Last Chance At The Someday Café

“What do you mean, miss her?”

“Hey, do you work here?” One of the girls who had been looking at the T-shirts came over to them.

“Uh, no.” Tara frowned, looking around for the man who’d been behind the table. “He was here a minute ago.”

“There isn’t anyone.” The girl actually pouted. “Darn, I wanted this one.” She held up a black T-shirt with a ghastly skeleton on it. Maybe it was a blessing the man wasn’t here.

“Morgan did you see...?” She turned to find Morgan gone. In the distance, just this side of the park, she saw him jogging down an alley that led away from the street fair. The T-shirt salesman was a short distance ahead of him, hurrying away.

CHAPTER FOUR (#u29e91425-4bda-5c54-8255-1ef766803a1e)

MORGAN’S CURSES FILLED the air. Where the hell had the guy gone? As he’d talked to Tara, he’d watched the vendor behind her react. Something—recognition or realization—had dawned on the man’s face. Looking up the side street now, Morgan didn’t see a trace of him.

Half a dozen people came and went around him. A couple women stood on the corner, chatting in the sunlight. A boy played in the dirt with one of those yellow toy trucks Morgan had wished for as a kid.

But no shaggy-haired T-shirt vendor in sight. Morgan walked for a couple blocks, looking down alleys and casually glancing into whatever window he could without turning into a Peeping Tom. Nothing. Nowhere. It was as if the guy had vanished into thin air.

Finally, resigned, Morgan headed to the street fair. If nothing else, the guy had to come back and get his merchandise. But when Morgan returned to the booth, an older, worn-out-looking woman was there. He tried to question her, but she was too busy to talk.

“You wanna buy a shirt? I got customers.” She held up one of the rumpled garments. To any other questions, she just shook her head, focusing on the seemingly endless line of customers.

“Then tell me where the man went. Your partner?”

“I don’t keep track of no one but me.” She turned to a couple women on the other side of the booth. With a sigh, Morgan settled under the oak to wait, though he wasn’t really sure what he was waiting for.

Sitting there in the mottled sunlight, with nothing to do but think, Morgan wondered why he was even here. Was he just wasting his time? No. This was the best lead he had, and he couldn’t walk away. The idea of leaving wasn’t even an option. He had to find Sylvie and Brooke.

He had no choice.

As he watched people moving around the spacious park and shopping at the varied booths, it was with a calculated eye. He was studying. Looking—but not hoping. He never let himself go there.

He’d given up on hope a long time ago. Losing it was too painful. But where else could he look? Who else should he talk to? He thought about calling Jack, but he was tired of calling his brother with no news. Tired of failing.

Tara Hawkins must have gone to the diner. Despite himself, he looked around for her. Damn it. He didn’t see her anywhere. Maybe she’d know more. Should he go back there?

Turning toward the T-shirt stand, he forced himself to focus. This was his mission—Brooke was his responsibility.

Throughout the rest of the day, the woman at the booth did a brisk business. Nothing unusual. Just busy. She cast Morgan several furtive glances, which made him more determined to stay put. The man didn’t return.

Finally, as the sun set low, the woman pulled boxes from under the table and packed the remaining stock. No one came to help, and she glared at Morgan.

If he didn’t want to have an up-close-and-personal meeting with the sheriff, he knew he had to be careful about how he approached her.

When she taped the last box closed, Morgan moved closer for one last try. He didn’t say anything at first, simply stood, watching, trying not to intimidate her too much. She, on the other hand, had no hesitancy in glaring at him.

Slowly, deliberately, Morgan pulled out his wallet. Not to get money, but to slip out the familiar, worn picture. He hesitated. Was this a good idea? He had no clue, but he didn’t know what else to do. Praying he was making the right choice, Morgan put the picture on top of the last box. “She’s mine,” he whispered around the lump in his throat. “She’s a year older than that picture.”

The woman paused and looked at Brooke’s grin. Recognition flashed in her eyes an instant before she shut the reaction down.

“Yeah?” She hefted a box onto a metal dolly. “Cute kid.”

“She is. I haven’t seen her in a year.”

The silence hung thick in the twilight. “Whatcha want me to do ’bout it?” The woman moved another box, more slowly this time.

“Have you seen her?”

“Maybe.” Another box moved. It barely fit on the dolly, but she put it there anyway. It’d be awkward as heck to move, but he doubted that would stop her. And it didn’t.

“Can I help you with that?” He reached for the handle and the woman lifted an elbow to push him away.

“I got it. Thanks.” She stepped behind the dolly, shoving her foot against the bottom rail and tilting it. She grunted briefly as the big box fell onto the rail and her shoulder.

“Do you know her?” Morgan asked.

The woman met his gaze, and the sadness in her eyes surprised him. “Don’t know her. I seen her, I think, but lots of people come through here.” She tilted her head toward the now-empty booth.

“If you see her again, would you let me know?” He tried to tamp down the emotion flaring annoyingly to life in his chest. He pulled a business card out of his wallet and put it on top of the boxes as he retrieved the precious photo.

“Maybe.” She took a couple of steps, struggling with the weight.

Midway through the gate to a dirt parking lot, she stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. She reached out awkwardly over the carefully balanced boxes and picked up the business card. She stared at it in the fading light. Morgan half expected her to toss it to the wind.

Instead, she slipped it into her back pocket, and he finally remembered to breathe. He stood there, watching her load her car, then climb in. Before she turned the corner, he snapped a quick photo of the license plate and car with his phone.

She hadn’t done anything wrong—that he knew of—but the information might be useful. If not now, maybe later. Who knew what a private detective could do with something like that? If television was to be believed, a lot.

Slowly, Morgan walked toward his truck. The streets were empty now, a few vendors still packing up, but no customers left.

Streetlights had come on and squares of gold fell out of the glass windows of houses he passed. He saw families sitting down to dinner. Couples in homey kitchens putting meals together. Something shifted in his chest. Envy. Longing.

If he walked these streets, glancing in windows, would he find Sylvie? Not likely. Sylvie had tried to cook a few times, and she’d been getting better, but she’d never liked it. There wouldn’t be any homey warm scene to watch. Or any chance to find them that way.

Loneliness settled in close, and he shivered to push it away. He didn’t have time to feel. He had too much to do. He headed toward the diner, telling himself it was only because that’s where his truck was parked.

It had nothing to do with the fact that Tara would be serving up warmth.

And maybe a little bit of belonging.

* * *

DESPITE THE HEAVY RAIN, the Saturday morning rush was in full swing. Tara stood on tiptoe to peer out the round window in the doors that separated the kitchen from the dining room. Nearly all the tables were full and her staff hustled back and forth.

She couldn’t help smiling. Just then, a customer gave Wendy one of the coupon flyers. Yes. Her work was paying off. She glanced around, hoping to see more.

Her gaze found the French doors to the patio where raindrops hit, then slid down the panes. The street fair would be hurt by the rain, but some of today’s crowd was likely due to the weather.

She wasn’t about to complain.