CHAPTER FIVE

Henry startled awake. What was that? He rubbed his eyes, taking a moment to orient himself. Even though he’d spent the past several weeks sleeping on the futon in the downstairs guest room–slash–office space, it always took him a few seconds to remember why he wasn’t in his upstairs bedroom. Usually by the time he finished rubbing his eyes, his knee began aching, and he remembered all too well why he was stuck on the first floor.

Henry glanced at the digital clock on the corner of his computer desk. Then rubbed his eyes again. Had he forgotten to set his alarm last night? He reached for his phone. “No . . .”

He was going to be late for therapy if he didn’t move fast. And considering Henry couldn’t move fast, he was going to be late for therapy.

Henry rolled out of bed with a groan. At least whatever noise he’d heard had woken him up before he overslept any longer. Probably the newspaper. Chelsea, the delivery girl, had developed a mighty strong throwing arm this past year.

Henry hobbled into the kitchen. A gray overcast sky greeted him through the window. No wonder he’d overslept. His gaze drifted to the ceiling. Hopefully the noise hadn’t woken Edith. He’d have to have a talk with Chelsea if it did.

Scratching his chest, Henry yawned and ambled to the front door to swipe the newspaper before it got rained on. He had just bent over to grab it when he caught sight of her. His her. Goldie Hawn her. Crossing the street at the corner.

It was her, wasn’t it? Blonde hair trailed down her shoulders beneath a red headband. Oh yeah. It was her all right. He needed to go after her.

His bare feet froze at the edge of the porch, a voice screaming inside his head. And do what? Good question. Henry glanced down at himself. He was still wearing striped pajama pants and a worn gray T-shirt with a hole in the armpit. Hardly the attire a man wanted to wear when he was attempting to redeem himself from a bad first impression.

But he had to do something.

Henry spun back inside his house, ripping off his T-shirt. He hadn’t seen any sign of her since the night at the diner. He’d even driven by the diner yesterday like a creepy stalker, trying to see through the windows in case she’d gone back there to eat again. All he’d accomplished was getting honked at twice for driving so slowly. He couldn’t afford to lose this opportunity.

Henry yanked on a clean shirt, glanced at the time. Shoot. Physical therapy started in ten minutes. What was he doing? He didn’t have time to chase after Goldie Hawn. Who was he kidding? He didn’t have time to chase after anybody.

If his multiple surgeries, extensive rehab, and ever-constant ache in his knee had taught him anything, it was that he wasn’t exactly a young man anymore. The accident had forced him to slow down, look at his life, and face the truth.

And truth was, if he wanted to start that family he’d planned on starting over a decade ago, now was the time. With the girl he already had. As much as he admired his parents, he didn’t want to follow in their footsteps, becoming a dad in his forties.

Crazy as Angela made him, at least she was real. Not some dream girl. He just needed to try a little harder to make it work. Forget Goldie. For all he knew, she could be some lunatic who’d escaped from a maximum security prison, out on the lam. Best to forget about her right now.

He picked up his phone and dialed the physical therapy department’s number. “Can you let Lance know I’m not going to make it today? Something important came up.”

Henry pocketed his phone. He’d forget about her tomorrow once he found out who she was today.

Edith’s only plan after a restless night with little sleep was to walk until she came across a place that looked like it sold a decent cup of coffee. A two-story yellow house with a sign in the front that read Marvel for Sheriff! next to a sign proclaiming Coffee Forever! seemed a good place to start.

A wooden door painted in purple sat propped open. Edith opened the screen door and stepped inside to the intoxicating aroma of warm caramel mixed with cinnamon, honey, and roasted coffee beans. She had chosen wisely.

A black cat curled up in a wicker basket on the counter greeted her through bored, slitted eyes. “Hi there, kitty,” Edith returned his greeting.

A round, flush-faced woman holding a tray of cinnamon rolls burst through a set of saloon doors behind the counter. She spotted Edith. “Oh. Hi. You’re new.” She shoved the tray onto one of the shelves. “I’ll have fresh baked scones out in two shakes of a tail.” She pointed to herself. “Julie.” Pointed to a chalkboard menu above her on the wall. “Our specials.” She disappeared through the doors before they’d had a chance to stop swinging.

Edith sniffed appreciatively as she read the board. She’d made it to the chai tea options when the screen door behind her opened and slammed shut with a bang. Edith jumped. The cat yawned. The tiny wrinkle-faced woman who’d entered yelled.

