Chapter 6
Jillian
“HELLO?” I knocked on the front doors of the Community Cafe once again, but after standing in the ninety-eight degree heat in jeans and a cute cropped school tee, I was starting to get annoyed. No answer, and looking through the tinted glass doors would have required pushing my face up against it, so that wasn’t happening. After a few more minutes, I walked around the building, looking for signs of life.
The oven-hot air in back stank of cooked garbage and week-old milk. A perfect recipe for nausea. The heavy metal door sat slightly ajar, so after a few deep breaths through my mouth, I ventured in. “Hello, I’m here to volunteer?”
I knew I was in the right place the moment I opened the door. Sparkling white tile gleamed, reflecting the sun, and the aroma of fresh cooked meat made me wish I’d had more than a SlimFast for lunch. My stomach growled in agreement. I took a tentative step inside, but given the clientele, I was hesitant to walk further and catch someone off guard. I didn’t think I could handle being stabbed and mugged by some vagrant, along with everything else I was currently dealing with.
“Come on back, I’m in the kitchen!” The male voice was pleasant enough, but turning the corner, I collided with a mountain of a man. He towered over me at 7 feet tall and wore a Cheshire cat grin. He obviously spent a lot of time in the gym. His arms were massive and his rippling skin was black as night, all the way up to his shiny bald head. I saw the giant knife in his hand and suddenly every gory Freddy Krueger movie that terrified me as a child flashed before my eyes. Oh crap! Now what? I felt like running for the hills.
“Jillian?” I about came out of my boots at Mrs. Lowe’s voice suddenly materializing behind me. All the air I hadn’t realized I was holding in my lungs whooshed out in one long breath and my legs almost liquefied. She was sneaky, that one.
“This is my husband, Chance.” She turned her attention to the man, who was now running a towel up and down the large knife. “Chance, this is Jillian Walker. She’ll be volunteering with us here on Friday nights for… a while.” I exhaled. Man, was I glad I hadn’t run. That would have been hard to explain.
“Mr. Lowe, nice to meet you.” I craned my head and found myself staring into two gleaming eyes peering down at me. I felt like a field mouse under the gaze of a hawk. By reflex I stuck out my hand, just like my father taught me.
But mid-reach I changed my mind. His hands were covered in bright yellow gloves that were slick with a substance I didn't want to think about. I deflected my hand and swept a loose strand of hair out of my eyes instead. Better safe than sorry until I learned the proper protocol for greeting new help. I needed to get up to speed… we’d had the same woman working in our kitchen since before I was born.
The state-of-the-art kitchen was a dream, but looked like it belonged in an stately home, rather than this sad little soup kitchen. And it was enormous. I couldn’t help thinking how all these lovely amenities were being wasted on those too lazy to work. However, a delicious aroma hung in the air like a mist. There were pots bubbling, something baking, and a freshly cut salad in huge, clear plastic tubs covered in Saran wrap. Mr. Lowe stirred something in a metal pot, then slid the two salad tubs into the massive refrigerator, one-handed and with ease.
“Chance has everything just about ready, but you can go put your purse in the office, right there,” she gestured toward a little room off to the left with her hand, “then put on one of the aprons in there and meet me in the dining room. It’s that way.” She headed in the opposite direction and I went in search of an apron, knowing it would be nothing like the one I’d donned last Halloween for my ‘oh, so scandalous’ French maid costume.
The dining area was spacious and looked exactly like this mom-and-pop diner back home called Pig’s Feet. It was a place my mother wouldn’t be caught dead in, but they had incredible meat pies and sometimes our housekeeper would sneak me one.
The floor was maroon and white checkered tile, just as clean and beautiful as the kitchen, and the walls were covered in what appeared to be old fence boards. The tables were all shapes, sizes, and colors—and not one chair matched another—but the chaos of it all only added to the charm and appeal of the place.
Preparing for the dinner rush was my assigned duty. Mr. Lowe stayed in the kitchen, while his wife and I rolled silverware, filled ice machines, brought out package after package of plastic cups and Styrofoam plates, and even brewed my very first batch of tea in a four-gallon, stainless steel dispenser. After filling more salt and peppershakers than seemed necessary for a week, much less one evening meal, Mrs. Lowe opened the doors and started inviting the poor people in.
