“Right.”
“Well? You couldn’t tell anything about her?”
He exchanged a resigned glance with Harper, who looked sympathetic but shook his head, as if to say Jude was on his own. Harper was already pulling out his wallet.
Jude turned his gaze to Marianne. “I could tell she was a good massage therapist,” he said slowly. “But I get the feeling that’s not what you’re asking.”
Marianne drummed her Christmas pencil against her order pad. “Oh, just forget it. I’ll call Ro later. But don’t you move an inch until I bring that soup, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jude resisted the urge to salute.
Harper seized his chance and jumped up in Marianne’s wake, dropping a ten on the table and making his way to the checkout station to pay his bill. Jude didn’t blame him. No one ought to get dominated in tic-tac-toe and interrogated by Marianne Donovan in the same night.
Not that Marianne was your typical small-town gossip. Actually, she didn’t have a nasty bone in her body. She just had an insatiable curiosity and a deep love for their little town. Maybe it was some kind of thwarted affection or something, though Jude wasn’t big on psychoanalysis. Still, she’d been left a tragically young widow last winter, and had no kids.
Whatever the reason, she represented everything Jude loved about Silverdell. And the opposite of everything he hated about Los Angeles.
As the door opened, the four beginning notes of “Danny Boy” rang out. On the first day, at the first meal served at the grand opening, when the door chimes sounded, the customers had spontaneously joined together to finish the line by singing out, “The pipes, the pipes are calling!”
It had been the birth of a beloved tradition. Mari had tried in vain to break the habit, which could really be annoying during the dinner rush. She’d even threatened to disable the entry alert. But the truth was, everyone loved the instant camaraderie those few notes created, and no one could imagine Donovan’s Dream without it.
She’d considered changing the tune to “Jingle Bells” during the holidays, but the customers had threatened a boycott, so she left it alone.
Many customers didn’t even look up as they sang, it had become so automatic. But for some reason Jude did glance toward the door, as the gust of snowy wind blew in. Tess Spencer stood there, looking bewildered by the musical greeting.
A few curious glances stayed on her—but Silverdell had enough new tourist spots these days that strangers weren’t the oddity they once were. Most people went back to their conversations and their dinner.
Jude was one of the few who kept staring, surprised at how different Tess looked from the woman who had massaged him two days ago. Then, she’d been working hard to downplay any sexuality, as a good massage therapist would, naturally. Hair scraped back, no makeup, loose-fitting clothes. His main impression had been that she was petite—shortish, thin and vaguely fragile. He knew that a massage didn’t have to be bruising to be effective, but even so he’d noted how delicate she seemed and wondered whether she was up to the job.
She had been. She was a darn good therapist. And that was what he’d noticed.
But now...
She wasn’t dressed up or anything, but apparently as soon as she stopped repressing her femininity it busted out all over. She wore only lipstick, but the pink of it drew attention to the perfect, slightly pouting bow of her mouth. Her shining brown hair fell over her delicate shoulders in lush waves that curled just above her elbows. As she shrugged off a nice blue wool coat, her jeans and sweater hugged curves that were designed to make a man’s palms itch.
She still hesitated in the doorway, as she scanned the room for an empty table. She didn’t look nervous, just patient...and yet, inexplicably, Jude had a sudden impression of her as terribly alone.
Impulsively, he waved at her and called her over. He did need to get home. But at least he could say hi, maybe introduce her to a couple of people. And she could have his table.
To his surprise, she flushed when she saw him. But, after a slight hesitation, she moved toward him, her coat over her arm.
“Hi,” she said. “Nice to see you. Don’t let me... I mean, don’t let me interrupt your dinner.”
“You’re not,” he said. “I just finished. Besides, I was hoping we’d run into each other. I wanted to tell you how much better my back is feeling.”
She smiled. “Good. I’m glad to hear that.” She hugged her coat awkwardly and looked around once more, as if hoping an empty table would magically appear. Instead, her gaze stopped as she recognized Esther Fillmore. Jude saw the older woman give Tess the evil eye, apparently for being new in town. Alton shook his head subtly, as if trying to calm his wife. But Alton was no match for the crotchety old broad, and she didn’t even blink.
“Don’t mind Esther,” Jude said, quietly conspiratorial. “Her face always looks like she sucked a lemon. I first saw that expression when I was seven and sneaked a soda into the library.”
Tess glanced at him, as if uncertain whether she ought to laugh. “She’s Silverdell’s librarian?”
“Yep. But don’t worry. Silverdell has a bookstore, too. Fanny Bronson owns it, and she’s much easier to get along with.”
“Then I guess I’ll be buying my books while I’m here.” Tess smiled, finally. “If I get the job, that is.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you do,” he said. He didn’t want to raise her hopes, but judging from what Mari had said, it seemed a shoo-in. And he had this ridiculous sense that she needed cheering.
“Really? Have you heard something?”
“No. But word is you got a wildly enthusiastic recommendation for your working massage.”
She flushed again. “Thank you. That was very nice of you. But really, I mustn’t keep you. I thought I’d get dinner, but obviously they’re packed. Maybe I’ll grab something and take it back to my hotel.”
“No. Stay.” Jude heard the words come out before he could stop them. “Donovan’s has great food, and it would be a shame not to eat it warm from the oven. It would be half frozen if you tried to take it across town in this weather. I could—”
At the last minute, he pulled himself from the brink. What was he thinking? He couldn’t keep Tess company, no matter how “alone” he imagined her to be.
He had obligations at home. Molly always got depressed come sundown, especially if she’d been alone with the baby all day. Or if Garth had called, trying to get her to come home. When it snowed she was even worse. Like a form of cabin fever, Jude sometimes thought, though the doctor had a fancier term: postpartum depression.
But it didn’t leave much room for Jude to have a life, did it? And right now, when he was standing at the most important fork in the road he’d ever faced...
A shimmer of frustration passed through him—followed immediately by a wave of disgust with himself for being so selfish. Molly hadn’t timed her illness, or her marital problems, to annoy him. She couldn’t help that Garth was an abusive bum, or that her post-baby chemistry had gone out of whack.
“Here’s the soup!” Marianne bustled out of the kitchen. She didn’t see Tess at first, concentrating on wrestling a large biodegradable to-go bowl into a paper bag. “If this doesn’t perk Molly up, nothing will.”
She extended the bag. But as she looked up and noticed that he wasn’t alone, her eyes widened.
“Hi, there,” she said warmly, her gaze sweeping over Tess like a computer scan, missing nothing. “Welcome to Donovan’s! I’m sorry...shall I get this table cleared off, or are you here to pick up Jude?”
Tess