Not Quite Married (22 page)

Ordinarily, with Rory unavailable, Clara would have gone to Ryan. But that seemed wrong somehow. Wrong, to go seeking romantic advice about one man from the man she’d dumped at the altar six months before. Plus, there had been the animosity between the two men. True, the bad blood seemed to be pretty much over.

But going to Ryan for advice about Dalton still didn’t feel right.

So she told herself she would wait until Rory came home in the first week of July. And then the two of them could have a nice long talk over a jumbo tub of Ben & Jerry’s.

She told herself that it would be fine in the end. That she shouldn’t worry. It would all work out.

But still, it seemed to her that Dalton was more cut off from her every day.

* * *

The last day of June they had a ridiculous argument over paper products.

Apparently because of a clerical error, several boxes of paper napkins, biodegradable flatware and carryout containers were delivered to the house instead of the café. Clara, holding a fussing Kiera in her arms, let the delivery guy pile the bulky boxes on the front porch, signed for them and let him go.

Two minutes later, Dalton came in from his morning workout. He called her from the front hall. She emerged from the master bedroom, carrying the still-fussing Kiera in her arms.

He wanted to know what was going on with all the boxes on the front porch.

She explained about the mistake.

He armed moisture from his sweaty forehead and asked, way too calmly, “So you simply let him leave them here?”

Kiera was still crying. Clara rocked her, patting her little back. “I’ll put them in the SUV and drive them to work.” The restaurant was just around the corner. As a rule, on clear days like this one, she walked. But she had her own parking space at the café, right by the back door. Unloading would be easy and quick.

He gave her a burning look that really had nothing to do with the boxes and everything to do with his ongoing frustration that she wouldn’t give him a yes. “
You’ll
put them in the SUV?”

Kiera wailed. Clara kissed her temple and rubbed her back some more. “It’s no biggie, honestly. They’re pretty light. If you’ll take Kiera now, I’ll just—”

“I’m covered in sweat.”

“Dalton, she’s not going to care.”

His scowl deepened. “The real issue here is that you can’t do everything for yourself and you’ll never admit that and let me help you. I’m not letting you carry all those boxes to the garage.”

The baby cried harder.
Leave it
, she told herself.
Just let it be
. But he had no right to go all caveman on her ass. “Don’t start in with what you’ll
let
me do. You know I hate that.” Kiera let out a long, angry wail.

Dalton glared at Clara, deep blue eyes full of anger and accusation. For a second, she thought he might grab her and shake her. But in the end, he only turned without another word and went back out the front door. She peeked out the sidelight to the right of the door and saw him stack three boxes, hoist them high and start down the steps.

That had
her
wanting to shake someone. She seriously considered marching out after him with their wailing baby in her arms, following him down the steps and yelling at him that he should stop right now, damn it, she would do it herself.

Somehow she held herself back from going through that door. Instead she took Kiera to the bedroom, checked her diaper and nursed her.

Sitting in the rocker, with her blessedly silent baby at her breast, she thought the whole exchange in the front hall seemed beyond ludicrous. Dalton had behaved badly.

And she hadn’t been able to make herself let it go. What he’d said about how she wouldn’t let him help her had made her want to scream.

She
had
let him help her. He’d been helping her for months now. Why couldn’t he see that? Why couldn’t he...?

Well, okay. She knew why. It always circled back to the main point of contention: what he needed to do and what she wasn’t ready for.

She heard Dalton come back in through the door to the garage. He went upstairs and didn’t come down.

Kiera seemed a little more settled after nursing. Clara put her in the bassinette, grabbed a quick shower and got dressed for work. She hustled to the kitchen to get something to eat.

And Kiera started fussing again.

Dalton did not come down to help.

Clara ended up eating at the counter, a crying Kiera in her arms. Then she carried her around, trying to soothe her.

Time dragged by. No sign of Dalton. He knew very well that she liked to leave for the café by ten. And it wasn’t like him to ignore Kiera’s crying. He was always so considerate, always there when she needed him to take the baby.

