Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Tallula

M y sister pulls into the parking lot at the same time as me. After spending time with her kids, I have a hunch that the Coffee Loft is a way of making sure she can mainline bean brain juice every day.

She gives me a pair of her sneakers. Swallowing my pride, because not even Moink would approve, I go inside to find assembled chairs and tables replaced the stacks of cardboard. The cream and sugar station sits toward the left and a retro fridge for cold drinks is beside it.

I'm excited for my sister but haven't quite pinned down the vibe of the shop. Does it have an eclectic atmosphere? Is it a mom-and-pop type place? Modern and hip? Or is it pure warm, cozy, comfort?

Even though my coffee order from my favorite French café in LA is typically a moyenne single shot split (half espresso and half coffee) with a pump of sugar-free vanilla syrup, whipped coconut cream-extra frothy, and a sprinkle of pumpkin spice on top during this time of year, something inside nudges me toward the warm, cozy, comfort style.

I'm about to ask my sister, but she's on the phone. "Greta, I am so happy for you and Neal. So, what name did you decide on?"

She pauses, listening. Greta is one of my sister's friends from college and was a bridesmaid at her wedding. They're both super smart and have a don't mess with me edge.

"Fire and Ice? I love it."

It takes me a moment to realize they're talking about a coffee shop and not a baby.

"That makes sense with the whole hockey theme and warm beverage focus." There's a pause, and then my sister says, "We'll have the usual Coffee Loft menu."

That means no doughnuts. Why do I have a sudden craving? I haven't had one in years—despite the commercials I did for Donut Depot. I have curves, but the unspoken rule in Hollywood is not to have too many because the camera already adds weight. I avoided doughnuts and a lot of other things for my career—just like Peter used me for his.

Deflating like the air mattress around midnight, I think about what my ex said after my lawyer contacted me about our marriage license. He'd said there were a hundred women like me, hungry for the spotlight, but only room for one. I wouldn't get my fifteen minutes of fame.

I thought Peter was the one. Turns out he was just playing a role—said our marriage was a smart move for his career.

As if directed to go to his mark for a scene, my phone beeps with a text from him, all but begging me to talk, so that he can explain. He types that he has a lot on the line. Says he misses me.

I remind myself that he's an actor too.

A female voice floats to me. "Is here really so bad?"

I blink, confused as I pull myself out of the text hole and stuff my phone in my purse.

My sister says, "You look miserable."

"Could be the spotty sleep or the fact that I recently learned my marriage was a sham."

Mara slides onto the overstuffed chenille lazy chair next to me. "Do you want to talk about it?"

I lift my eyebrows in surprise, but Mara isn't the heart-to-heart type. I haven't told anyone the full story. "Not especially."

Her expression softens in a rare moment of sympathy. When she was in college, I was convinced she'd sold herself to science and was part robot. Now that she has three kids, I see glimpses of her human side.

"I'd rather pretend that Peter never happened."

"Do you want to talk about how much you hate Hogwash Holler?"

The words prick something inside. "It's a little rough around the edges, but I don't hate it here. It's only temporary."

I know three things about this town:

1. It's a place most people can't find on a map—except for the scavenger hunters, however, in recent years, that's mostly fallen out of memory.

2. The locals are just as nosy, pokey, and proddy as ever—Molly especially.

3. If you stay here long enough, you'll be forgotten—my greatest fear.

Mara surreptitiously looks around to be sure no one is listening. "Never thought I'd be back, that's for sure." She gets quiet. "When I got to Yale, I told people I was from New Orleans. I was so ashamed of this town. Funny how it welcomed me back with open arms—aside from whatever Molly was squeaking about the other day. I think she was just fishing for a scoop to write about in her paper."

"She always interviewed me for the Cheer Section of the Cameron High Weekly after football games. Eventually, she'd ask about whoever I was dating." Then I recall something from the depths of my mind. Just before graduation, she asked if I'd still date athletes or now that high school was over, whether I'd venture into bad boy territory. Did she know about the afternoon with Jesse? Does he remember?

