of congealed and separated chocolate with hot water, squirted a few drops of soap into it. “I can eat after we get caught up.”

“Caught up? I decide how much product we need, and I've decided we're right on track. Besides, your sister hasn't been eating enough to nourish a bird, much less a grown woman carrying a child. The only thing we can get down her gullet are those pecan rolls Laura Beth makes.”

“Laura Beth?”

“She took over managing the diner a couple of months ago. Used to wait tables there? Tall. Pretty. You go on in and ask for her. She has a dozen pecan rolls she sets aside for me every day.” He fished two twenties out of his pocket. “Get yourself something to eat while you're at it. My treat, because I've missed you terribly, kid.”

“I've missed you, too. But, I don't need your money,” she lied, thrusting the cash back.

“No more arguing. I'm old. I get my way.” He waved snatched the money from her hand and shoved it into her apron pocket, and she saw a hint of something in his eyes. A little bit of darkness and doubt and concern, and she knew all those things weren't for Adeline. They were for her.

Did he know she'd lost everything?

Could he?

She almost asked, probably would have asked, but someone knocked on the back door.

“Pops!” whoever it was called through the closed door. “It's Chase.”

“You forget your damn key again, son?” Byron unlocked the door and flung it open, a faux scowl on his craggy face. The sun had risen hours ago, the musty scent of moist earth and damp pavement drifting in as a young, gangly kid walked through the doorway. Chase Lyons looked just about the same as the last time Brenna had seen him: lean as a flagpole, his face too somber and serious for a kid his age.

He met Brenna's eyes. “Ms. Brenna, it's nice to see you again.”

To his credit, he didn't even glance at the mess in the sink or the drips of chocolate on the floor.

“You too, Chase. How's your sister?”

“Lark is great. She's anxious for school to start, though. She's the only person I know who loves school more than I do.” He grabbed a white apron from a hook beside the door and tied it around his waist.

“Maybe you've forgotten,” Byron said. “That you've got classes this morning.”

“My first class was canceled. I don't have to be there until noon, so I thought I'd help you open.” He stepped into place beside Byron, taking a second pan of peanut butter bars and flipping them out onto waxed paper, his movements smooth and practiced. He'd only been working at Chocolate Haven for a few months and he already looked like a pro, pushing the cutter into the smooth bars, pulling it out without even one of the bars crumbling.

“What classes are you taking?” Brenna asked.

“Just a couple of summer courses. Calculus and accounting, ma'am.”

“A numbers guy, huh?”

He nodded, his cheeks going three shades of red.

That made her smile. She liked Chase. He was a good kid with a good heart. There weren't many people like that in the world. “That's cool. I'm more into literature.”

“You went to college?” He grabbed flowered wrappers from a shelf, spread them out onto a tray, and set a peanut butter bar into each one.

“No, but if I had, I'd have gotten a degree in literature and library science.”

“You could still do that,” Chase said, lifting the tray and heading for the front of the shop. “It's not like you're old, and even if you were, a person should never stop learning.”

“Out of the mouth of babes,” Byron murmured as Chase carried the tray down the hall.

“Life is a lot less complicated when you're that age,” Brenna said, taking a pan of s'more fudge from the fridge and flipping it onto waxed paper. Not as smooth as Chase, but the fudge slipped out easily.

“It's only as complicated as we decide to make it, baby doll.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” She grabbed a cutter, slid it into the cool fudge. She lost two pieces, but overall, it wasn't a bad effort.

“Sometimes the easiest path really is the best one to take.”

“Granddad.” She turned to face him. “If you have something you want to say to me, just say it. I'm too tired for word games.”

“When have I ever played those? Your grandmother? Now, she was good at that kind of thing. Alice always had a way with words. Me? I'm more likely to just say whatever it is on my mind. Screw the consequences.” He shifted a tray of caramel creams onto a rack. “Things are under control here, so how about you run and get those pecan rolls for Adeline? Stay and chat with her a while. It'll do her good.”

He didn't add,
It'll do you good, too
, but Brenna was sure he wanted to. She knew what she looked like: tired, worn down, discouraged. She even felt like all those things, but she wasn't going to let Byron know it.

“Want me to bring you something back from the diner?” she asked, her voice as bright and cheery as colored lights on Christmas morning.

“Nah, but tell Laura Beth I said hello.” He glanced away as he said it, and that made her wonder just who Laura Beth was and just why Granddad looked almost embarrassed when he mentioned her.

A girlfriend?

She didn't ask because she didn't want the subject of
her
love life to come up. Better to keep her nose out of everyone's business and have them keep their noses out of hers.

As if that were even possible in her family. Prying was just part of who her mother was. Byron was just as good at digging for information. Adeline, in her own sweet way, had been known to ask pointed questions.