“What’s that cat doing on the counter? Julie! I told you last time I was calling the sanitation department and this time I’m going to do it!”

Julie reappeared, carrying a tray of scones. “Now, Opal, you know he doesn’t bother anybody. He’s practically dead. Just let him be.”

“All the more reason to get rid of him. Nobody wants to be served a donut from where a dead cat’s been lying. It’s filthy, I tell you. Filthy! Now you give me one of those cinnamon rolls and if I see one speck of hair on it, I’m calling the sanitation department.” The irate woman plunked cash onto the counter. When the black cat shifted his head to look at her, the old woman hissed.

Julie bagged up a cinnamon roll and handed it over the counter with a smile. “See you tomorrow, Opal. Take care, sweetie.”

“Not sanitary, I tell you. Not sanitary!” Opal slammed the screen door shut behind her.

“Sorry about that.” Julie wiped her hands on a flowered apron wrapped around her ample waist. “Some people just aren’t cat people,” she said with a shrug. “Are you new to town?”

Edith nodded. “I’m just here for the summer. My name’s Edith. I’m volunteering—”

“At the crisis nursery.” Julie’s face lit up. “Sharon told me about you. Wait right here.” She spun around, disappearing into the back for a minute, before returning with a yellowing waxy-leafed plant. “You mind taking this with you next time you go? I don’t know if I’m overwatering it, underwatering it, or what.” Julie handed it to her over the counter. “Thanks, honey. Really appreciate it. Now . . .” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Have you decided what you’d like?”

“Just coffee, please,” Edith said, looking down at the plant in her arms. “Black.”

“Why don’t you set it by the door? You can grab it on your way out. Anything else besides a Chester coffee?”

Edith did as Julie suggested, setting the potted plant down, before stepping back to the counter. “I’m sorry. A Chester what?”

Julie winked and pointed toward the cat. “Chester. He’s black.”

“Right,” said Edith. This town was so weird.

“Sure you don’t want anything else? The cinnamon scones are always a hit.”

“No,” Edith said, though the cinnamon scones did smell rather tempting. I really shouldn’t though. Especially since I ate popcorn for supper last night. Although that wasn’t really supper. More like I didn’t have supper. I just had a snack. Missed supper completely. And I certainly didn’t get any butter pecan ice cream. Probably need to make up for lost calories today.

“You okay, honey?” Julie waved her palm back and forth in front of Edith’s face.

“I’m thinking.” Edith blew her bangs from her eyes. “You know what, on second thought—”

“She’ll take the scone,” a deep and slightly winded voice said from behind her, the screen door clasping shut a second later. “We both will.”

Edith whipped her head around. Him. She reached for the counter, needing to steady herself. Especially when she looked into those blue eyes. Oh, dear. Paul Newman. Here. Mr. Hubba-Hubba. She opened her mouth. Nothing. Speechless. Or maybe she just couldn’t breathe. Oxygen. She needed oxygen. And at least two scones.

“And go ahead and add another coffee for me, too,” he said to Julie, though his eyes never left Edith’s. How was it possible he was even more handsome than she remembered? Granted, the last thing she remembered was his face contorted in agony. But still. She should have stayed home this morning. With Henry. Where it was safe.

Say something. A strangled sound made it past her throat. She cleared it and ducked her face into her purse. “Here, let me, ah . . . uh . . . oh . . .” Edith didn’t know what she was saying, other than vowel sounds, as she fumbled for money.

“I’ve got it. It’s the least I can do for the way I acted the other night at the diner. You were only trying to help. I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” Edith said, shaking her head side to side, unable to meet his gaze again, especially since all she could find so far was a quarter and a piece of gum. “No. You were fine. I mean, you weren’t fine. You were choking. Then obviously you were in pain. What I meant is that you had every right to be horrible—”

“Ouch.”

“Not that you were horrible,” Edith rushed on. “I’m saying this all wrong.”

“No,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh, “you’re probably saying it all right.”

Julie interrupted them with a polite cough. “Here’s your coffee and scones, you two.”

Paul Hubba-Hubba Newman paid while Edith took her coffee and scone. “Thank you.” She shifted back and forth on her feet. What was she supposed to do now? Join him? He didn’t ask her to join him. He only offered to buy. She hesitated as he doctored up his coffee with cream and sugar sitting on a turquoise baker’s rack near the front door.

