Hemlock Veils (15 page)

He threw a sidelong glance her way, giving up and allowing her to walk beside him. He tried not to like the way it felt.

“Regina told me, of course,” she added, “how terrifying that part of the forest is. And yet…” She paused for effect. “It’s where you live.”

“I live there because my family always has. I’m well protected. I never go out at night.”

“So I hear.”

He paused, Taggart’s office beside him. He was tempted to throw her in the tiny cell they called the jailhouse. “You’re not helping your case, Ms. Ashton. And however you want to take it, I’m doing this only for your protection.”

Her look said she didn’t believe him.

“Moreover,” he went on, “Doctor Ortiz doesn’t need help. As far as I understand, an almost-nursing degree is all you have under your belt, besides housekeeping for a billionaire.” He gave a short laugh. “And I don’t need the help, nor would I ever hire you.”

“
Never
would I consider it, Mr. Clayton.”

His feet trudged forward again, his head hurting. “Then tell me, just for argument’s sake, what would you plan on doing in a small town with nothing to offer?”

“Is it me with nothing to offer, or the town?” she asked, amusement in her voice.

“Both.”

She took a deep, slightly nervous breath again. He studied her as they walked, taking it in. It almost entertained him. “The old bakery.
Jean’s
Bakery.”

He stopped short, a thousand tiny pulses of heat leaving his brain and forcing the muscles around his eyes taut. “What about it?”

Her fingers wrung around each other. “I’m assuming that’s special to you, too…”

Briefly dazed, his eyes hardly registered Ms. Ashton or the town square across the street behind her, its fountain streams never ceasing. His vision blurred at thoughts of his mother, of the way she cared for that place. “It’s not for lease,” was all he said, walking ahead with his mind still far away.

“I’ll do whatever it takes, Mr. Clayton. Please let me bring it to life again. If you just let me show you what I can do—”

“I don’t
want
you to bring it to life again.” He faced her. “Even if it
was
for lease, you could never afford it. Any of it.”

“I have money.”

He sighed, a battle raging inside. A part of him, however small, wanted to embrace such a change. But the more dominant side wanted to scream with irritation that
she
wanted the change, and then run in fear. “I’m sorry, Ms. Ashton. But I can’t give you what you want. I won’t.”

She slumped, releasing a breath as though it was her last, and defeat finally filled her eyes. He turned away, walking as quickly as he could to the diner.

***

Coffee dripped at a steady pace from the diner’s electric coffeemaker—not the greatest model if you asked Regina. But no one ever had, not until Elizabeth. She’d come in early with Regina, before the sun had even risen, and together they’d plotted. It was mostly Regina’s idea of course, since Elizabeth was hesitant about stealing the diner’s customers, but the idea excited Regina. She’d almost forgotten how much she missed good coffee. Oregon crawled with coffee shops and espresso stands, even a drive-thru on every corner for those too busy to wander inside somewhere. Maybe the gray, wet weather was to blame, driving folks to it like it was necessary for survival. Regina liked to stop at those places whenever she could frequent other cities. Her favorite was the little corner place at the south suburban end of Portland called Joe’s Joe. She wished Hemlock had somewhere like that.

But this morning Elizabeth had proven her talent all right. Coffee-making like that was a creative art only someone in the Pacific Northwest could appreciate, and the fact that a girl from L.A. possessed it made it more fated. Elizabeth was
meant
for Oregon, and more so, for Hemlock Veils.

Last night, when they’d begun plotting—again, mostly Regina doing the plotting—Elizabeth told her about the small bag of fresh coffee grounds she’d brought with her, ones she’d just ground the morning she’d left L.A. They were from a fancy bean she used to order from Brazil, from some port called Santos—the only ones her old employer, and also Elizabeth, liked. The grounds were coarse, unlike the finely crushed, almost-powder Regina had been ordering online. Elizabeth’s were the size of the Epsom salts Regina used in her baths sometimes. Elizabeth had been saving it, she’d said. And the way Regina saw it, she’d been saving it for a moment just like this.

Elizabeth was reluctant, maybe even a little snobbish, about using the Hemlock Diner’s drip coffeepot. It wasn’t bad, Elizabeth had said; just not what she was used to. She’d told Regina she’d been using the wrong size grounds for such a machine, and the time it brewed was all wrong. Regina had been using the stuff best made for espresso machines. And that was only part of the problem.

