Sapphire Nights (Crystal Magic Book 1)(68)
He kissed her back, a little more fervently than expected after his silence.
Feeling a little foolish carrying a beautifully carved walking stick into a restaurant, Sam tucked it behind the counter, then washed, and put on a clean apron. After last night’s craziness, she was heeding Mariah’s warning to carry a weapon.
“Anyone heard how Mr. Black is doing?” she asked as she carried the coffee carafe up and down the counter, filling cups.
“Brenda took Cass down to the hospital this morning,” Mariah said, setting out a plate of poached eggs for Harvey. “They can call Dinah’s landline and let us know if they hear anything.”
“Is Dinah okay?” Sam asked in a low voice, nodding at the kitchen.
“Yeah, her mother’s funeral was yesterday, so there’s no purpose in her going home now. It was cruel of her brother not to let her know.”
“No need to go talking behind my back,” Dinah said with dignity, appearing in the doorway carrying a plateful of powdered beignets. “Tullah will help me speak with Maman when she’s ready. I forgive those who hurt me. Their ignorance only hurts them.”
“Nice attitude,” Sam said in admiration.
“We need a national Forgive the Ignorant Day,” Harvey said cynically, eyeing the beignets with a gleam of hope in his eye.
Dinah slapped the plate down in front of him. “Here, this is partial payment for Sam’s staff. You behave, and you’ll get more. She’s going to be a valuable asset to this community.”
“I paid for the walking stick,” Sam admonished. “Unless, of course, you wish to kill Harvey with kindness. In that case, I’m all on board with that.”
He slanted her an evil look from under his sinfully long black lashes, but with mouth full of hot grease and sugar, didn’t respond.
She started to inquire about Daisy’s lamassu, but decided the fewer people who knew Daisy had been there last night, the better off she was. Daisy would not do well under interrogation.
“Has Mr. Gump abandoned us?” she asked, for no good reason other than to determine if he might be behind the Kennedy’s decision to develop their land.
“He was at the lodge last night but must have drove back to the city,” one of the lodge employees said. “He’s talking about opening an office up here once the construction starts.”
That was not a statement to unite community spirit. The café went silent.
“Was that mural painted when the café opened?” a young hiker asked, oblivious to the animosity. He nodded at the faded painting behind the appliance counter. If his scruff was any indication, he’d been camping in the woods. He hungrily eyed Harvey’s beignets.
Sam turned around to study the faded paint lost among the appliances and dishes. Now that she knew her adopted parents were artists, she understood why the mural and the paintings elsewhere called to her.
Harvey pushed the plate toward the hiker, grabbing a couple more for himself as he studied the mural. “No idea. Anyone else?”
Dinah glanced at it. “It was here when I opened the place. I keep meaning to either clean it up or paint it over, but it grows on me.”
Sam had been meaning to take a look since she first noticed it. Taking this opportunity, she pushed aside the huge coffee machine to see the bottom right corner. “It’s not just dirty, I think it’s tempera!” she said in surprise. “It’s been varnished over.”
Spitting on one of the clean rags Dinah kept under the counter, Sam dabbed at a corner of the paint, hoping to find a date or signature under the grease and grime. “Why would anyone use anything as difficult and delicate as tempera in a restaurant?”
“What’s tempera?” Mariah leaned over to watch.
“It’s an ancient form of paint, made from egg yolk, used well before oils were invented. Many old European murals still survive because the stuff lasts forever, but it’s real thin and cracks easily. Cleaning it isn’t a good idea.”
“And you know this how?” Harvey asked, licking powdered sugar from his fingers.
“My parents were artists. They had long involved discussions with other artists and insisted on showing me every ancient painting that ever existed in our corner of the world.” Which was a curiosity in itself since she’d never shown any interest in art. Sam shoved that thought aside for later reflection.
She removed pots hanging over the mural and pushed the juice machine to the side. “Mostly, tempera is a medieval medium, but Andrew Wyeth and a few other twentieth-century artists dabbled in the stuff, probably as a back-to-nature statement.”
“The hippies,” Harvey said, finishing his last beignet and dusting off his fingers. “They were into living off the land. Doesn’t get more natural than eggs. Yuck.”
“They make a modern tempera now, and I’m not expert enough to know if this is from a jar or the real egg yolk kind. The natural kind can be dangerous, since natural color additives can be poisonous.”
The minute she said poisonous, the café grew quiet. Dinah joined Mariah in studying what little they could see of the muted colors of the painting.
“It’s kinda pretty,” Dinah said, stepping back to admire the representation of the café and its customers in a different era. “Not real bright but quiet and peaceful like. Like in the churches,” she added in surprise.