For the first several minutes, I stood next to Mrs. Lowe like a lemming and watched as she smiled and shook hands with a variety of people. The group—old and young, black and white—was as eclectic as the furniture they’d be eating on.
“What do I do now?” I whispered. I’d donned my newly claimed neon green apron with the turquoise pocket and tied my hair up in the most severe bun I could handle, as to avoid the dreaded hairnet. I was there, I was cute, and I was ready to get the night over with.
“Today, just watch how we do things. Next week, expect to play a much larger role.” I stood off to the side and watched Lillie Lowe behave as if she were hosting a state dinner, as I busied my mind with what circumstances brought all these people to the cafe. It was interesting, really, how she seemed to know everyone’s name, even the children. And boy, were there a lot of children. Chance knew them all too, and they made small talk as they worked their way toward the buffet-style serving line.
The chalkboard menu, in large loopy letters, boasted the day’s fare: barbecued chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes with gravy, and a green salad. The food appeared like magic, in big troughs. Chance made quick work of stocking the heated buffet table, and once the line got going it was all hands on deck.
“Jill?” Chance was hollering over his shoulder as he scraped the last of the gravy from a large, cylindrical bucket-type container.
“It’s Jillian, please. Call me Jillian.” I harbored a deep hatred for the name Jill, way down in my gut, and I always would.
“My apologies, Miss Jillian. Could you be a dear and take this back to the sink? If you’re feeling especially energetic, you could run some hot water into it. It’ll sure make it easier for you to clean later.”
Easier for me to clean? My first inclination was to snap back with a snide comment about him washing his own damn giant gravy bucket. But I bit back the words, hid my disgust with a smile, and did what Chance Lowe asked of me.
When I returned, he was laughing at something a young boy was saying. When the child joined his family at one of the tables, I was taught where to find the replacement tubs of food in an upright warming oven right by the kitchen door. “When I call out a food, it means I’m running low. Go grab a replacement, we can switch the empty one for the full, and we’ll never even miss a beat.” That was the most I’d heard him say all night.
Chance’s accent was as smooth as the whipped butter I’d set out to pair with the fresh baked rolls, but its origin was unmistakable. “Are you from New Orleans, Mr. Lowe?”
A chuckle rolled from his throat like thunder announcing a summer storm. “Naw, hon… just outside though. Is it that obvious?” I nodded and, for the first time in ages, I smiled and it wrinkled my eyes.
“Miss Jillian!” I was being summoned to the buffet line from my place, where I was restocking napkins, straws, and cup lids. “Grab you a plate, honey. Looks like we’re gonna have a lot leftover.”
I glanced into the stainless steel containers, each still at least half-full of the Southern food that must have taken hours to prepare, and shook my head.
“No thank you, Mr., uhh, Chance. I think I’ll pass tonight.” The wrinkles on his forehead said he took my rejection personally. I turned back to my task, pretending I hadn’t noticed.
“Hey Chance, I’ll take some. It smells so good I think I gained three pounds just sniffing the air on the way in here.”
I was too poised to whip around and get a look at who that voice belonged to, so I let my mind imagine someone big, strong. A cop maybe, based on the authoritative tone. It was deep, masculine. It was something I wanted to hear again. But, it also belonged to a poor person. And I belonged to Gareth.
“Bennett, so glad you could make it! Help yourself.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Chance step aside, allowing the man access to the heated table. And only after he’d found a seat and Mrs. Lowe had sat down beside him, did I allow my eyes to drink him in. I recognized him as the man who was leaving her office just as I was entering a few days before.
“Um, Chance?” I’d moved to the serving side of the table where the man was starting to disassemble things, and spoke under my breath. “Who is that man Mrs. Lowe is sitting with?”
“Oh, that’s Bennett.”
“And, he’s a student?” Chance nodded, continuing to wipe things down. He motioned for me to consolidate the half-empty food containers, but I kept my eye on the man and Mrs. Lowe, noticing their relaxed demeanor and easy banter. I was envious. I don’t think I’d ever been that comfortable with anyone in my life.
