On Dean's Watch. Linda Winstead Jones
It was impossible to hide in a town like this one.
Yet at the same time…it was the perfect place to hide. Was that why Reva Macklin had come here? Was she hiding?
An older woman with her hair in a tight bun greeted him at the door as the couple she’d been speaking to walked into the restaurant. She held a small book in her hand. “Good afternoon, young man. May I have your name?”
Sonny from his landlady and now young man. Dean was beginning to feel like a twelve-year-old. “I don’t have a reservation,” he said.
The woman pursed her mouth and glanced down at her list. “Well, that is a problem. Would you like to make a reservation for next week? I believe we have a seat available on—” her eyes rolled up momentarily as she pondered “—Wednesday and Friday.”
Dean started to tell her to forget it. He could mill around, look at the patrons, watch those who arrived at the side parking lot.
And then the smell hit him.
He took a deep breath. “What is that?”
The lady lifted her pert nose and inhaled. A smile broke over her face. “Fried chicken, stuffed peppers, mashed potatoes and gravy, biscuits, fried okra, fried squash, stewed apples, broccoli and rice, creamed corn, green beans and fudge pie.” She leaned in close. “I made the pies today. And the stewed apples.”
“Next week will be fine,” Dean said as his stomach growled. “Wednesday.”
She turned a few pages in her book and poised her pencil above a new page. “And your name?”
“Dean Sinclair. I’m staying across the street.”
The old woman’s head lifted slowly, her eyes sparkled, and she did not pencil in his reservation for the following Wednesday. “Well, now, isn’t that interesting.”
Chapter 2
Reva no longer needed to act as hostess at one of the tables in her restaurant. The ladies who worked for her took care of that duty, joining the guests for a meal and telling them all about the history of the house and the town. That was just as well, since Reva had always been more comfortable behind the scenes. People loved her restaurant, and the food she served was always well received. These days she made a tidy profit from her cookbook, as well as the restaurant.
But no one could eat this way every day and not pay a price.
The guests were being seated when Edna burst into Reva’s second-floor office. “There you are. Thank goodness!”
Reva could not understand Edna’s excitement at finding her; she was always in her office at one o’clock.
“I hate to ask it of you,” Miss Edna said graciously, “but could you possibly take my seat this afternoon? I have table two.”
Reva rose, setting aside her menus for the following week. “Are you all right?” Edna rarely missed a meal. She was one of those lucky people who could eat like this every day and show no ill effects. Her health was fabulous, with a cholesterol count the envy of many younger women, and she never gained a pound.
“I have a bit of a headache,” Edna said softly. “Nothing to be concerned about, but an aspirin and a short nap sounds pretty good right about now.”
“Of course.” Reva did not consider herself as entertaining as her employees, who knew so much about this area and its history. Still, there had been a time when she’d performed hostess duties six days a week. She’d always done and would continue to do whatever was needed to make this place a success.
“Lovely.” Edna took Reva’s arm as she left her office. “I did squeeze one extra customer in,” she said absently as they walked down the stairs. “He looked very hungry, and I just couldn’t make myself turn him away.”
“An extra?”
“There was plenty of room,” Edna whispered. “Table two is really the largest of all the tables, you know. Well, except for table four, which can seat as many as thirteen, as you well know. Still, table two is certainly large enough for one more hungry young man.”
But…an extra? Edna was usually such a stickler for the rules. If you have no reservation and there’s no space available, you eat somewhere else, thank you very much.
“Be nice to him,” Edna said as they neared the room where table two was located. “He’s our new neighbor.” With that she released Reva’s arm and very quickly disappeared out the front door.
Well, crap.
Reva stood in the doorway and watched as two young waiters placed heavy platters and bowls laden with food on the large lazy Susan at the center of the oversize round table that usually seated ten. Today it was set for eleven. She quickly sized up the patrons.
Three seated couples were obviously tourists. They ranged in age from about thirty-five to sixty-five. Sandals, shorts, T-shirts and the surprised way they stared at the wealth of food being deposited on the table gave them away. A family of three, regulars who drove up from Alabama at least once a month, smiled in anticipation as the food was placed before them. Sharon Phillips and her husband, Doug, sat on either side of their only child, shy, nineteen-year-old Tracy.
The tenth guest, the man Reva had very nearly accosted with a Bradford pear limb last night, was seated next to the chair that had been left empty for her. He wasn’t ogling the food as the others were.
He was looking at her.
Oh, Edna would pay for this! This was a blatant, annoying and absolutely unnecessary attempt at matchmaking. The extra guest was handsome and hungry, and it was certainly no mistake that he’d been seated next to her. Headache, indeed. Reva resigned herself to enduring the meal without ever taking her revenge. How on earth could she scold a woman old enough to be her grandmother?
She crossed her fingers and prayed that Dean wouldn’t recognize her. It had been dark last night, and her hair had been tucked up under a cap. Even though she shouldn’t feel guilty—the man had been snooping on her property—she would feel better if the subject never came up again.
“Good afternoon,” she said, smiling as she entered the room that had once been a music parlor. A few antique instruments were used as decoration in the room, as well as a few pieces of the original furniture. One of the waiters stood nearby the large round table, in case a platter or bowl was ever in danger of being emptied.
“Reva!” Sharon Phillips smiled widely in welcome. “What a treat. Why, we don’t see you often these days.”
“I’m afraid Miss Edna has a headache. I’m not nearly as entertaining as she is, so I hope you will all bear with me.” Reva lowered herself into her chair. Dean sat to her left; one of the tourists, a woman with bright-red hair, sat at her right.
The patrons filled their plates as the lazy Susan turned slowly, stopped for a moment and then moved on only to stop again. Reva suggested that everyone at the table introduce themselves as the food drifted by. She took a little bit of everything herself, as the dishes spun slowly past, very purposely not looking at the man beside her. She didn’t look even when they reached for the biscuits at the same time and his hand brushed hers. Briefly. Very, very, briefly. And still, there was a spark she could not deny. No! There could be no spark of any kind.
As she’d suspected, the three couples were all on vacation. Two were retired, and the other couple was taking two weeks to drive through Tennessee and Georgia. Her Alabama regulars introduced themselves and raved to the others about the food and Reva’s cookbook.
And then it was his turn.
She had avoided looking directly at the man at her side, but it was impossible to ignore him. He looked out of place in his dark suit and striped tie and spotless white shirt. Reva had a feeling it didn’t matter what he wore; Dean was not a man to be ignored. He had a solid, undeniably strong presence. There were moments when she had to force herself not to look his way.
She