Bayou Born(15)

“A minute.”

“Did you see the girl run from the drug store?”

“Yep.”

“Which way did she go?”

“That away.” James pointed in both directions like Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz as a pair of joggers ran in opposite directions in front of them.

“You’re no help. Seriously, this girl was young. Early teenager with braided hair down to her waist.”

“No, didn’t see her.”

Something about the girl and the polish just didn’t sit right, but she couldn’t figure it out. Lakeview wasn’t that big; in time she’d find the girl and have a chat.

“You could’ve hollered at me when you arrived. I was only window shopping.” She sat on the other end of the bench from James hoping he was ready to eat.

“I learned long ago never to interrupt a woman while she shops. Window or otherwise.” He stood and walked to the door. “I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

She entered first, careful not to touch him, wanting to avoid the wonderfully strange sensations that only heightened the appeal of this man. If she’d met him under different circumstances, she just might risk going wherever the attraction would take them. But new job, new boss, new town, and old entrenched values kept her from reaching for him.

The coziness of the café invited folks to linger over a meal. Some tables had green and white checked tablecloths, others had traditional red and white ones. The lighting, fixtures crafted from antique gaslights, cast a soft glow. On the long windowless wall, a painted mural of a life-size magnolia tree laden with large, white velvety blooms wrapped upward and continued onto the ceiling. The mural created the illusion that diners picnicked outside beneath the tree.

“Please follow me.” A hostess led them toward the back of the half-full café. The low din of chatter seemed to echo downward from the pressed-tin ceiling.

Branna breathed deeply, taking in the aromas. Coffee brewing. Pie. Hot grease frying something. Not exactly the same scents wafting from Greta’s Cajun cooking at home, but comforting all the same. Her mouth watered. When her stomach rumbled, she covered it with her clutch. If it weren’t for the noise in the restaurant, James would have heard. That would be embarrassing.

She slid into the booth where the hostess placed the menus. James sat opposite her. A jean-clad waitress in a pink shirt with a red-and-white-checked apron tied around her waist plunked glasses of water down in front of them.

“Today’s special—fried catfish with cheese grits. Coleslaw. Biscuit or cornbread. What can I bring you to drink?”

“I’m going to need a minute,” Branna said. The waitress raised an eyebrow at James. When he didn’t answer, she stuffed the order pad into her apron pocket and stalked away.

Branna studied the menu. She wanted one of everything. The scents coming from the kitchen made her hungry stomach nibble on her backbone. She was no better than a Pavlovian dog. As Grandfather Lind would say, “her eyes were bigger than her stomach.”

“Never had a bad meal here,” James said, folding his menu closed.

“Good to know. I’ll bring my parents when they visit again.” She continued her perusal of the menu. “Fried chicken. Pork chops. Pot roast. Burgers and sandwiches. Oh, and the list of pies looks...”

“Sara Nell won’t come back until you close your menu.”

“Oh.” She folded the menu closed, mentally running through the list. Deciding would be impossible.

The waitress appeared in an instant. She looked like the perfect candidate to work at a roadhouse. Blond, thin, yet shapely, with cleavage that made most men drool.

“I’ll have the side salad, the garden-salad sandwich and lemonade. Fresh squeezed lemonade. You don’t find that every day.” She looked up into the waitress’ plastic smile, then handed over the menu.

“Garden sandwich?” James asked. “Not the special? Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who only eats rabbit food. Or don’t you eat southern?”

What did he mean by that? “Of course I eat southern cooking. I’m from Mississippi. My daddy’s family is from Loosy-ana. My comfort food may be different than yours—there was no seafood gumbo or jambalaya or stuffed mirlitons on the menu—but I promise you my comfort food is southern. I happen to like what the menu says about the specialty sandwich.” She cocked her head, daring him to challenge her decision.

“Mur-la what?” the waitress asked.

“Chayote squash or vegetable pear at the grocery store,” James answered. “I want the fried grouper sandwich with fries, please.”

“Sure thing, Dr. Newbern.” Sara Nell smiled so bright, Branna blinked to cut the glare.

“The Magnolia has the best fries in town. They peel, slice, and then bake the potatoes with a secret seasoning. The seasoning it the trick. That, and no frying.”

“Fries that aren’t fried?” She ran her finger down the side of the water glass, nervously wiping away the condensation. Silly, but she would probably always link condensation with her first meeting with James.

“I do watch what I eat.” She tried not to sound defensive, but at five foot three, most of the world was taller than she, and she had no place to hide extra pounds. “And not that it’s any of your business, but I want dessert. I can’t pass up homemade pie. A meal is sometimes made up of a tradeoff of calories.”

For some reason that made him smile. The one that melted her heart. Made it beat more rapidly. When she looked away, James said, “I like to see a woman enjoy her food.”

“Then watch me.”

James raised an eyebrow.

She hadn’t intended her response to sound like a challenge, but there it was.

“So let’s get to the ‘get to know you’ part of this lunch. You went to an SEC school. But not Mississippi State. Why?”

“It’s not where women in my family go.” She hadn’t expected twenty questions. She started to say she didn’t base her educational needs upon whether or not a school was part of the Southeastern Conference. Nor would she mention the scholarship she turned down to another SEC school, the scholarship her mother had squelched with guilt. “I followed in the footsteps of my mother, grandmother, and great grandmother. Ole Miss admitted women in 1882.”

She wondered what else James knew about her.

Hearing the swoosh of the kitchen door opening behind the booth, she folded her hands in her lap. Sara Nell stood beside the table, arms laden with plates. With a clunk so forceful it made the bread on the sandwich jump, she set Branna’s food down, then flashed another bright smile before gently sliding James’ plate in front of him.

“Ma’am, I made your fresh squeezed lemonade.”

Sara Nell’s “Ma’am,” dripped with sarcasm. There couldn’t be much more than a year or two between them, so it couldn’t be an age thing, but what? Not wanting to cause a scene, she ignored the rudeness and poured poppy seed dressing over her salad. The growls from her stomach demanded food, otherwise, she might transform into a snarling beast now rather than a pumpkin at midnight.

“Do you want anything else?” The waitress purred at James. Her lashes fluttered as though sending Morse code. What did the waitress expect James to say?

She couldn’t remember when she’d experienced poorer behavior in a restaurant. But it would be impolite to point out to the woman the errors of her ways.

“No thanks, just Miss Lind’s lemonade.”

“You were born and raised here?” Branna asked between bites, wanting to shift the conversation. Sara Nell took the hint and trudged away.

“Born in the only hospital in town. Raised about thirty miles west. I’m curious. Why does one go from event planning to full-time teaching?” James asked, then drug one of his fries through ketchup before eating it.

“That was a smooth transition.” She put her fork down. Through all she’d battled to get this job and leave home, no one until James had asked that question. “I love books and learning. I believe knowledge is power. I find it fulfilling to watch someone learn something new, and then have them discover how to use what they’ve learned to enhance their lives. I want to be part of that process.” She’d never uttered those words aloud. Speaking them filled her with a sense of freedom.

“But event planning to teaching?”

“Do you doubt my ability?” she asked, worried that he might think her less than capable.

“Nope. Not one bit. You’ve got the education, enough experience, more importantly the passion—and we need that in classrooms. Just wondered about the leap.”

What was it her father had asked when she announced she was leaving? Something about whether or not she was taking a blind leap into the shallow end of a pool.

“Ah, that. Well...let’s just say my prior job was part of the family business.” The last thing she wanted to discuss was family. Their ways weren’t an easy concept to understand—a large extended one steeped in old traditions in a modern live-for-the-moment world where everything was expendable or replaceable rather than treasured like antiques.