Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Jesse

I 've been getting my tea at the Coffee Loft every day because it's important to support local businesses. For no other reason.

Definitely not the one standing with her back to the front door, staring into the distance with that daydreamy gaze—the same one she gave me after the motorcycle ride and kiss all those years ago. At least that's what I'd like to believe.

Tallula is so still, it's like she's posing for a painting.

The most I know how to paint is a fence or drywall, but if I were to create a masterpiece, it would look like Tallula with her little round chin, perfect nose, plush lips, and that tiny beauty mark on the left side of her face between her lip and her cheek.

From time to time, I recognize a certain sadness in her eyes that suggests she found what she was looking for, but it wasn't what she expected.

A big part of me doesn't want her to remember the dare—not because the kiss wasn't amazing. But because I'm ashamed of the guy I was back then. Maybe we can build it new.

"How you brewin'?" I ask with my best rendition of a New York tough guy accent. I've been told mine is more Southern tough guy.

Tallula's expression crinkles with a smile and she laughs. "I've got a latte problems."

I smile because her laughter is a small miracle with its tinkle that rises and becomes round and bright like the sun. "Can I help?"

"Something is missing."

I lengthen my spine to my full height. "Has there been another theft?"

"No, nothing like that."

Could it be the lack of consistent customers? I don't ask though because it might be a sore spot. When I drive by during my patrols, it's not exactly a hive of activity over here. Hogwash residents tend to be wary of new things...and people.

Back in high school, Tallula was the good girl princess—pretty, popular, and unattainable. That's what my cousin told me—I never mentioned the bike ride to him. The chatter in town is that Tallula, aka Llula, still takes herself too seriously and thinks she's better than everyone else.

I say we give her a chance.

She taps her finger on her chin, deep in thought.

I follow her gaze around the space which has a slightly unfinished feel to it. However, the Coffee Loft hasn't been open long and it will take a while to go from brand new to comfortably lived in. As it stands, it's a bit empty in a modern, minimalist kind of way. But I see potential, especially when I look up at the lofts and nooks for people to visit with friends, study, work, and read.

Giving her head a little shake she says, "How could I forget, I'm working. Can I fix you a tea?"

My smile grows. "I'll take a London Fog, please." I drop a generous tip in the jar. The label changes every few days and today it reads Tips Are Fa-brew-lous!

When I order this, she always makes one for herself too. It's hard not to imagine the lipstick stain she leaves on her mug...on my lips.

"Any developments on the case?" she asks while frothing the milk.

I wrap my knuckles on the counter. "Still working on it. Can't puzzle out why the person who stole your license plate cover took the extra time and effort to fasten the license plate back in place."

"Is license plate theft worse than license plate cover crime?"

I chuckle. "I'd have to check the state statutes."

"Maybe it was a very specific kind of dare. Take the cover, leave the plate."

"Could be." Now, I tap my chin, trying to figure this out.

"Or a spy or criminal back in California embedded some kind of high-tech gadget that contained valuable data onto my license plate cover—made to blend in with the rhinestones. Unwittingly, I transported it here, where a contact was waiting to retrieve it." She presses her hand to her forehead dramatically. "What if it fell into the wrong hands?"

I can't help but smile. "You're good at this."

Her shoulders bounce in a cute way. "I've seen a lot of movies. Played a few roles. If I were in the part of the small-town swoony hero deputy, I'd get in the mind of the criminal."

The thing about me is I'm at home with thugs and troublemakers. I usually can get inside their heads because I was one once, but the motive here evades me.

However, Tallula's comment about the swoony hero deputy catches up to me at the same time she says, "Heavens to Betsy! I got it! We need fall décor. Betsy was dressing her window for the season the first day I arrived. That's what's missing in here."

Coming around the counter, Tallula hops up and down, arms extended as if about to hug me, and then goes still. "I mean, thank you for helping me. I had to get into the mind of a set dresser."

I tilt my head to the side in question.

"A movie industry professional who decorates a set to portray a specific and realistic emotional experience—it's autumn, sweater weather. People want to drink warm beverages and feel cozy. If this were a movie set, we'd want people to feel welcome, comfortable."

"That sounds like a good plan." I lift my to-go cup in a cheers gesture and turn to go when an idea of my own pops into my mind. I'd like to say it's the kind when the local deputy musters up the courage to ask the prettiest girl in town to meet him for a coffee, er, tea.

"Hasta barista," I call to Tallula.

Her laughter at my goofy hasta la vista coffee pun follows me out the door and fills me with light and ease even though it appears there are showers in the forecast.

Later that night, a rustling sound cuts through the usual creaks and groans of the old B&B that I've grown accustomed to.

We advised the residents of Hogwash Holler to conceal their shiny objects until we catch the culprits. Thelma sleeps like the dead—once, Betsy called, frantic because she hadn't shown up at the salon. I did a wellness check and had to use the B&B's master key to gain access to her room.

