Sweet Laurel Falls

Even the owner, Dermot Caine, still stood behind the U-shaped bar. He had to be in his mid-sixties, but he had the familiar shock of white hair he’d worn as long as Jack could remember and the same piercing blue eyes that seemed capable of ferreting out any secret.

Despite the calorie-heavy comfort food the café was famous for, Dermot had stayed in shape and looked as if he could beat any comers in an arm-wrestling contest, probably from years of working the grill.

Just now he was busy talking to a couple of guys in Stetsons. Jack looked around for Maura and Sage but couldn’t spot them. He didn’t see anyone else he recognized either. It looked as if the Center of Hope was popular with both locals and tourists, at least judging by the odd mix of high-dollar ski gear and ranch coats.

He stood waiting to be seated for just a moment before Dermot walked over, no trace of recognition in his gaze. No surprise there. Jack had been gone twenty years. He probably looked markedly different than that kid who used to come into the café to study after the library had closed for the night.

It sure as hell had beat going home.

“Hello there and welcome to the Center of Hope Café.” Dermot had a trace of Ireland in his voice. Jack could easily have pictured him running a corner pub in a little town in County Galway somewhere, surrounded by mossy-green fields and stone fences. “You’ve got a couple of choices this lovely morning. You can find yourself a vacant spot at the counter, or I can fix you up with a booth or a table. Your preference.”

“I’m actually waiting for two more. A booth would be fine.”

“I’ve got a prime spot right here by the window. Will that suit you?”

“Perfectly. Thank you.” He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a convenient hook made from a portion of an elk antler on the wall beside the booth. As he slid into the booth, Dermot set out a trio of menus and opened one for him.

“Here. You can have a little sneak peek at the menu before the rest of your party comes. We also have made-to-order omelets, if that suits your fancy. The breakfast special this morning is our eggs Benedict, famous in three counties. Can I get you some coffee or juice while you’re waiting?”

Ordinarily, he would have liked to extend the courtesy of at least ordering beverages for Sage and Maura. Since he had no idea what they would like, he opted to play it safe and order only for himself. “I’ll have both. Regular coffee and a small grapefruit juice. Thank you.”

Dermot nodded. “Coming right up.” He paused for just a moment, his blue eyes narrowed. “Have you been in before? I usually have a good eye for my customers. I keep thinking I should know you, but I’m afraid my memory’s not what it once was and I can’t quite place you. Sorry, I am, for that.”

“Don’t apologize. I would have been surprised if you had recognized me. It’s been twenty years. You used to serve me chocolate malts from the fountain with extra whipped cream while I did my homework in the corner.” It was a surprisingly pleasant memory, especially considering he didn’t think he had many of this town. That hadn’t involved Maura, anyway.

“Jackson Lange,” Dermot exclaimed. “Lordy, it’s been an age, it has. How have you been, son?”

How did a man encapsulate his journey over the past two decades? Hard work, ambition, amazing good fortune in his chosen field and not such good fortune in his painfully short-lived marriage. “I can’t complain. How about you? How’s Mrs. Caine?”

His cheerful smile slipped a little. “I lost her some fifteen years back. The cancer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Aye. So am I. I miss her every single day. But we had seven beautiful children together, and her memory lives on in them and our eight grandchildren.”

He gestured to the other two menus. “And what about you? Are you meeting your family here, then?”

He thought of Sage, the daughter he hadn’t known existed a handful of days ago. “Something like that.”

“I’ll treat you right. Don’t you worry. Our French toast is still legendary around these parts. We still cover it in toasted almonds and dust it with powdered sugar.”

He usually was a coffee-and-toast kind of guy, but he had fond memories of that French toast. An indulgence once in a while probably wouldn’t kill him. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Dermot smiled at him and headed to the kitchen, probably for his juice. Through the window, Jack watched Main Street bustle to life. The woman who was trying to change the marquee on the little two-theater cinema up the road had to stop about five times to return the wave of someone driving past, and a couple of women in winter workout gear who had dogs on leashes paused at just about every storefront to talk to somebody.

The scene reminded him of a small village outside Milan where he had rented an apartment for two months during the construction of a hotel and regional conference center a few miles from town. He used to love to grab a cappuccino and sit on the square with a sketchbook and pencil, watching the town wake up to greet the day.

In his career, Jack had worked on projects across the world, from Riyadh to Rio de Janeiro. He loved the excitement and vitality of a large city. The streets outside his loft in San Francisco bustled with life, and he enjoyed sitting out on the terrace and watching it from time to time, but he had to admit, he always found something appealing about the slower pace of a small town, where neighbors took time to stop their own lives to chat and care about each other.

Dermot walked out with his juice and a coffeepot. “Still waiting?” he asked as he flipped a cup over and expertly poured.

“I’m sure they’ll be here soon.”

“I’ll keep an eye out, unless you would like me to take your order now.”

“No. I’ll wait.”

A few moments later, while he was watching the dog walkers grab a shovel out of an elderly man’s hands in front of a jewelry store and start clearing snow off his store entrance, Maura and Sage came in. Their faces were both flushed from the cold, but he was struck for the first time how alike they looked. Sage was an interesting mix of the both of them, but in the morning light and with her darker, curlier hair covered by a beanie, she looked very much like her mother.

The women spotted him instantly and hurried over to the booth.

“Sorry we’re late,” Maura said without explanation, but Sage gave a heavy sigh.

“It’s my fault,” Sage said. “I was so tired and had a hard time getting moving this morning.”

“You’re here now. That’s the important thing.” He rose and helped them out of their coats. Sage wore a bulky red sweater under hers, while Maura wore a pale blue turtleneck and a long spill of silver-and-blue beads that reminded him of a waterfall.

He was struck by how thin she appeared. The shirt bagged at her wrists, and he wondered if she had lost weight in the months since her daughter died.

“I’ve been enjoying the café,” he said after they slid into the other side of the booth together, with Sage on the inside. “It hasn’t changed much in twenty years.”

“The food’s still just as good,” Maura said. “Unfortunately, the tourists have figured that out too.”

“I noticed that. It’s been hopping since I got here.”

The conversation lagged, and to cover the awkwardness, he picked up their menus from the table and opened them, then handed them to the women. He hadn’t worked his way through college tending bar at a little dive near the Gourmet Ghetto for nothing.

“So Mr. Caine recommended the French toast.”

“That’s what I always get when we come here for breakfast,” Sage told him. “It’s sooo good. Like having dessert for breakfast. Mom usually has a poached egg and whole wheat toast. That’s like driving all the way to Disneyland and not riding Space Mountain!”

“Maybe I’ll try the French toast this morning too,” Maura said, a hint of rebellion in her tone.

She seemed to be in a prickly mood, probably unhappy at the prospect of sharing a booth and a meal with him.

“Sorry I didn’t order coffee for either of you. I wasn’t sure of your preferences.”

“I usually like coffee in the morning,” Sage told him, “but I’m not sure my stomach can handle it today. I’d better go for tea.”

As if on cue, Dermot Caine headed toward their booth and did an almost comical double take when he saw Maura and Sage sitting with him. Jack wondered at it, until he remembered his comment about waiting for his family, in a manner of speaking.

Well, if the word wasn’t out around town that he was Sage’s father after the scene at the bookstore the night before, he imagined it wouldn’t take long for the Hope’s Crossing grapevine to start humming.

“Sage, my darlin’. Home for the holidays, are you?”

“That’s the plan, Mr. C.” She beamed at the older man, who plainly adored her.

“And how is school going for you?”