As tacky as they were, I’d never been so grateful for Styrofoam plates and plastic cutlery in my life. Washing just the dishes used to cook and serve took longer than the cafe was even open for business. “Don’t you have any other employees, besides you and Mrs. Lowe?” It was barbaric for anyone to assume two people could manage this on their own, even with a volunteer here and there. I threw my apron into a bin to be washed, Chance handed me my purse, and we made our way back to the dining room and to the front doors.
“No, ma’am. This is a non-profit organization. Lillie and I started this cafe after our son did a project in school about homeless shelters and the lack of hot food. This is something we did as a family.” Where was their son, then? Shouldn’t he at least be here helping? Opening the door, he ushered me out in front of him.
“So, you aren’t paid to be here? I mean, why? Why would anyone work this hard for nothing?” He locked the door behind him, slipping the key into his pocket.
“You know, at first, we did it for our son, to show him the value of giving back to a community that had given so much to him. But, now he’s gone, so I guess we do it in his memory.” We’d been walking, but stopped when we reached an old beater pickup truck.
“So, you lost your son?” Mrs. Lowe had been my academic advisor for over a year, but I didn’t know her. I hadn’t met her husband until tonight and I had no idea she even had a son. Maybe that says something about me.
“Yeah, he died in Kuwait, about eighteen months ago.” My heart squeezed and the automatic words of sympathy caught in my throat.
I will never forget the sound coming from my throat the day I got the news my best friend had been killed. I will never forget the heart-seizing, gut-wrenching pain that came with the knowledge we’d never sneak off to the creek together, or fly halfway across the river on the rope swing before falling in. I will never forget losing the one person in the world I could actually be myself around without the fear of judgment.
“My best friend died over there.”
He nodded, placing his hand on my shoulder. That was the first time I’d said it aloud and the first time anyone had shown me sympathy for my loss. I worried I may let my mask slip, which wouldn’t be acceptable behavior for a woman of my station.
“Well, anyway,” I waved away any hint of emotion that might seep out and slipped right back into the role of my mother’s daughter. “I can understand keeping the cafe running in memory of your son, but I’m concerned all these lazy vagrants, dirty drifters, and good-for-nothing bums are taking advantage of your kindness.” Chance smiled as he folded himself into the small truck cab.
“It’s not my job to find out what brought them to my door. Everyone carries their own burdens. I’m only here to put food in their bellies and hopefully a smile on their faces a few nights a week. The rest of it is between them and God.” He started his engine as he tapped the horn to get his wife’s attention. She’d been talking to one of the poor people, the man with the sexy voice, I think. She waved goodbye, hurried into the passenger seat, and they drove off into the night.
It didn’t take but a glance at my car to see something was off. “Damn it!” I marched over, kneeling down to see the shiny nail stuck into my deflated driver’s side tire. This day could go to hell.
“Can I help you out with that?” My heart about jumped out of my throat as I looked up into the face of the man Chance called Bennett. Yep, he was every bit as delicious as his voice indicated, with cheekbones sharp as a machete and closely cropped hair the exact color of a Hershey’s bar. Standing, I brushed my hands off on my jeans.
“No, don’t worry. I have a car phone for just such an emergency. I can call the dealership. They have roadside assistance.”
He laughed. “Yeah, I’m sure they do, at 9:00 on a Friday night. Give me the keys.” He held his hand out.
“What? No, I’m not giving you the keys to my brand-new Beamer. You’re nuts.” Sure, poor, possibly homeless man... I’ll just hand over my keys so you can stab me with a shank, stuff me in the trunk, and ride off into the sunset in my $40,000 vehicle, paper plates from the dealer still attached. He wasn’t going to charm me with that hunky, husky voice of his.
“Nuts? Maybe… but right now I’m all you got, so pop that trunk?”
“Excuse me? What the hell do you need out of my trunk?” My voice was at least two octaves higher than usual and I prayed the Lowes lived the rest of their lives with the guilt of knowing they left me all alone with this murderer with the bronze-colored eyes and smooth as silk voice.