Not so considerate today, however.

Then again, she could have gone upstairs after him. She could have reminded him that she needed to get going.

But she didn’t go upstairs. She was still smarting from the harsh words they’d shared in the front hall—and damned if she’d ask him for anything.

When he finally appeared, at a little before eleven, he said gruffly, “Sorry. I had a few calls that couldn’t wait.”

If he had calls to make, he surely could have told her so. She longed to accuse him of...what? Failure to communicate? Making her late in order to get under her skin?

Uh-uh. Not going there. She drew in a slow, calming breath and took the high road. “No problem.” She passed him the fussing baby. “Gotta go.”

And she got out of there before she weakened and said something they would both regret.

* * *

The street around the café and the parking lot in back were already packed with cars when she pulled into her reserved space by the rear door. It was going to be a busy day. She went around the back of the vehicle and grabbed a giant box of take-out containers.

Awkwardly, bracing the unwieldy box on the rear bumper, she reached up to shut the hatch—and caught sight of four guys lurking near Renée’s lovingly restored cobalt-blue ’65 Mustang convertible. They were all cute, clean-cut and of high school age. One of them leaned against Renée’s car, arms crossed over his chest, gaze scanning the cars around them. Another was bent over the interior on the driver’s side. The third guy snickered.

And she distinctly heard the fourth one say, “Do it, Derek. Before someone sees us.”

Clara shut the hatch. Hard. Four heads whipped around and four sets of startled eyes focused on her. She called to them, “Was there something you boys needed help with?”

The one who’d been leaning on the Mustang just had to play tough guy. He gave her a narrow-eyed glare and instructed, “Mind your own business, bitch.”

Clara dropped the box and reached in her bag for her phone. She rooted around in there and didn’t find it—at which point she recalled that she’d left it on the kitchen counter.

Terrific.

But then her fingers closed on a rectangular shape—her blusher compact. It would have to do.

She whipped it out, pretended to punch in 911, put it to her ear and said loud and clear, “Yes. I would like to report a car theft...”

The boys were already backing away. The mouthy one called her another crude name—and then, in unison, they whirled and took off. A moment later, they vanished around the corner of the building.

Clara dropped the compact back into her bag, left the box where it fell and followed them, but at a safe distance, and only far enough that she could see the path they’d taken between the café and the building next to it.

They were still running. They’d crossed Oldfield Avenue and were racing toward the library, which just happened to be next door to the town hall and the Justice Creek Police Department.

Clara almost grinned. Those boys must be from out of town. If they were locals, they wouldn’t have fled in the general direction of law enforcement.

From out of town or not, though, they were flirting with big trouble. She hoped that maybe she’d scared a little sense into them. She stood there, watching them, until they disappeared from sight beyond the library. Then, with a shrug, she returned to her SUV by way of Renée’s Mustang, which seemed undamaged. Grabbing up the fallen box, she entered the café through the back door.

The place was a madhouse, another one of those days like the one almost three months ago now, the day of the evening when Dalton first appeared at her door with a big ring in his pocket and a marriage proposal on his lips.

Dear Lord. Only three months? It seemed like forever since then. Like a lifetime.

She stood in the café’s kitchen, her thoughts spinning back to that night, as her cooks and prep staff hurried to keep up with the orders and her waitstaff flew by the service window, grabbing up full plates and rushing off to serve them.

Barefoot in a tent of a T-shirt, she’d answered the door and found him standing there. Her heart had soared at the sight of him. Even then, when her mind was dead set against him, her heart had known...

Her anger with him over their silly argument that morning vanished. Who did she think she was kidding? She’d never gotten over him. He was the one for her—as her father had been for her poor, long-suffering mother.

Dalton was the one for her. But he wasn’t like her two-timing father, not in any way. She knew that he wasn’t. He loved her as much as she loved him. He wasn’t going to cheat on her.

