Wanted: The Perfect Mom. T. R. McClure
“What can I get for you boys?” Holly asked.
The first one, tall and lanky, grinned at her. “Two mocha lattes, one nonfat and one—” His green eyes flicked up to the menu board and then back at Holly “—fat.”
Holly bit back a smile as she glanced at Carolyn, already pulling milk from the refrigerator underneath the espresso machine. “One skinny mocha latte and one fat mocha latte, Carolyn.”
She didn’t miss a beat as she poured whole milk into one pitcher and nonfat milk into the other. “Coming right up.” Carolyn slipped the first pitcher under the wand and the burble of milk steaming filled the room.
After paying with a polite “Thank you, ma’am,” the tall teenager moved to the end of the counter. The second teen stared at the board, his gaze flicking back and forth from the board to the wallet in his hand. “Two black coffees.”
“Would you like our special house blend, the Colombian, or the Kenyan?”
The boy continued to stare at the menu board.
“I recommend the Wildflower Blend. If you like you can add some cream and sugar at the condiment table.”
The teen nodded and laid a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Thanks.”
“Thank you.”
Holly poured the coffee into ceramic mugs just as Carolyn handed the lattes to the tall teen. Holly came up behind her sister-in-law. “Do you know them?”
Carolyn crossed her arms and studied the four teens surrounding the coffee table. “The tall one is Tom Johnson’s son.” She leaned back, her lips inches from Holly’s ear. “You know, the bank president.”
Of course, Holly thought, that explained the expensive jeans and the confident attitude. Money did that for a person. “What about the other one?”
Carolyn thought a moment and then waved a finger in the air. “Matt McClain’s boy.”
Holly watched the muscular boy sitting quietly while the Johnson boy and the Black girl talked animatedly. Not as tall as the bank president’s son, the McClain boy was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans.
“Matt works at the electronics factory, right?”
“Not anymore. The plant shut down just before Christmas and he got laid off. They have four kids. I think this one’s the oldest.”
“Huh. Good-looking kid. He’s built like a wrestler.” Holly grabbed a bar towel and wiped up a spill. She noticed a ceramic bowl by the cash register. Bright yellow letters spelled out Tip Jar. A yellow slipper-shaped flower grew between the two words. “Where did this come from?”
Carolyn tilted her head. “I made it in my kiln.”
Holly raised her eyebrows and gave her sister-in-law an appraising glance. “Aren’t you the creative one?”
Carolyn smoothed the front of the chocolate-brown apron with the Wildflower logo on the front. “I’m an art teacher. I hope I’m creative.”
A memory of Carolyn, eight months pregnant with the twins and accepting her college diploma, flashed into Holly’s mind. How did she do it? “Well, if we ever get any tips, you three should divide them. Bad enough you’re working for free.”
“Just for a couple months till you get on your feet. No worries, sis-in-law. But I should go pick up the twins. They had a scout meeting after school and if I leave now, I should get there just in time.” She untied her apron and pulled it over her head, dislodging a clip. Curly chestnut hair spilled over her shoulders.
Sonny came around the end of the counter and clasped his wife around the waist. “Oh, I like it when you let your hair down, baby.” Fourteen years of marriage and three children had done nothing to cool their obvious affection. High school sweethearts, Sonny had waited for Carolyn to graduate while he’d started a construction business.
Holly pushed the couple toward the seating area. “Staff only behind the counter.”
Sonny backed away slowly, his arms still locked around his wife’s waist. “I’m staff. Who do you think built this counter, girlie?”
“I know you did, all great and powerful contractor brother.” She turned at the sound of the bell over the door.
A willowy blonde woman entered, looking as if she’d just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. With her hair in a French twist, she wore a navy blue pantsuit with a pale blue shell.
Holly returned to the cash register and studied the new arrival. Somehow she knew the woman wasn’t a local.
She tried to catch Carolyn’s eye as she hurried toward the door but instead caught Sonny’s.
He pointed a finger at her as he held the door for his wife. “I haven’t forgotten about that other deal, Holly. I’ll be back.”
Holly stuck her tongue out at her brother but pulled it back just as the blonde approached the counter.
“I’ll have a nonfat cappuccino, extra hot, ma’am.” The woman’s Southern accent was slight but recognizable. Diamond studs twinkled in her ears.
Holly pulled the milk from the refrigerator and poured. Lifting the metal pitcher to the wand, she puzzled over her customer while keeping watch on the thermometer. Probably visiting family. Tom Johnson’s sister worked down South somewhere. She frothed the milk and, with her other hand, pulled a shot of espresso. Giving the concoction a quick stir, she set the cup in front of the woman who had placed a few bills on the counter.
“Keep the change, honey.” She walked to one of the chairs, her high heels tapping, and she sat, set the cup on the table and pulled a laptop out of a large leather purse.
Holly couldn’t take her eyes off the woman. She rested her hands on the open drawer of the cash register. The woman sat with her legs crossed at the ankle so just a portion of red sole showed.
“Well, are you?”
Holly jumped when she discovered her mother at her elbow. “You scared me to death, Mom. I thought you were in the kitchen.”
“I was.” A crease appeared between Rose’s brows. “I asked you a question and you were miles away.”
Holly’s hands were still resting on the drawer. What was she doing? Change. Keep the change. She removed three quarters from the drawer, edged around her mother and dropped the change in the tip jar with a clang.
Her mother pursed her lips, closed the cash drawer and eyed her steadily.
Holly rested her hands on her mother’s shoulders. “Sorry, Mom. I was thinking. What were you saying?”
Rose’s face relaxed and she wrapped one arm around Holly’s waist and pointed to the display case with the other. “We’re completely sold out of whoopie pies and no bakes. Did you order more for tomorrow?”
Holly peered into the display case. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “You’d think people would want something like scones and biscotti. No bakes are so simple. One minute on the stove, plop a spoonful on waxed paper and you’re done. I can’t cook but even I can make no bakes.”
“Buying is easier.” Rose took a crumb-covered plate from the case. “We still like our old-fashioned goodies but nobody bakes anymore. People are busy, and making cookies is just too much work.” She reached into the open case.
“Mom, I’ll do that.” Holly put a hand on her mother’s back.
Rose waved her off and said, “I’m fine. Why don’t you talk to Sue at the bakery? She might have to hire more help.” Withdrawing her head from the case, her mother put a hand on her hip and smiled. “Now, isn’t that nice? Your business is providing work to people in town.”
“Tell that to Dad,” Holly said.
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