Thelma frightened me. The woman was as still as stone—doesn't help that she's exceedingly pale. But she was just sleeping. I told her she should go as Morticia Addams for Halloween.

The pattering of footsteps from downstairs turns into rhythmic pacing. At present, the only guests at Pigs in a Blanket are Tallula and me. I don't want to get involved in her personal life, but Thelma has a strict rule about non-residents here after hours.

My sense of protection and, fine, curiosity, get the better of me. If Tallula has a guy down there with her, he better be a good one—not a bad boy. But I hate that idea just as much.

I pull on a T-shirt over my flannel pajama pants and stalk downstairs. Keeping close to the walls like I'm clearing a house, a muted red glow comes from the kitchen.

I hear a garbled chatter sound and then a groan. We've either been invaded by raccoons or the Bling Ring has gotten bold, breaking and entering.

In one swift motion, I pivot, flick on the light, and say, "Put your hands where I can see them."

"Don't shoot," Tallula jolts, startled.

At least, I think that's what she said. She has what looks like a lit-up mouthguard with a large disc on the end protruding from her mouth. A wire trails down her pink and cream checkered sleep set to a little receiver attached at the waist.

I holster my finger gun. Glad I left my sidearm upstairs.

"What's—?" I point from my mouth to hers.

Eyes wide, she turns abruptly as if remembering she had some sort of device in her mouth. When she faces me again, it's gone. "Oh, um, that was my tooth-whitening device. You know, my pearly white smile helps pay the bills. Er, it did." She frames her chin with her hands and grins.

"Thought we had an intruder."

"Nope. Just little ol' me." Her hair is smooth as if she styled it before she came down here. I have no doubt mine is standing up on all ends .

"Did I wake you up? I'm so sorry. I was just—" She toes the floor, then closes the refrigerator door.

"No, I'm sorry. Carry on with your fridge forage. I'm still getting used to another person staying here. If you haven't noticed, Thelma is very quiet."

Tallula nods bashfully as if her parents caught her sneaking out after curfew. "I was just looking for some ingredients."

"Midnight snack?" I could go for one.

"Comfort food." She lowers into an oak chair. "I'm not going to stay here long. I won't get stuck. I just hit a rough patch. You know?"

"I've had a few of those."

"Remember when we were talking about set dressing earlier?"

I nod, sitting down at the table too.

"Since coming back to Hogwash, I feel like I've been playing the most challenging role of my life. I told myself I'd never return. I expected the second I arrived in Hollywood, I'd magically turn into someone else." She looks down at her hands, hiding a vulnerable expression.

I risk asking, "What if instead of playing a role or expecting to be someone else, you just be yourself?"

She snorts through her nose. "Like a woman who can afford to eat beignets? I was looking for the ingredients. I used to make them for the Cameron High School bake sale. I never got them wrong. They were loyal and true and everyone's favorite."

I recall sabotaging one of those bake sales with water balloons. "I wish I'd been able to try one." Wish I'd been different.

"If you could have one thing, besides a beignet, what would it be?" I ask.

"Are we talking food or?—?"

"Anything. Think big. The more audacious the better."

She's quiet, so I answer, hoping it'll embolden her. I know it immediately because I think about it every day. "To live a quiet but fulfilling life with my family."

Tallula glances at my left hand as if double-checking whether I'm married.

"My future family," I add.

"Is there a soon-to-be Mrs. Lawson?"

I chuckle. "No. Not even close. I'm staying here while I fix up my grandparents' old place. My father—" I wave my hand dismissively. "It's a complete restoration of an old brick Acadian-style home." Once upon a time, it was my grandmother's dream house complete with high ceilings and a front porch with pillars, large windows, and a view of the yard.

"Sounds nice. Reminds me of Mara's remodel. So that's why you're staying here," Tallula echoes as if something clicks into place in her mind.

"How about you? If you could have anything what would it be?" I repeat.

"I really want a beignet, but if I could have anything...I thought I wanted to be famous. To make it big. To be anywhere but here. But maybe I need to rethink that. Perhaps I could use a renovation too." She says the last part softly then goes quiet for a long moment.

I want to hear her laugh. See her smile. I'm not sure how I can help. Getting to my feet, I say, "We don't have to worry about waking Thelma up. Let's hunt down the ingredients for those beignets. Talking about them gave me a craving." ...And for her too.

"The bad boy wants to bake?"

I go still. "I'm not a bad boy anymore. But sure. Why not?"

A grin peeks from the corners of her lips. "It's a top-secret recipe, so don't watch too carefully."

"If anyone needs to do the watching, it's you. I might get the salt and sugar mixed up."

"Hmm. Maybe you're better off being my assistant."

"Whatever you need, Princess." As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel the weight of them as if they have more meaning than me just offering to help Tallula bake in the middle of the night.