So why did she keep holding out against him, against his need to be her husband, to claim her and their daughter as his family in the most complete and binding way?

The pot washer, Ivan, swung by her with a rack of steaming glasses in his hands. “’Scuse me, Clara...”

She shook herself. She could beat herself up later for not being brave enough to say yes to the man she loved. Right now it was time to go to work. She tossed the box into the storage room, stashed her purse in her office and waded right in.

Wherever the staff needed an extra hand, Clara stepped in to smooth the way. She expedited orders, greeted customers, helped to bus and set up tables. And she did grab Renée briefly, to warn her about the four boys in the parking lot. Renée ran out to check on the Mustang. When she came back, she reported that the car was untouched. No fledgling car thieves in sight.

After that, it was all about the work. The rush seemed to go on forever, turnover after turnover. By two, Clara’s breasts were hurting. It was past time to go home and feed her baby.

She went to her office and called Dalton.

He said, “You left your cell. Do you want me to run it over to you?”

She ached with the longing to have him there, beside her, right then, so she could grab him and hug him. He was always taking care of her in a thousand little ways. She needed to be more appreciative of that, not be so prickly and insistent that she could do everything herself. They were a team, after all. They helped each other.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I don’t need it right now. I know I’m late for Kiera’s feeding. And I probably won’t get back to the house until four or so. It’s crazy busy here. Can you give her the frozen?” She regularly pumped and froze her milk.

“I’ll do that.”

Clara could hear the baby crying. “She’s still fussing?”

“She’s been fine. She just woke up.” He said it flatly, distantly. Because she’d hurt him. Because she wouldn’t let him give her what he needed to give her: everything. His heart, his hand and his name.

Clara swallowed down the tears that tightened her throat. “So...see you around four?”

“All right.” And he was gone.

She stood there in the short hall that led to the restrooms, thinking,
I need to say yes. We need me to say yes
...

The sound of shattering crockery snapped Clara back to reality. Someone out in the kitchen must have dropped a plate. And she had a restaurant to run.

So she rushed to the ladies’ room and washed her hands, then returned to her office and got out the breast pump she kept there for days when she didn’t have time to go home. Ten minutes later, she was back out on the floor.

It was a little after three when things finally settled down. Clara cleared out the cash drawer, grabbed the day’s credit receipts and returned to her office, where she locked the door, opened the safe and pulled the bank deposit together.

The bank was just down the block. And a walk would clear her head after the frantic workday. Maybe she could steal a few minutes on her favorite bench in Library Park, give herself a little pep talk about Dalton, about that all-important next step she really needed to quit waffling over and take.

She still hadn’t gotten the SUV unloaded, but that could wait. She put the bank drop in a shoulder bag so that no casual observer would guess she was carrying a large amount of cash and she left the café by the front door.

* * *

Dalton, upstairs at his desk in the office room, heard sirens in the distance and wondered at the sound.

A house on fire? A high-speed chase? A medical emergency? You didn’t hear a lot of sirens in Justice Creek.

The sirens faded off toward the southeast.

A few minutes later, the house line rang.

He grabbed it on the first ring, expecting it to be Clara, still hung up at work. “Hello?”

“Hi.” A woman’s voice, but not Clara’s. “This is Renée. Renée Beauchamp, from Clara’s café?” Dalton remembered the pretty, petite brunette. He eyed the baby monitor, which was blessedly quiet, as Renée, her voice oddly strained sounding, asked, “It’s Dalton, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Dalton, is Clara there? I can’t seem to reach her on her cell.”

He felt it then: that first distinct stab of anxiety. “She left her phone here this morning. And no, she’s not home yet.” He stared at the time display in the corner of his laptop screen. Four-twenty. “She should be home any minute, though.” There was a small, shaky exhalation from the woman on the other end of the line. Anxiety crept up the scale toward full-blown alarm. “Renée, what is it?”

“She left the café to make the bank drop at least forty-five minutes ago and she hasn’t come back.”

“Maybe she ran another errand.”