Chapter Thirty-Six
CALLIE
Though the sign in the giant window still read CLOSED, one peek through the glass told me Shep’s Place was only weeks away from being ready for its grand opening. He’d obviously been busy. The place hardly resembled the same restaurant I’d first visited over a month ago.
The instant I crossed the threshold and smelled the bacon, my stomach growled. But the retro interior of the diner was just as alluring as whatever dish he was creating in the kitchen. Awed, I made my way to one of the sparkling ruby-red booths lining the outer edge of the diner, the tap of my sandals drawing my gaze to the stamped concrete floor underfoot. An unexpected sadness shot through me at the thought of missing his opening night.
“Perfect timing.” Shep rounded the corner wearing a tight cotton shirt that bunched over his biceps. In less than five seconds he crossed the room and gave me a hug that could have broken every bone in my body. He pulled away and gestured to the scroll in my hand. “Sorry about all the voice mails, but with opening night just around the corner, I think it’s time to make a decision on the sketches you’ve been working up.” He gave my shoulder a hard pat. “Not that I’d want to rush you, but let’s face it, scaffolding is a bit of an eyesore while people are eating.”
Not quite ready to address the subject of the mural, I skimmed a hand over the shiny vinyl of the booth behind me. “What you’ve done here is beyond impressive, Shep. You should feel really proud.”
“Can’t take all the credit.” He winked.
No, of course he couldn’t. Without Davis investing in his dream and lending a hand all those Saturday mornings, this place would still be an unfinished dump.
I worked a smile. “True.”
“Come and see my new bar top. It was delivered yesterday.”
I followed him around the center divider—a half wall—that separated the seating area into two sections. A knot formed in the base of my belly at the thought of such a perfect canvas remaining untouched by the artwork he wanted. I focused instead on the thick slab of redwood Shep gestured to.
“She’s a beauty, right?”
I gaped at the mirrorlike varnish and again found the smooth surface impossible not to touch. The intricate swirls and grooves snaking through the wood grain had all been filled with epoxy, creating a level bar top as inviting as it was unique. “It’s stunning. Where on earth did you find such a piece?” The slab had to be at least twenty feet long and four feet wide.
“One of my brothers is a tree guy—that’s what we call him anyway.” Shep thumped the counter affectionately with his fist. “He had a job last fall after a huge storm, saved this piece for my restaurant. We only had to come up with the finishing cost.”
The word we once again caused me to picture the face I’d told myself to forget.
Shep unhooked an emerald-green half apron from the wall and tied it around his waist. “Go ahead and hop up on that barstool. I’ll be right out with your plate.”
“Oh, uh . . . I actually hadn’t planned to stay long, Shep.” In the most literal sense of the phrase. I glanced back over my shoulder at my packed-to-the-brim Subaru that only last week Davis had snuck in to his mechanic for an oil change. I wouldn’t have to think of the kindness of that gesture for another three thousand miles.
“Can you not smell that bacon?” Shep hitched a thumb toward the kitchen. “It’s expertly cooked, by the way. So just sit down and stop pretending you have something better to do. Because nobody has something better to do than eat bacon.”
How could I argue with that logic? Although once I pulled out of our contract for the mural, he’d likely regret taking the time to feed me. I climbed onto the cushy barstool and watched him burst through the padded side door, complete with an oval cutout in the center.
Not two minutes later, he was back, sliding a stacked-to-the-max club sandwich down the glossy bar top.
“Mmm. That looks delicious.”
“It should. It’s what you ordered.”
I scrunched my forehead. Had I mentioned I was hungry when we spoke on the phone? Surely not, since I’d barely had a full meal in four days.
“Not today—a couple months back, I mean.” He reached under the counter and slapped a laminated menu to the side of my plate. “See, right there?”
He tapped a finger on the bolded heading: COMFORT SANDWICHES.
At the very top of the list was: THE CALLIE.
He turned it around to read straight from the source. “The remedy to any heartbreak. Thick crusty bread layered with three types of hormone-free deli meats and pepper jack cheese. Special touches include herbed mayo, extra-crispy bacon, and a heaping side of avocado slices.”
I pressed my lips together, not trusting the sound traveling up my throat.
“I’m gonna take your speechlessness as a compliment,” he said.
I couldn’t blink away my tears quickly enough. Kindly, Shep offered me the dish towel draped over his shoulder. I didn’t dare ask him where he’d last used it.
“I’m not gonna lie,” he said. “I don’t have much practice with the whole sage bartender thing, but I’m willing to give it a go if you want to hash something out.”
Regaining my composure, I shook my head. “Thank you for this, Shep. It means . . . a lot.”
I’d written my signature hundreds of times in paint all over the country, but this was the first time someone had chosen to ink my name for me—in a town I’d grown to love, almost as much as the residents who lived in it.
“Yeah, well, I’m guessing your tears have less to do with my menu and more to do with why your Subaru looks like it’s about to give birth to a second Tiny House.”
I picked at the crust of my bread. “I’m leaving town.”
“You don’t say.”
His perfect deadpan brought my head up. “Wait—you knew I was leaving? Then why did you ask me to bring over the sketches?”