Probably not. I'm just another pretty face.

Mara continues, "When I got to college, I practiced pronouncing words without an accent. You hide yours well."

"I do not have an accent," I say, enunciating every syllable.

We both giggle.

"You said y'all the other day, and if I'm not mistaken, you held the gaze of a certain deputy sheriff. Though I suppose you're used to that."

That little digital heart blinks red. But I tell myself it's because I'm on a most wanted list for criminals. He was probably trying to figure out if I matched the sketch posted on the wall in the police precinct. I don't want to go to jail. I'd look terrible in an orange jumpsuit. Though, I can pull off stripes. So far, Peter hasn't filed charges against me for, um, the things I did in a fit of scornful rage.

"I don't know what you mean," I demure.

"Jesse couldn't take his eyes off you."

That wasn't what I expected her to say. Still, I deny all charges—of the criminal and romantical variety. "Deputy Lawson only wanted to hear my side of the story."

What I won't refute is that if I had to be arrested, I wouldn't mind him doing the honors. His dark eyes remind me of cinnamon and of easier times. The motorcycle ride started as a dare. He thought I was chicken. I raised the ante and said wherever we go, we ride back in the dark. Mostly, I didn't want anyone to see me. But after detention, perhaps I was emboldened to break the rules one more time—or I was avoiding facing my parents.

But that was it. We never spoke again. Except now. I've seen him every day since I've returned to Hogwash Holler, we live in the same building, and he owes me a London Fog. If under oath, I couldn't lie. I don't entirely mind.

But there are three things I know about Jesse Lawson :

1. He had a chip on his shoulder in high school, and I think there are still a few chunks he's working on brushing off.

2. The man is a bit of a mystery—I can't help but speculate about his story and what on earth brought him back to Hogwash Holler and join law enforcement, of all things.

3. He has the freshest scent—a clean uniform, spicy aftershave, and leather (must be the patrol boots).

"Good chat." Mara jumps to her feet and checks her watch. "Grand opening in two hours. I thought we'd be scrambling around, trying to get things done last minute."

"That never would've happened because you're you."

She smiles and shows me the ropes—where to stock the items behind the counter, how to operate the coffee and espresso machines, and how much milk to add to the stainless steel frothing cup.

I'm a tad nervous but tell myself I'm merely playing a barista in a romcom about a girl with big dreams who falls for a local guy—he drinks coffee, not tea. Just saying.

Voices rise and fall from beyond the front doors as people gather.

Mara says, "I think we're ready."

"You've done an amazing job. I'm proud of you, sis."

"Thanks for coming for the ribbon cutting and to help. It's a family affair."

Just then, her phone rings. It's Mara's husband, Jake, calling in to watch from his deployment. They chat for a moment, and then we head outside.

On TV sets, we'd sometimes film a winter scene in the dead heat of August and have to pretend to be shivering in the cold. Today is the perfect fall day, a rarity in September for Louisiana. The air is crisp, the sun bright but not sweltering, and a slight breeze blows away the suggestion of swampy air.

I hold Mara's device aloft so Jake gets a prime view. After the kids say hello, their babysitter corrals them to the other side of the ribbon along with some locals, including a few of the nearby shop owners. Betsy waves at me. Molly and her sidekick, Roxanne, are here—one records a video while the other snaps photos—no doubt for social media. It's a small group, all things considered with it being part of the famed Coffee Loft franchise.

Given my connections, I should've brought in some folks, made a commercial, or something. I've seen bigger turnouts at product launches, including Tiffany lamp reproductions where I acted as the "Light Girl" turning them on at the precise moment.

I should've livestreamed the event to get the attention of my social media followers. Surely, some of them would come out here. Then again, I don't want Peter to know where I am. Is that selfish?

But this is a small town and while the coffee will be great, it might take a while to spread the word. I can certainly help with that.

