A Family to Call Her Own

“Forget what?” Zach asked coolly, reaching for the mug of coffee Ben placed on the counter.

Mark chuckled. “I’ve seen that look before. Had it once myself. Just don’t get your hopes up. Rebecca’s great—but she has no interest in romance.”

“Are you speaking from personal experience?”

“Of course! Do you think a single woman who looks like her could come to a small town like this and not be pursued by every eligible man in the county? But she wasn’t interested. Period. In anyone. So I didn’t take it personally. We all had to settle for being just friends.”

“Hmm.”

“‘Hmm’ what?”

“‘Hmm’ as in, that’s interesting but I’m not in the market, anyway.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Right,” Zach repeated firmly. “As my boss told me, I need some time to decompress.”

Mark grinned. “I can think of worse ways.”

Zach chuckled. “Speaking of which, when do I get to meet your elusive fiancée?”

Mark smiled. “How about dinner tomorrow night?”

“Sounds great.”

“Listen, do you mind if I run next door for a minute while you finish your coffee? Then I’ll give you the ten-cent tour.”

“No problem.”

Mark slid off the stool. “Ben will keep you company while I’m gone, right Ben?”

“Sure.” A moment later the door jangled to indicate Mark’s departure, and Ben ambled over to remove his cup, wiping the counter as he spoke. “Nice girl, Rebecca,” he said conversationally.

“Seems to be,” Zach agreed.

“Make a good wife for somebody,” Ben commented nonchalantly.

“From what Mark says, the lady’s not interested in romance,” Zach replied, taking a leisurely sip of his coffee.

Ben snorted. “Well, if you ask me, she just hasn’t met the right man yet.”

Zach had a knack for discreetly ferreting out large amounts of information without people realizing just how much they were divulging. It came in handy in his job—and in situations like this.

By the time he left the diner he knew quite a bit about Rebecca Matthews. She’d moved to St. Genevieve three years before to open her restaurant, “Rebecca’s,” which was becoming quite popular with both locals and St. Louisans, who often came to the quaint town for weekend getaways. She’d even been written up a few times in area papers—his own included, if Ben’s information was accurate. A graduate of the Culinary Institute of America, she’d worked in a couple of prestigious restaurants before striking out on her own. She came from the small town of Jersey, in southern Missouri, where her father still lived. Her brother, Brad—a minister—and his wife, Sam, made their home in St. Louis. She’d been returning from there Thursday night after the birth of their daughter. As far as Zach could tell from Ben’s ramblings, Rebecca never dated. And she was apparently doted over by two maiden sisters who worked at her restaurant.

As Mark and Zach started off on their tour a few minutes later, Mark pointed out Rebecca’s restaurant. It was a modest building in the historic district, identified only by a discreet awning that displayed the name.

“Rebecca really is a wonderful chef,” Mark told him. “The food’s great. You’ll have to try it while you’re here.”

“Uh-huh,” Zach replied noncommittally. As a matter of fact, he intended to become a regular customer. And not because of the food.

“Rose, have you seen the tube of whipped cream with the star tip?” Rebecca called, her voice muffled as she stuck her head into the restaurant’s huge refrigerator.

Rose glanced at the work counter, where the tube lay in clear sight right next to the torte Rebecca was decorating. It was exactly where she’d laid it moments before. Rose glanced at Frances across the counter, and her sister shrugged, mystified. Rebecca was extremely organized, and they’d never seen her flustered. Until this morning.

“It’s right here, dear,” Rose said, pointing to the tube as Rebecca turned.

“Oh. Well. I guess my brain just isn’t in gear this morning. I haven’t quite caught up on my sleep since Thursday night,” she explained lamely, warm color suffusing her face.

“Frances and I will just finish up in the dining room and leave you in peace to work your magic on that cake,” Rose replied, motioning for her sister to follow.

“All right.” Rebecca distractedly wiped her hands on her apron and glanced around the kitchen. “Now where did I put that spatula?” she mumbled.

Rose ushered Frances out of the kitchen, and the two older women looked at each other quizzically. With their white hair pulled neatly back into identical soft, motherly buns, the sisters could almost pass for twins, although Rose was the older by two years and stood three inches taller than Frances.

“What do you make of it?” Frances whispered, her voice tinged with concern.

Rose shook her head, frowning. “I don’t know,” she said slowly, clearly puzzled.

“She almost put cinnamon in the quiche this morning, too,” Frances informed her sister worriedly.

Rose considered that for a moment, and then her face grew thoughtful. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” Frances prompted.

“Unless it’s a man,” Rose replied reverently.

“A man?” Frances repeated, her eyes widening.

“Yes,” Rose declared, nodding vigorously, becoming more certain by the moment. “I’d bet my prize-winning recipe for pickle relish that there’s a man behind this!”

“You mean our Rebecca’s got herself a man?” Frances said incredulously.

“How else would you explain what’s been happening this morning? Have you ever seen her so disorganized or absentminded?”

Frances shook her head. “No.”

“Then there you have it! There’s a man behind this, all right,” Rose asserted.

“But who?” Frances asked, bewildered.

Rose sighed, her brow knitted in concentration. “I don’t know. But maybe that old buzzard, Ben, does. She had coffee there this morning.”

“He won’t tell us anything,” Frances lamented, shaking her head regretfully.

“He will if you drop by with a piece of that torte this afternoon,” Rose declared conspiratorially. “He has a sweet spot for you, anyway.”

Frances smoothed back her hair and sniffed, pretending indifference. “Well, I suppose I could try.”