Maybe This Time(5)

“You think my band would’ve gone over well here?” He nodded to the speakers with a grin. Kyle’s band played mostly loud and unintelligible music, but somehow they made it work.

“Your grandma doesn’t like your music?”

He laughed, and the sound made me smile.

“See ya around, Evans.” He joined his grandma at a center table.

Just as I was about to shut the cafeteria doors, a man wearing a white chef coat and a sour expression swept out of the kitchen. He grumbled something and angrily marched to the end of the hall, where he shoved open the door leading outside and stepped through. He looked vaguely familiar but I couldn’t place him. Had Mr. Williams hired an assistant chef? I didn’t think he could afford that. He already employed Lance Ling (a guy who went to school with me and Micah) to help out at events.

Micah was suddenly at my side. “Where did he go?” she asked.

“Um …” I pointed and she raced after the runaway chef.

I started to shut the doors again. Then I hesitated, looked behind me once, saw that Caroline was occupied with some guests, and followed after Micah.

When I made it outside, I pretended to head to the van, my eavesdropping not subtle at all. Micah and the man in the white coat were standing on the sidewalk.

“He’s more than honored to have you here,” Micah was saying. “Anyone would be. You’re Jett Hart.”

Jett Hart? I held back a gasp and did a double take. Sure enough, it was him. Jett Hart, the host of a now-discontinued show on Food Network called Cooking with Hart. He looked much older than I remembered him from back in his television chef days, but it had been at least ten years since then. Where had he been for the last ten years? Here? In Alabama? What was he doing at the Valentine’s Dinner? How did Micah know him? So many questions flooded my brain, none of them with ready answers.

“That’s correct. Anyone would be,” Jett said with an air of self-importance.

“Please just come back,” Micah said. “He’ll listen. He’s just old and set in his ways.”

“Old and set in his ways does not sound like someone willing to listen.”

“He will,” she promised.

I realized I had stopped on the path and was gawking so I resumed my walk toward the van.

As I passed her, Micah reached out and grabbed my arm, pulling me to her side. “Mr. Hart, this is Sophie Evans. She’s a big fan.”

That wasn’t true. I was in second grade when his show went off the air. I’d seen a few reruns over the years. He was bossy, mean, and arrogant, albeit talented. But I knew Micah needed me to agree with her statement, and I always backed her up.

“A huge fan,” I blurted. “The things you do with fish, sir, are inspiring.”

Micah elbowed me in the side and cleared her throat. “I think the timer on the appetizers is about to go off. Let’s go back in before my dad burns them.”

Her dad would never burn appetizers. He was a great chef as well. Sure, he wasn’t famous (and he wasn’t famous ten years ago either), but everyone loved his food.

Jett let out a huff and headed back for the building.

I held on to Micah’s arm to keep her from following him. “What is going on? Why would your dad burn his appetizers? He’s been cooking them for years.”

“Because they’re not my dad’s appetizers. They’re Jett’s.”

“Jett made the appetizers? You changed up the menu for the retirement home Valentine’s Dinner? Tell me he’s not doing something extra fancy for them. They literally just got excited over heart balloons.”

“It’ll be fine,” she said. I knew when Micah felt out of her comfort zone, like her carefully organized life had thrown her for a loop. And she was feeling that now. “It’ll all work out.”

“Yes, it will.” Since I had no idea what was going on, I wasn’t actually sure this was true, but I knew she needed to hear it. “Is this part of the big news you were going to tell me?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll fill you in later. I need to go play referee.”

“Okay. Good luck.” I gave her my best smile and she ran back inside.

I was so confused. Jett Hart was in Rockside, Alabama, a town where nothing out of the ordinary ever happened. I wanted to think this was a good thing—a sign of exciting things to come—but my gut was telling me it might be the exact opposite.





You had to stay in case of a flower emergency?” Mr. Entitled asked me when I reentered the cafeteria. He stood next to the punch bowl, holding his phone and studying the mingling crowd.

I replenished a stack of napkins. “I was informed there was a flower thief on the loose so …”

He smirked.

“Are you bored?” I asked.

“How could I be? This must be the most excitement this town sees all year.”

Before I could voice my indignation yet again, Micah came by with a trayful of food. Apparently the appetizers hadn’t burned after all.

“Quick,” Micah whispered. “Eat one of these.”

“Why?” I asked, studying the tray. A square made of an unknown substance (bread?) was topped with a red-and-white cream and finished off with a sprig of green.

“Because nobody is eating them. They taste good to me, but maybe I’m wrong.”