My heart pinches because our parents aren't here either—unless Mara didn't invite them. Before I question that too much, Deputy Lawson tips his hat at me. He claps as Mara cuts the ribbon. She wears a smile, but I imagine she's disappointed. I would be if there were only about a dozen people at the premiere of one of my TV shows. Though, Mother and Father never attended those either.

For the next few minutes, Mara is busy with well-wishers. I go inside, wanting to avoid the citizen social media reports—not that I expect Molly or Roxanne to have an active following.

I take my position behind the counter. The first customer who saunters up is none other than our local deputy sheriff.

"So, Tallula, you're back in Hogwash, gracing us with your presence and already causing trouble."

I frown, unnerved by this line of questioning, er, statement-making. "What's that supposed to mean? Also, call me Llula."

"Okay, Princess." Even representing the law, he still has a bit of that old cocky swagger that I remember.

I purse my lips because Jesse calling me Princess is unacceptable. Before I can correct him again, the two-way radio on his shoulder crackles. I make out the name Halfpenny .

"Affirmative. Can it wait? Over."

The static makes it hard to understand the reply, but Jesse says, "How about that London Fog?"

Suddenly nervous, I glance around the room. I hoped that the first orders of the day would be limited to regular coffees while I get my bearings.

"That means you'd have to come back here."

"Would your sister object?"

I glance through the window where she's having her photo taken, and given the hints she was giving me about Jesse, I'm afraid she'd encourage it.

"Fine, but be quick."

He slides behind the counter. "Making a London Fog is an art form."

He meets my gaze with an amused side smile as if he knows something I don't. In high school, the girls who had a thing for bad boys thought it was infuriating. I have to agree.

As Jesse drops the loose-leaf Earl Grey tea into the steeper, he pours out some milk. "Best to let it adjust to room temperature."

"You really have this down to a science."

"More like a love language."

Those little red hearts inside flicker. "I'll try it just this once."

"That's all you'll need to be hooked."

When Mara and I were back here earlier, it didn't feel so cramped. Jesse is larger in stature than Peter, who'd pay a lot of money to be as fit as our local deputy.

Why am I thinking about that? Oh, right. I'm tired. I need more caffeine...and of course, Jesse is here to help with that.

"Everything all right, Princess?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"

"You're wearing a daydream gaze."

"A what?"

He chuckles. "It's just a certain kind of look. You had it in sixth-period chemistry junior year."

"You remember my expression? "

"It was hard not to notice, not that I was looking, much."

"No, you were probably wondering what chemicals you could get away with stealing so you could build an incendiary device or equally devious."

"Also that."

Once steeped, I watch as he pours the tea into two cups, dissolves the sugar, adds a splash of vanilla, and then makes the foam. After preparing the London Fogs, he passes me one.

"How do I know this isn't poisoned with radioactive waste?" I ask, suspicious because of our conversation.

"First, you watched me make it. Second, I'm a police officer. Third, why on earth would I do that?" The glimpse of the bad boy I thought I saw moments ago vanishes. Now, his eyes pinch with concern.

I take my cup and our hands brush—same as when he passed me Moink the other day. Warmth rushes up my arm and I tell myself it's the hot tea.

Lifting his cup in a salute, he says, "To bad boys and good girls. Never change, Princess."

"And what about you?" I ask.

"Oh, I've changed. I admit that I'm glad you didn't recognize me when you got back to town."

His gaze holds mine for a long moment. I realize it's probably because he wants me to try the London Fog.

Just then, his radio speaker crackles again. "Duty calls. Want to loan me Moink?"

The dog's eyes get even rounder than they normally are .

"Do I want to ask why you'd bring my dog on a call?"

"Next time." He tips his hat and the wicked side grin he wears softens like he remembers he's not the local outlaw, but the law enforcer.

But that also means there will be a next time. A combination of excitement and trepidation swirls inside me as I sip the slightly spicy, slightly sweet, and very smooth London Fog.