Thirty minutes later, Trinee came into the kitchen looking harried. “People are complaining the food’s coming out too slow. And they want to know why your pancakes are so flat.”
Quinn gritted her teeth. She’d been whipping through batches of crepes, which Trinee had put up on the chalkboard out front as their surprise special. “Because they’re not pancakes. They’re crepes—as it says on the board.”
“I told you that we’re not fancy like that here,” Greta said.
“Crepes don’t have to be fancy.”
Greta didn’t look convinced. “Maybe you could just make them faster.”
“Trying.” And she was. But the truth was, she—they—needed help. “We need to put out an ad for another short-order cook.”
Greta looked at her like Quinn had just asked her to stand on the highway, naked, holding one of those silly arrow signs.
Big Hank stuck his head into the kitchen. “Hey,” he said to Quinn. “Nice job on the pancakes, but you could use a little more flour, I think.”
She resisted smacking herself in the forehead with her spatula. “They’re crepes.”
“Carolyn used to put chocolate chip smiley faces on her pancakes,” he said hopefully. “Did you know that?”
“I’ve heard that once or twice,” she said dryly. Or a hundred times . . . “We were going for something a little healthier.”
Trinee lifted her hands and shook her head as if to say not me . . .
Quinn rolled her eyes. “Fine. Tomorrow I’ll . . .” She managed not to grind her teeth. “Use more flour and chocolate chips.”
Big Hank beamed. “Atta girl.”
Five minutes later, Lou popped his head in. “You going to cook every morning?” he asked hopefully.
“Do you like my cooking?” Quinn asked, surprised.
He held up his phone. “I just want to catch the firefighters coming in hot. I missed getting a video of it last time.”
Trinee smacked him upside the head.
“Not funny yet?” he asked.
“Maybe next week,” Trinee said.
Lou just winked at her. “Oh, and I wanted to tell you,” he said to Quinn. “Big Hank told his doctor what you mentioned about his low energy maybe being an iron deficiency, and his doctor agreed. So now Not-Big-Hank wants you to come out to our table and tell him what’s wrong with him too.”
“Why?” she asked. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Well . . .” Lou scratched his head and grimaced. “Let’s put it this way. He can get to the batter box and swing, but he can’t, er . . . make it home.”
Quinn stared at him. “Tell me you’re actually referring to baseball.”
He grinned. “Can you come tell him what’s wrong or what?”
“I can tell you what’s wrong with me,” she said. “And that’s the fact that I now need therapy.”
“Carolyn used to listen to our woes all day long,” he said. “And she was good at the advice too.”
“Yeah?” Quinn asked. “And what would she have told Not-Big-Hank?”
Lou laughed. “That if he was a few decades younger, she’d have taken him for a test drive to see what was wrong under his hood, if you know what I’m saying.”
“Lou, I wish to God I didn’t know what you were saying.”
Greta and Trinee were cackling like hens by the time Lou went back to his table. “You think this is funny?” she asked.
“Honey,” Trinee said. “Let’s just say that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, and that we’re blessed as blessed can be having you here.”
Quinn’s irritation immediately fled at the unexpected compliment and she realized something. It had been a rough few days, and she was still as messed up and confused inside as ever but . . .
No matter what went wrong here, everyone seemed to find a way to laugh about it. It was so different from what she had at Amuse-Bouche that it was like landing on another planet altogether.
What remained to be seen was how she felt about it.
Chuck came in to grab breakfast and popped his head into the kitchen. “So,” he said.
“So.” Quinn managed a smile. “How’s our girl doing?”
“Okay, I think.” He ran a hand over his head. A gesture that gave away his discomfort. “Look, we both know I’m not the greatest at this but I’m not going to turn her away if she wants to stay. Carolyn . . .” He stared at his shoes for a minute. “She meant a lot to me,” he eventually said. “So if you’ve come around to wanting to keep Tilly, that’s going to be up to you to coax her.”
“I understand. I’m . . .” She shrugged with a little laugh. “Working on it. She’s not easily . . . coaxable.”
“Well, she is her mother’s daughter.” He let out a small smile. “Seems maybe you are too.”
And then he was gone.
“You and Tilly are going to live together?” Trinee asked.
“For a trial period.”
The two older women exchanged a long glance. “Told you,” Greta said.
“What?” Quinn asked.
“Trinee owes me a hundred bucks,” Greta said.
Quinn stared at them. “You had a bet on whether or not Tilly and I would forge a relationship?”
“No,” Greta said. “We bet on which of us was right.”
“Which is almost always me,” Trinee said proudly.
“Ha,” Greta said. “Wrong . . .”
An hour later, Quinn was relieved by Greta when things slowed down. She left the café, walking past the henhouse to stand in Carolyn’s yard staring at the house.
This was it. Tilly’s childhood home. Knowing that she and Tilly were going to give themselves a trial run here for a few days filled her with equal parts hope and terror.
She moved to the porch. The sun was slanting across the wood slats and Quinn sat on a bench next to the front door, tilting her head back for a long moment, letting the sun warm her.
Then she inhaled a deep breath and pulled Carolyn’s letter from her pocket. She hadn’t opened it yet, but it was time.
My darling Quinn,
I was so proud and overjoyed the first time I met you in the coffee bar. It was like all my prayers had been answered to find you everything I’d hoped you’d be. You’re generous and kind, smart and funny, and you took my breath away.
I know I have no right to say anything to you at all after all this time, but I want you to know I didn’t give you up lightly, and I never stopped thinking of you. Never. Chalk up what happened to me being too young, too scared, and far too alone. I didn’t have parental support and your dad, God bless him, loved the open road more than air itself.