“September.”
“Okay, then. You’ll email me the dates?”
Delja nodded once, then turned back to frosting the rolls.
There was more they could discuss. Their personal lives, what supplies might be running low, whether or not the Mariners were going to have a winning baseball season, but they wouldn’t. Delja preferred a single-word response to actual conversation and did most of her communicating via email. If something had to be ordered, she would have already sent a note to their supplier.
As for checking on her work, Helen knew better. Delja started her day at two in the morning. By five there were biscuits in the oven, all the omelet extras had been prepped and oranges squeezed. At The Parrot Café, the back of house ran smoothly—all thanks to Delja.
Helen went to her office and tucked her handbag into the bottom drawer of her desk. She glanced in the small mirror over the sink by the door. Her black hair was pulled back in a French braid, her bangs were trimmed and her makeup was subtle. All as it should be. The fact that she couldn’t see below her shoulders meant she didn’t have to notice that her last diet had failed as spectacularly as the previous seventeen. Which was not her fault. Really. How could she be expected to eat Paleo while living in a world that contained Delja’s cinnamon rolls?
She returned to the front of the store and started the morning prep. There were place settings to be put out and sugar shakers to be filled. Silly, simple tasks that allowed her to collect herself for her day. And maybe, just maybe, give her a second so that the butterflies in her stomach calmed down from their current hip-hop to a more stately waltz.
The Parrot Café (named for parrot tulips, not the bird) had been around nearly as long as the town. Helen’s aunt had inherited it from her parents and when she’d married, her husband had joined the team. From what Helen could tell, the two of them had been very happy together. The café was open from 6:00 a.m. until 2:00 p.m., seven days a week. Until Helen had come along, the childless couple had shut down every August and had traveled the world. Then Helen’s parents had been killed in a car accident, leaving the only child an orphan. There had been no other family, so Helen had come to Tulpen Crossing.
She supposed her aunt and uncle had tried. As much as her world had been thrown into chaos, theirs had been, as well. They’d done what they could to make her feel welcome, but she’d known the truth. They hadn’t wanted children. It had been a choice—yet they were stuck with her.
She’d done her best to not be any trouble, and to learn the business. By the time she was thirteen, she was already waiting tables. The patrons loved her and no one knew that she cried herself to sleep every night for the first three years after her parents had died.
Her parents had been poor but happy—both musicians. That meant there hadn’t been any money for, well, anything. The only thing she still had of her parents’ was the piano they’d played and their wedding rings. She kept the former in her living room in her small house and had had the latter made into a pendant she wore every day. She hadn’t inherited much of their musical gifts, but like them, she did love Billy Joel. He was her connection to the past.
By five thirty Helen had the coffee brewing. The rest of the wait staff showed up at five forty-five and the first customer would walk through the door exactly at six. By seven thirty every booth would be full, as would the counter seats. There was always a lull around ten that lasted until the lunch crowd showed up. By then Delja had clocked out and the culinary students from the school up in Bellingham were hard at work in the kitchen, prepping for lunch.
It was a system that worked. The students got to practice in a real world restaurant, her customers had an opportunity to try new and fun food, along with traditional favorites, and she had a steady supply of labor. Many students signed up for weekend shifts and those who lived local often wanted a job with her for a couple of years to get experience for their résumés before moving on to somewhere a lot more elegant than The Parrot Café.
Helen glanced at the clock, then reached for a mug. She was still pouring coffee when she heard the front door open. Her butterflies started a quickstep and for one brief second, she thought her hands might actually shake. Which was ridiculous. And right on cue, the recorded sound of breaking glass was followed by the opening chords of “You May Be Right.”
“I may be crazy,” Helen whispered to herself before turning around and smiling as Jeff Murphy walked toward her. “Morning.”
“Hi, Helen.” Jeff winced slightly. “Does it have to be this loud?”
“Billy is my rock-and-roll boyfriend. A love like that demands volume.”
“Uh-huh.”
Jeff set paper-wrapped flowers on the counter before pulling out his phone and tapping the screen. It only took him a second to find the Sonos app and lower the volume to the level of background noise.
“One day Billy’s going to kick your ass for doing that,” she told him.
He grinned. “I’m willing to take the chance.”
It was a variation on the conversation they had nearly every day. One she looked forward to with ridiculous anticipation. Billy might be her rock-and-roll boyfriend, but Jeff was, well... Jeff was the reason her heart kept beating.
Stupid, but there it was. The truth. She was wildly, desperately in love with Jeff Murphy.
The man was gorgeous. He looked a little like the actor Jason Bateman, with shaggy hair and big brown eyes. He was tall, fit, funny, kind and he could play guitar like nobody’s business. In a word—irresistible.
He was also single, so what was the problem? Why couldn’t she simply tell him how she felt? Or ask him out to dinner? Or rip off her clothes and smile winningly? Jeff wasn’t a dummy. He would get the message.
Only three things stopped her. One, he was older. Sixteen years, to be exact. While she didn’t care, she thought he might. Two, the extra thirty pounds she carried. She was currently subscribing to the when-then philosophy—distant cousin to the if-then concept. When she lost weight, then she would be brave and throw herself at Jeff.
She acknowledged that pending moment of disaster might be the reason she seemed in no hurry to commit to a weight-loss plan but she wasn’t sure.
Reason number three—which was probably the most important and therefore should be the first—Jeff was her best friend’s father.
Yup, Jeff was Kelly’s dad, which added a whole layer of complicated to the situation. Because should she ever confess the truth to said best friend, there would be a conversation filled with “WTF” and “Are you kidding me?” All of which would be screamed rather than spoken.
Oh, wait. There was a fourth reason Helen hadn’t thrown herself at Jeff. He’d never once made a move in her direction. All the more reason to bury her unrequited love/lust in a warm cinnamon roll.
“Let me show you what I brought you today,” he said, unrolling the paper. “Havran.”
Helen stepped closer to study the beautiful tulips. They were deep purple with a slightly pointed petal. The stems were pale green and smooth.
“They’re lovely. Thank you.”
She knew better than to offer to pay for them. She’d tried a couple of times, but Jeff had simply shaken his head. “I grow tulips, Helen. I want to do this.”
She’d tried reading something into his words but weeks, then months, had passed with nary a change in their relationship. Not by a whisper, look or touch did he ever hint that he thought of her as more than a friend. She’d learned to accept the flowers as a kind gift. The man was a tulip farmer, after all. It wasn’t as if he’d bought them for her.
She collected a tray filled with small vases, along with clippers. Together they loaded the vases and put them on each table. When