“Well, I’d like to get your spare out and change this tire before we both melt. Just because the sun’s gone down doesn’t mean the temperature has.”
He leaned into the trunk to retrieve the spare and whatever else he needed to fix the flat, and in doing that, flexed some muscles that made my temperature rise. I physically fanned my heated cheeks, shaking my head. No, I could not be looking at this guy’s perfectly sculpted ass and massive thighs. I was spoken for. And no matter how many times I said that to myself, I only looked away a split second before he turned back around. And oh, those arms.
“Can I, I dunno, hold the flashlight for you at least?” He grunted and shook his head, already jacking up the car. So I grabbed my car phone, stood back, and let him get to it so I could get home.
I called home to check my answering machine. After leaving several messages on Gareth’s machine, it was about damn time for him to return one of my calls.
“Hey, babe, sorry I’ve been MIA lately, this semester is already kicking my ass. I’m calling to see if you have plans over Christmas break—I was thinking we could go up to the Aspen cottage. Let me know. Bye.”
Finally, there it was. Aspen. Just as Lori predicted. Three months ago—even three weeks ago—all I wanted was this: an invite to a posh ski resort, a diamond ring, and a question I’d been promised since I first had hormones. Yet, all I could focus on was the sight in front of me.
Homeless or not, the man made changing a tire look like a well-rehearsed dance, with the heavy steel light perched efficiently between his shoulder and his head like a telephone receiver. It was impossible not to notice how his grey T-shirt, with ARMY printed across his chest in block letters, started to dampen as it stretched across his broad, muscular shoulders.
I meandered closer and got a whiff of his clean, sweaty, manly smell. I leaned in for more while he made the dirty work of loosening, screwing, and fastening look like child’s play and in just a few more minutes, I was afraid I’d once again be roadworthy.
“You’re good at that.” I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed the shirt hadn’t come off. It was wicked hot.
“Yeah, well. When the difference of a few minutes could mean the difference between life and death, you learn to be quick.” I was all for dramatics, but something told me he wasn’t exaggerating, which made me even more curious as to who this dark-haired stranger really was. I sat on the curb.
“Stop biting.” I yanked my finger from my mouth and narrowed my eyes at Bennett as he tightened a lug nut on my spare.
“I wasn’t biting—,” I spat, the lie coming to my lips as naturally as breathing. He reminded me of my brother, with the nagging.
“Oh yeah, tell that to your cuticles.” With a grunt, he grabbed the deflated tire and popped it back in the trunk, followed by the lug wrench and the jack. “All right, you’re good to go.”
“Thank you. I’m Jillian, by the way.” I extended my arm, but was grateful when he backed away, showing me his blackened palms.
“Bennett Hanson and you’re welcome. It’s nice to meet you, Jill.”
“Don’t call me Jill. My name is Jillian.” My mother always said, upper-crust, well-bred girls did not tolerate nicknames.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Look, can I pay you or something?” I ducked inside for my wallet, but he was already several feet from the car.
“No, thank you.” He kept walking to the spigot on the side of the building to wash his hands. I looked up and down the street for signs of Bennett Hanson’s truck, but came up empty. We were in College Station, where the pickup truck to good ole boy ratio was high, so it was easy to assume that was this man’s chosen mode of transportation.
“Can I at least give you a ride to your car?” The question surprised me as much as it did him. He stopped and turned, cocking his head to one side.
“No, I can manage. I certainly wouldn’t want to take advantage of your kindness.” And turning on his toes, he started toward campus with a smile on his face and a bounce in his step.
I watched Bennett walk toward campus, backpack slung over his right shoulder, left hand in his pocket. When he turned a corner and was out of sight, I pulled out and headed down Jersey toward home.
Who was Bennett Hanson? And why was he at a soup kitchen? Clearly, that hadn’t been his first visit. He and Chance had a special rapport and his bond with Mrs. Lowe was touching. She looked at him the way I imagine she most likely looked at her son when he was still alive. My heart hiccuped as memories tried to surface, but I pushed them back down. I was taught to bury my feelings, never show emotion.
The whole ride home, my mind was consumed with one man, and it wasn’t the one who was having a four-carat diamond ring fitted to my finger.