Only Willow kept her focus on her own life. Maybe because she had her own secrets that she wanted to keep hidden. There had been a lot of times lately when Brenna had wanted to ask what they were. Unlike Adeline, who'd always been an open book. Willow was difficult to read. She'd called a couple of weeks ago and told Brenna about her plans for a spring wedding. Small. Intimate. Janelle wasn't to know about it until a few weeks before the event because Willow didn't want things to get out of hand. She'd said it all like she was talking about a dinner party rather than a lifetime commitment, and Brenna had wanted to ask why. Why was Willow settling for a guy who spent his Saturdays watching sports and his Sundays drinking Scotch and watching more sports? Why was she working as a prosecuting attorney in a city when what she'd always loved was hiking through the woods and spending hours riding horses through the meadows and fields outside of Benevolence? Why didn't she have a dozen kids already when all she'd talked about when she was ten and eleven and twelve was how she wanted to be a mom?

When had that changed?

After their father died? Before?

Brenna frowned as she walked out into the bright August day. She needed to call her sister to make sure that the decision she'd made was one she wanted to stick with. Unlike Brenna, Willow tended to go with the flow. She didn't like rocking the boat, and she didn't like to change her mind. Those were good qualities. If they didn't get you stuck in a situation you didn't want to be in.

She walked around the side of the building and headed down Main Street. The diner wasn't far, and Adeline's house was just a little farther than that. The exercise and fresh air would do Brenna good and maybe get her mind off the cigarette she'd been craving all morning. Besides, she didn't have money for gas and her car was on empty.

Actually . . .

She pulled out the twenties Byron had given her, remembered the look in his eyes when he'd told her she had to take it. The last thing she wanted was charity from her family. The last thing she wanted to believe was that they somehow all knew that she needed it.

For some reason, that thought brought an image of River, standing outside Chocolate Haven, scowling. He hadn't wanted charity because he'd had to take it too many times in his life. She'd never had to take charity. Until now.

It wasn't a good feeling.

At all.

She crossed the street and walked into the diner's parking lot. There were only a few vehicles there this time of morning. A couple of SUVs. A few pickup trucks. One or two sedans. In a few hours, the place would be filled with families coming for breakfast before they went fishing or hiking or berry picking. At least that's the way it had been when Brenna was a kid.

She stepped inside the diner, the soft clink of tableware and the quiet murmur of voices oddly comforting. She'd washed dishes there when she was sixteen, saving money for her senior trip to D.C. Back then, she'd had dreams of getting a scholarship to an out-of-state college. She'd imagined herself living on campus, making a bunch of new friends who knew nothing about her childhood, her father's death, her mother's perfectionist nature.

“Brenna Lamont! As I live and breathe! What are you doing here?” A woman hurried across the room. Tall and pretty, her face lined with six decades' worth of living, Laurie Simpson had been the head waitress at the diner when Brenna had worked there.

“I'm back to help Byron with the shop,” Brenna said as Laurie pulled her into a bear hug.

“I heard you might be coming, but Byron wasn't a hundred percent sure you'd show up.”

“He said that?”

“Nah. He just said you'd come when you were ready. What can I do for you, kid? Breakfast?” She took a pad from her apron, snagged a pen from her shirt pocket, and eyed Brenna expectantly.

“Byron sent me for pecan rolls. He said I should talk to Laura Beth?”

Laurie laughed, the sound filling the quiet dining room. “That would be me, kiddo. Laura Beth. Man! Aside from my mother, your granddad is the only one who's ever called me that.” There was something soft in her face as she said it, something sweet and young and a little revealing.

She must have realized it. She shoved the pad back in her pocket, grabbed Brenna's wrist, and dragged her to the Formica counter that had been in the diner for as long as the diner had been around.

“The rolls just came out of the oven. I'll box 'em up and bring 'em out for you. Angel!” She waved at a waitress who was setting plates of food on a table. “Bring Brenna some coffee and some biscuits and gravy. You still like that, right, kid?”

She didn't give Brenna a chance to respond, just hurried into the kitchen.

“Coffee,” the waitress said, setting a mug in front of Brenna and pouring coffee into it. She looked young. Maybe seventeen and obviously pregnant, her apron tied below her burgeoning belly. “Sugar or cream?”

“Black is good.”

“Yeah. I figured that.” The girl's gaze dropped from Brenna's face to her body, and then she smiled and patted her stomach. “Me? I'm all about the sugar and cream. Got to keep the kid fed. I'm Angel, by the way.” She held out her hand. “And, you must be one of the Lamonts.”

“Brenna. What gave it away?”

“The hair. And the fact that Laurie is running back to get those pecan rolls that Byron loves so much. She only used to make them once a month. Now she makes them every single day.” She leaned in close, her belly bumping Brenna's arm as she whispered, “She and Byron have got a little thing going on.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Neither wants to admit it, though. Laurie was married to a bastard. The guy nearly killed her.”

Brenna knew the story. Laurie had been a street kid in Los Angeles, a runaway who'd hooked up with the first guy to offer marriage. On her fifth anniversary, her husband had beat her so badly, she'd been hospitalized for a month. When she'd finally been released, she'd filed for divorce and left town. She'd stopped in Benevolence on her way to somewhere else. She'd never left.

“And Byron,” Angel continued. “He's still got the hots for his dead wife, and he feels guilty for finding another woman attractive.” She flushed. “What I mean is—”

“You don't need to explain. I know what you're saying.”

“Okay. Good. I've got a great job here. I'd hate to lose it because one of Byron's granddaughters complained about my big mouth. Give me a minute and I'll bring you the biscuits and gravy.”