Carolina Blues by Virginia Kantra Read Free Book Online Page A

carpenter following construction work up and down the coast.
He
had paid attention to her, Jane remembered. To her breasts. Her body.
    She could still remember a time when she had wanted that. Welcomed it. When she hadn’t been so tired and preoccupied and terrified of her own bad judgment that sex still seemed like a good idea. Or at least a possibility.
    Those times were gone.
    Jane’s Sweet Tea House came into view, the blue tin roof and wide, welcoming porch just visible between the trees. The corners of Jane’s mouth softened.
    For six years, she had slaved, saved, and borrowed to turn the bakery into the home she’d longed for as a child. To build a future for her son filled with warmth and smiles and the smell of good things wafting from the kitchen. She’d painted the walls herself, chocolate brown and wheat yellow, and scavenged, stripped, and repainted every table and chair. The resulting décor was as eclectic as the buildings around the harbor, a comforting blend of old and new, weathered charm and practicality, from the antique cash register to the sleek refrigerated cases.
    Maybe it wasn’t perfect. But it was hers. Hers and Aidan’s.
    She ran a practiced eye over an unbussed table under the trees, the fingerprints smearing the front window. Since Jane’s part-time help had decamped last week to follow her boyfriend to Wilmington, the bakery had been short staffed.
    And at the moment, it was crowded with business. Her errand had taken longer than she had planned. Poor Thalia must be swamped.
    Grabbing the dirty plates from the picnic table, Jane hurried inside.
    And stopped.
    There was a customer operating the espresso machine. Behind the counter, which was totally off-limits. Lauren Something, with the piercings and puckish smile.
    She’d been in every day this week, Jane recalled, occupying the same corner table with her laptop and her phone. Always alone. Unlike some patrons who thought a single cup of coffee entitled them to sit all day, this one actually ordered food—a scone or muffin in the morning, a croissant and fruit at lunch, sometimes a cupcake in the afternoon.
    Jane appreciated every one of her customers. She liked feeding people. She was proud of her pastries. And she had overhead to pay.
    None of which excused a customer’s presence behind the Cimbali machine.
    Jane normally cringed from conflict. But the Sweet Tea House was hers. “What are you doing?”
    And where on earth was Thalia?
    “Oh, hi.” Lauren looked up, smiling, before setting a tall glass on the takeaway counter. “Iced mocha cappuccino.”
    “And an Americano,” added the woman waiting for her order.
    “Coming right up,” Lauren said cheerfully. She glanced at Jane. “If that’s okay with you.”
    “Um.” Jane blinked, fascinated and frankly envious of the other woman’s ease. “All right. Where’s Thalia?”
    “Kitchen,” Lauren said. “The timer went off.”
    “Right.” Jane slid behind the register to take the next order, watching out of the corner of her eye as Lauren tamped and pulled two shots.
    She seemed to know what she was doing. Was she looking for a job? Was that why she sat day after day in the shop, manning her computer and phone? But no, she’d said she was a writer.
    Unless that was the sort of thing people said when they couldn’t get other work. Real work.
    Jane rang up and plated two croissants—ham and Swiss, spinach and feta, a side of fruit, a chocolate chip cookie—as Lauren poured the espresso over hot water, put a lid on the cup, and set it on the counter.
    “You look like you’ve done this before,” Jane said.
    “I used to work as a barista.” Lauren stroked the gleaming Cimbali, the way Jane would pat a loaf of bread. “Your grinder needs adjusting, but you’ve got yourself a great machine here.”
    Jane flushed, torn between pleasure at the compliment and defensiveness at the implied criticism. She ran a bakery, not a coffee shop. She’d researched her