He cocked a grin I imagined he’d used on many a weepy woman. “How else was I supposed to get you here?” He plopped down on the stool beside me and swiveled like a boy half his age. Again, he pushed the plate closer to me. “Eat up, ginger.”
“I’m trying—it’s delicious, really.” But the truth was, I hadn’t had much of an appetite since Davis had dropped me off after the gardens.
“There’s no can’t in ba-can.” He flashed a cheesy thumbs-up and scooped half the sandwich off my plate. “Tell you what, I’ll help you out with this side.”
He wasted no time in taking down his half of the sandwich and pounding back a full glass of Coke. “Do I get to take a look at those?”
I handed him the sketches I’d worked on every time inspiration struck. “I’m not sure if what I’ve worked up is exactly what you’re wanting, but I figured I’d leave them with you. I can also give you a few names of some contacts I trust. Of course, you’d have to pay their travel fees in addition to their quote price.”
Shep uncurled the plans and balanced on his forearms at the edge of the bar, scrutinizing every last detail. I took a bite of my sandwich, hoping not to appear desperate for his feedback. He wasn’t my client anymore. He wasn’t bound to feed my ego the way he had my stomach.
I dabbed at the corner of my mouth. “It’s really okay if you don’t like it—it was just an idea, based on some things you’d said once about comfort food and seasons of life.”
A dozen people, painted in different shades and patterns, all in different stages of life, had been captioned with comic-style talk bubbles, speaking out their favorite custom order from Shep.
“I know exactly what you based this on, and it’s perfect.” He straightened and crossed his burly arms over his chest, his jolly mood fading as quickly as he’d drained his soda. “But the problem now is I don’t want anybody else to paint this on my wall but you. It would be like me hiring somebody else to cook my signature dish. That’s never gonna happen.”
“I’m sorry, Shep. I wish . . .” I could stay. “Things had worked out differently.”
“I don’t usually give relationship advice—seeing as, well, seeing as I’m me, but I’m about to make an exception.”
“Shep, really, you don’t have to say—”
“If Davis had to endure it, then it’s only fair you get to hear what I have to say, too.”
He leaned forward as if to share a sacred piece of wisdom with me. “You’re being an idiot.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Pretty sure that’s not classified as advice giving.”
“I told you I’m still working on the sage thing.”
I picked at the leftover mural paint on my nails and tried not to wonder what Davis had confided to Shep. Had it really been so cut-and-dried for him? So black-and-white? Or had he lain awake these last few nights, too? Had he wondered if another compromise could work?
Or had he simply been able to slice our relationship out of his heart the way I’d tried—and failed—to do?
“You won’t find someone better—if that’s what you’re thinking,” Shep said, a fist resting on his bar. “I’d bet my restaurant on that.”
“I know I won’t,” I conceded on a hard breath. “But please, if your next piece of stellar advice is about greener grass . . . then feel free to save it for a paying customer.”
“Nope, unfortunately, that one’s not in my repertoire yet.”
Probably for the best. I scooted off my stool and lifted my dish off the pristine countertop. “For the record, Shep, I really do wish you the best with the opening. Lenox could use a feel-good restaurant like this.”
I could sense his gaze trailing after me as I set the dish in a basin of sudsy water on the opposite side of the bar.
“I told you I have six brothers, right?”
I gave him a questioning look. We’d had that discussion at length. “Yes.”
“Well, that’s not actually true. I miscounted, I have seven brothers. One of my own choice—Davis Carter.”
I pressed my eyelids shut, hoping to steel my heart against whatever emotion he was about to elicit from me.
“I stood with Davis at his wedding and then again at Stephanie’s funeral. I’ve watched him raise a kid on his own like a champ, and I’ve watched him rebuild that old clinic from the ground up. But last fall I watched him invest his time, sweat, and finances into a project considered to be ‘too high risk to yield a good return.’” Shep looped the dry towel back around his neck, tugging on both ends, all amusement on his face swiped clean. “During one of my more costly remodel blunders, I asked him if he regretted signing those papers with me. You wanna know what he said?”
My nod betrayed me.
“He said, ‘I care more about investing in the right person than I do about the right project.’”
Shep tipped his head and moved behind the bar. “Just thought you’d like to know who you’re about to drive away from.” He gave me a final salute and started to whistle as if to expedite my leave.
I hadn’t even made it halfway to my car before the worst heartache of my life set in, along with the reality of all that I was leaving behind. And for the first time in nearly two decades, the thrill of exploring new places, new people, new towns . . . didn’t feel much like freedom at all.
Instead, it felt a whole lot more like cowardice.
I sagged against my hood, tears blurring the shapes of the buildings and shops that had become as familiar as my sister’s front porch.
In my attempt to keep all my options open, to live a limitless life, I’d neglected the one thing that could ever truly bring me freedom.
Love.
And suddenly, the fear of staying wasn’t nearly as crushing as the fear of running away from the hope I’d found here.
After a failed attempt at opening my car door, I finally slumped into the driver’s seat, placed my head on the steering wheel, and did the one thing I hadn’t done since I was a teenage girl. I asked for God’s direction. For His guidance. For His help.
And then I listened.
Not to my artist’s instincts.
And not to the tainted words of my father.
But to the voice of the same divine God who cared enough to lead me to Lenox.