Edith glanced at Julie, who had her elbows propped on the counter, watching the two of them like they had the lead roles in the community play. Maybe Edith should go sit down.

Julie waggled her eyebrows at Edith while Mr. Hubba-Hubba’s back was still turned.

Or maybe she should just leave.

Part of the reason Edith never planned to remarry barreled down on her like a freight train. The whole idea of starting over at square one with a man—having to date a man—terrified her. But this wasn’t a date. She had no reason to freak out. No reason to sweat.

So why was she sweating?

Scattered tables—some wooden and round, others concrete and square—filled the room attached to the front bakery area. Edith crossed the creaky wooden floorboards. With a shaky breath, she chose a round table near the back. A round table for two. Why had she chosen a round table for two? Was it too late to choose another table? For say, eight or twenty?

The slow, uneven gait of Paul Newman’s twin drew closer. She held her breath.

He limped past her table.

Edith exhaled, a mixture of relief and disappointment. He lowered himself into a chair at the next table, facing her, and gave her a small smile. Her lungs refilled with a mixture of anxiety and delight.

“This scone is so good.” Edith realized she hadn’t taken a bite yet and shoved a chunk into her mouth. “Thanks again,” she mumbled around a mouthful.

“You’re welcome.” He held up his coffee in a sort of salute.

Edith swallowed and saluted back with her coffee. They both sipped in silence. Edith wished she had a newspaper or her phone or anything right now that would keep her eyes from drifting back to the man across from her. She wished even more he had something to keep his eyes from drifting toward her.

She scanned the walls. A few tin signs with quotes about coffee. A couple of framed newspaper articles, one headline saying something about a town fire. A mirror. Windows. She sighed. Nobody else had entered the coffee shop yet. It was still early in the morning. Edith racked her mind for something to say. Couldn’t this place have some music, at least? A coffee grinder? What was Julie doing back there?

When he shifted in his chair and made the slightest frown, she leapt on it. “Do you need something to prop your leg on? It’s your knee, right? It might feel better elevated. I can grab another chair for you.”

He held a hand up to stop her. “I’m fine. Despite every impression I’ve given you, I promise I’m actually a healthy, able-bodied man.”

“Oh, believe me, I noticed.” Edith inhaled a sharp breath, realizing she’d spoken out loud. “The healthy part,” she quickly added. “Not that your body isn’t able. It looks extremely able. I just meant you look good. Your health looks good. Your cholesterol levels are probably really good.” She blew on her coffee. “That’s all I meant.”

His gorgeous blue eyes stared at her as if she were a piece of abstract art he couldn’t quite figure out, before a slow grin spread across his entire face. “Who are you?”

“Who am I?” Edith asked.

“Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “Where did you come from?”

“Pittsburgh.”

“Okay. So what brought you here? And don’t say a plane.”

Edith blew her bangs from her eyes. “That’s kind of a long story.”

He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table with the coffee mug cradled between his hands. “I’m in no hurry.”

What was it about this guy? The eyes, obviously. Edith tried reining in her silly infatuation. But goodness. Those eyes. She marveled that for the second time in less than twenty-four hours she was ready to pour out her life story to a complete stranger. Although Kat’s uncle Henry was hardly a complete stranger. They’d shared the same tub of ice cream after all.

Edith blew her bangs off her forehead. “Well, if you really want to know—”

“Babe!”

Edith flinched at the outburst. She turned toward the voice and recognized his girlfriend from the diner.

“I tried going to your house and you weren’t there. I can’t believe I ran into you here. Aren’t you supposed to be working out with Lance? I didn’t think you even liked coffee.”

The man stared at his girlfriend as if he didn’t recognize her—or perhaps like she was a piece of abstract art he would never understand—before shaking his head. “I canceled. Aren’t you supposed to be with Chad? I didn’t expect to see you again until next week.”

Edith made a show of glancing at her wrist, hoping nobody noticed she wasn’t wearing a watch, and stood. “I’m just going to . . . yeah.”

She scurried away, grabbed the plant, shoved the last bite of scone into her mouth, and dashed out the exit, vowing from henceforth that not only was she going to eat healthy, but she wasn’t going to spend another second thinking about Mr. Dreamy Blue Eyes, aka Paul Hubba-Hubba and Unavailable Newman.

Unfortunately, she had a feeling that vow was going to be much tougher to swallow than the scone.