They’d made a batch early that morning, just to test it, and though Regina wasn’t normally a swearing woman except for in her mind, she’d sworn after trying it. Three times she’d sworn, since they were the only words appropriate. It was those fancy Brazilian beans and the coarse grain and the brewing time, and the ratio, too. Apparently, Regina had been putting too much water to coffee. Those four things, and just like that the old Hemlock Diner’s coffeepot went from making the bitterest, dirtiest coffee to producing the nectar of the coffee gods. And Elizabeth said it was usually better, that with the right equipment—and Regina sensed there was some other secret, too—she could get it to absolute perfection. Regina could hardly imagine it, since it seemed perfect as it was.

She’d had to convince Elizabeth it would be good enough for Mr. Clayton, especially in comparison to what he’d been used to. Knowing Mr. Clayton, and Regina knew him well enough, trickery would be the only way to get him to try it. Elizabeth still hadn’t been sure of that when she’d left twenty minutes ago, off to meet Mr. Clayton for a walk—and more nervous than Regina had ever seen her, even after her encounter with the monster—but it was her only shot.

When enough of the second batch, containing the last of Elizabeth’s precious grounds, found its way into the pot—and Regina waited the right amount of time like Elizabeth had taught her—Regina poured it into Mr. Clayton’s favorite mug, which had been warmed (another trick Elizabeth showed her, to keep the coffee fresh and hot). She poured a sip-size amount into her own mug, just to make sure it tasted as exquisite as the first. She blew on it a bit before carefully allowing the liquid to touch her lips. It nearly scorched, the way Regina preferred, and she let a little into her mouth, savoring. And, oh dear Heaven, it
was
just as good as the first: rich and point (that term, which she’d just learned from Elizabeth that morning, meant the coffee had positive characteristics of flavor, body, and acidity), and even slightly nutty, though she didn’t know how. She swore again, louder than when Elizabeth had been here, since she was alone behind the counter.

The bell on the door jingled and Mr. Clayton came in alone, no Elizabeth behind him. Not a good sign. An even worse sign: he looked flustered and hurried, sliding edgily into his corner booth and flipping the paper open before he could even settle. What had Elizabeth said to him this time? Not that Regina blamed Elizabeth for being the only one with enough guts to stand up to the man, but if Elizabeth wanted to stay in Hemlock, she was going to have to learn to control her words around Mr. Clayton.

With an uneven sigh, Regina clasped Henry’s full mug and approached his booth. Sometime in the past five seconds, her neck and back had begun to perspire. Just as she placed it in front of Mr. Clayton, Elizabeth entered and, upon seeing Regina, panic flooded her eyes. She shook her head, but it was too late.

And it didn’t matter anyway, because Regina would have given it to him regardless of Elizabeth’s protest.

As Mr. Clayton lowered the paper and brought the coffee carefully to his mouth, he caught sight of the two of them, exchanging looks. A conversation between eyes. Regina’s screamed,
Play along!
His own flitted back and forth between them, trying to solve the mystery. Quickly, almost shamefully, Elizabeth looked to her feet and walked around Regina, taking an unassuming place at the counter. A place she would be able to hear them from.

“Anything you want to tell me, Mrs. Washington?” he asked, his voice colder than usual, and laced with suspicion.

She swallowed, smiling brightly. “Course not, Mr. Clayton.”

After studying her, he nodded; then as anticipation roiled in Regina’s belly, he took the first sip. Pulling the mug away with a knitted brow, he eyed it as though it was poison. Regina’s stomach dropped. They were doomed.

“What is this?” he demanded.

“Coffee, Mr. Clayton. I mean,
real
coffee.”

In an experimental manner, he brought it to his mouth, more carefully than the first time. He appeared to be savoring it, letting it live on his palate a moment—the same way Regina had earlier. “It’s…” He took another sip then shook his head. He actually smiled, ever so subtly, and what a handsome smile it was. “Well, it’s…damn good.” More loudly, he said, “The only good thing about my morning thus far.” It wasn’t hard to see the comment was meant for Elizabeth’s ears, since his eyes fixed on her back. Poor Elizabeth. Mean, ornery Mr. Clayton.

Regina faked a smile. “You like it then?”

