“Seems to be,” Zach agreed.
“Make a good wife for somebody,” Ben commented nonchalantly.
“From what Mark says, the lady’s not interested in romance,” Zach replied, taking a leisurely sip of his coffee.
Ben snorted. “Well, if you ask me, she just hasn’t met the right man yet.”
Zach had a knack for discreetly ferreting out large amounts of information without people realizing just how much they were divulging. It came in handy in his job—and in situations like this.
By the time he left the diner he knew quite a bit about Rebecca Matthews. She’d moved to St. Genevieve three years before to open her restaurant, “Rebecca’s,” which was becoming quite popular with both locals and St. Louisans, who often came to the quaint town for weekend getaways. She’d even been written up a few times in area papers—his own included, if Ben’s information was accurate. A graduate of the Culinary Institute of America, she’d worked in a couple of prestigious restaurants before striking out on her own. She came from the small town of Jersey, in southern Missouri, where her father still lived. Her brother, Brad—a minister—and his wife, Sam, made their home in St. Louis. She’d been returning from there Thursday night after the birth of their daughter. As far as Zach could tell from Ben’s ramblings, Rebecca never dated. And she was apparently doted over by two maiden sisters who worked at her restaurant.
As Mark and Zach started off on their tour a few minutes later, Mark pointed out Rebecca’s restaurant. It was a modest building in the historic district, identified only by a discreet awning that displayed the name.
“Rebecca really is a wonderful chef,” Mark told him. “The food’s great. You’ll have to try it while you’re here.”
“Uh-huh,” Zach replied noncommittally. As a matter of fact, he intended to become a regular customer. And not because of the food.
“Rose, have you seen the tube of whipped cream with the star tip?” Rebecca called, her voice muffled as she stuck her head into the restaurant’s huge refrigerator.
Rose glanced at the work counter, where the tube lay in clear sight right next to the torte Rebecca was decorating. It was exactly where she’d laid it moments before. Rose glanced at Frances across the counter, and her sister shrugged, mystified. Rebecca was extremely organized, and they’d never seen her flustered. Until this morning.
“It’s right here, dear,” Rose said, pointing to the tube as Rebecca turned.
“Oh. Well. I guess my brain just isn’t in gear this morning. I haven’t quite caught up on my sleep since Thursday night,” she explained lamely, warm color suffusing her face.
“Frances and I will just finish up in the dining room and leave you in peace to work your magic on that cake,” Rose replied, motioning for her sister to follow.
“All right.” Rebecca distractedly wiped her hands on her apron and glanced around the kitchen. “Now where did I put that spatula?” she mumbled.
Rose ushered Frances out of the kitchen, and the two older women looked at each other quizzically. With their white hair pulled neatly back into identical soft, motherly buns, the sisters could almost pass for twins, although Rose was the older by two years and stood three inches taller than Frances.
“What do you make of it?” Frances whispered, her voice tinged with concern.
Rose shook her head, frowning. “I don’t know,” she said slowly, clearly puzzled.
“She almost put cinnamon in the quiche this morning, too,” Frances informed her sister worriedly.
Rose considered that for a moment, and then her face grew thoughtful. “Unless…”
“Unless what?” Frances prompted.
“Unless it’s a man,” Rose replied reverently.
“A man?” Frances repeated, her eyes widening.
“Yes,” Rose declared, nodding vigorously, becoming more certain by the moment. “I’d bet my prize-winning recipe for pickle relish that there’s a man behind this!”
“You mean our Rebecca’s got herself a man?” Frances said incredulously.
“How else would you explain what’s been happening this morning? Have you ever seen her so disorganized or absentminded?”
Frances shook her head. “No.”
“Then there you have it! There’s a man behind this, all right,” Rose asserted.
“But who?” Frances asked, bewildered.
Rose sighed, her brow knitted in concentration. “I don’t know. But maybe that old buzzard, Ben, does. She had coffee there this morning.”
“He won’t tell us anything,” Frances lamented, shaking her head regretfully.
“He will if you drop by with a piece of that torte this afternoon,” Rose declared conspiratorially. “He has a sweet spot for you, anyway.”
Frances smoothed back her hair and sniffed, pretending indifference. “Well, I suppose I could try.”
“It couldn’t hurt,” Rose agreed.
“So what did you find out?” Rose asked eagerly when Frances returned from her mission later in the day, empty plate in hand.
Frances looked around carefully to make sure they were alone, then leaned close. “There was a stranger in there this morning with Mark,” she reported in a hushed voice. “Name of Zach. His car went off the road in the fog, and Rebecca drove him to the hospital. He’s a reporter from St. Louis, here to cover the flood. Ben says there was enough electricity flying between the two of them to run his toaster without even plugging it in. Said this Zach seemed like a real nice gentleman.”
Rose gave a satisfied nod. “Good job, Frances.”
Suddenly the front door of the restaurant opened, and both women straightened up guiltily. A young man carrying a large vase covered with green florist tissue entered the shop and made his way toward them.
“I have a delivery for Rebecca Matthews,” he informed the sisters, consulting the card attached to the tissue.
“I’ll get her,” Rose offered eagerly, bustling toward the kitchen. She opened the door and stuck her head inside.
“Rebecca, there’s a delivery here for you.”
Rebecca looked up from the soup she was stirring on the stove and frowned. “All our delivery people know to come around back.”
“It’s not that kind of delivery,” Rose replied, her eyes dancing.
Rebecca’s frown deepened. “What do you—” But Rose was already gone. Rebecca sighed. She was having a hard enough time concentrating today without all these interruptions, she thought irritably as she pushed through the swinging door.
She stopped abruptly when she saw the young man standing there with what was obviously a vase of flowers, Rose and Frances flanking him on each side like bodyguards.
“Rebecca Matthews?” the boy asked.
“Yes.”
“These are for you.” He walked over and handed the vase to her. Then, jingling his keys and humming under his breath, he headed back out the front door while Rebecca stared, dumbfounded, at the flowers in her arms.
“Well, aren’t you going to open them?” Frances prompted her. “Don’t you want to know who they’re from?”
Rebecca already knew who they were from. There was no other possibility. Carefully, her heart hammering in her chest, she set the vase down on a convenient table and tore off the green paper