“You’re really onto something.” After taking another sip, he actually addressed Elizabeth by name. “Ms. Ashton.” With a slightly compressed jaw and a hint of reluctance, Elizabeth turned. “Try this.” Everyone who eavesdropped paused mid-action. To one who didn’t know the events of that morning, Regina supposed such a request coming from Mr. Clayton
would
be strange.

“There’s no need for that, Mr. Clayton,” Elizabeth said.

“Please,” he argued, more clipped. “I insist.”

He and Elizabeth glared at each other, but eventually she joined them. “I…already tried it,” she said.

“Good. Then you know we don’t need better coffee here. Not sure any better exists.” He took another sip, slowly, and Regina swore she heard him groan as his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Of course, he didn’t know that by playing it up, he dug his own grave. “This is what we’ve been missing, Mrs. Washington.”

Elizabeth took another step, and despite Regina’s nudge she began, “Mr. Clayton—”

“That’s all, Ms. Ashton.” He went back to reading his paper before she could confess, and murder brewed in Elizabeth’s eyes. Regina pulled her away.

Once a safe distance away, Elizabeth whispered, “I can’t do this. He’s going to hate me even more for tricking him. And you too, Regina.”

Regina grabbed her slender arms. “Trust me, Beth. It’ll work. Now, for the finishing touch.” She took the plate from behind the counter, at the same time Elizabeth put her head in her hands. A single cream puff pastry, whose only decoration was a light drizzle of chocolate sauce, adorned the plate. It was elegant in its simplicity, yet delectable in its rich flavor and harmonious textures: creamy and sweet on the inside, light and flaky on the outside. It was the first thing Regina had made Elizabeth do that morning, when the sky was still dark: bake her finest pastry. And it
was
fine. Exquisite just like the coffee, and what a combo they would be.

She walked past Elizabeth, ignoring the warning daggers that shot from her narrow eyes. Looks of envy filled everyone else’s eyes, Brian’s especially as he stood to get a better view. “I’ll take one,” he said. Regina only glared at him, but his comment grabbed Mr. Clayton’s attention. He stared at her warily, like he’d done after tasting the first sip of coffee. She placed it before him and he recoiled from it.

“Mrs. Washington, what is going on here?”

“Well, it’s a cream puff pastry, Mr. Clayton. I thought you’d be able to recognize that.”

He sighed, just barely. “I’m aware of what a
profiterole
is. But never, in all the years you’ve been here, have you served a pastry.”

“It’s nothing, Mr. Clayton. Just try it. It’s on the house.” Her hands shook; she placed them behind her back. “Well, go ahead now.”

His jaw shifted as he deliberated, probably wondering why she wanted to be an audience to his tasting it. Still, he picked it up, taking a bite small and large at the same time—small for a man of his size but large for such a pastry. Less than half remained. He finished chewing, swallowed, and then said, “It’s…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t…have words.”

“That good?”

“Beyond delicious. Now tell me what this is about.”

“You think this is something our residents would enjoy? Would
you
personally, for example, love to see this on a normal basis?”

“Are you asking for my approval?”

“I suppose so.”

“Then…yes. It would do well. Is that all?”

“Well, go on and finish it then, Mr. Clayton.”

He did, and though he was guarded, his eyes said it all: it was heaven in his mouth.

“Good. Then I think we can both agree Ms. Ashton would be an invaluable addition to this town. Something like this—coffee like
that
—is needed here. You said so yourself, Mr. Clayton. And let’s face it: we ain’t really a part of Oregon until we’ve mastered the art of coffee brewing in our town, are we?”

His face darkened while his temples pulsated with the grinding of his jaw. If she had been any more scared, she would have seen her life flash before her eyes, mostly the bits with Nathaniel and her only son. But she stood her ground, even as he rose.

“You can fire me if you’d like, Mr. Clayton—”

“No,” Elizabeth interjected, moving to Regina’s side. Really, she stood in front of her in a protective manner. “This wasn’t her idea, Mr. Clayton. It was a bad one, I know—”

“The
hell
it wasn’t my idea,” Regina blurted, putting her fists on her hips as she glared at Elizabeth. There she went again, cursing. She’d been doing a lot of that since Elizabeth came into town. She looked at Mr. Clayton, allowing that passion to bring her courage. “If you’d just give this girl a chance—”