“So, where were we?” Isaac moved a discarded, coffee-soaked napkin farther away from his iPad with a grimace.
Noah set down his fork. “You were threatening me with the local judge.” Too bad the coffee spill hadn’t taken out that blasted inspection report. Just for the poetic justice of it all.
Isaac released a sigh that would have sent two of the three little pigs scurrying. “That wasn’t a threat.”
“I know what you’re doing here.”
“You gentlemen need anything else?” The red-haired waitress—Tammy? No, Trish—paused at their table once again, carrying a jug of water. She’d already brought a towel, pancakes he hadn’t ordered, extra pats of butter, and a miniature pitcher of syrup. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was hitting on?—
He looked up at her fluttering eyelashes and stifled a sigh. “I think we’re all set here.” He kept his tone polite, but firm. She was friendly and attractive, but he wasn’t interested—after all, he would be leaving town once he got the mold situation under control.
“Let me know if you change your mind...” The young waitress trailed one hand along the edge of the table.
Noah blinked, and the redhead’s image was replaced with Elisa’s that one summer, bringing him a milkshake and jokingly sliding two straws across the table before shooting him a wink. How different might things be if he’d resisted her then, too?
He attempted to drown the memory with more syrup. Noah had a lot of practice getting Elisa Bergeron out of his thoughts—though some efforts worked better than others. He poured faster, avoiding Trish’s eyes.
She finally gave up and took the water pitcher to another customer.
“I must say, that was nicely done—extricating yourself from that one.” Isaac shook his head. “At least you seem to be an apple that rolled a bit farther from the tree.”
“What did you say?” Noah’s fork clattered to his plate. Sadie looked up from her book, and a middle-aged couple Noah didn’t know cast them curious glances.
“Calm down.” Isaac lowered his voice, holding up both hands as his gaze darted around the room. “That was a compliment.”
Sure it was. “If you’re aiming for a compliment, then tell me I’m pretty.” Noah tossed a napkin on his uneaten pancakes, which were soggy with excessive syrup. He’d had enough. Isaac Bergeron was never going to help him—he was wasting his time. Maybe Isaac held all the power in this situation with the mold, but he wasn’t going to sit there and let him talk about his family like that.
However much his old man might deserve it.
Noah abruptly stood—wet spot and all—and reached for his wallet. “Thanks for the inspection. I’ll be in touch.”
“Oh, come on. Sit?—”
A sudden clatter rang from the kitchen. Noah, along with most of the patrons, looked up, forks paused en route to their mouths.
Isaac, however, appeared unfazed. He took a slow sip from his full mug. “Good ol’ Delia. Clumsy as always.”
That might be true, but Isaac said it more like a slam than a loving endearment. Noah liked Delia. She’d never played favorites in the feud between the families, taking a rare Switzerland position in Magnolia Bay. And yes, she always joked about breaking mugs.
Still, Noah’s gut twisted as he stared toward the swinging doors. Something didn’t feel right—that didn’t sound as simple as a dropped glass. He hesitated, waiting for a confirmation laugh or “it’s okay” to sound from the kitchen like he’d often heard in restaurants after a dish broke.
It didn’t come.
He strode toward the kitchen, ignoring Isaac’s protest. Sadie and several other customers shot each other concerned looks as Noah pushed behind the counter. Everything was probably fine. Delia would lovingly fuss at him for invading her space, then wrap him in a big hug and chastise him for not stopping by sooner.
But just in case.
He wasn’t certain what he expected to see when he walked through the double doors into the kitchen, but it certainly wasn’t Elisa bent over Delia, who lay unmoving on the floor by the island, her eyes shut tight as blood trickled down one arm. A smattering of vegetables covered the floor around her.
Noah’s heart ricocheted against his throat. He dropped to the hard floor beside Elisa. “What happened?” He gently touched Delia’s neck, searching for a pulse.There. His shoulders sagged with his exhale.
Tears tracked Elisa’s cheeks. “I don’t know. She was talking to me, and then suddenly, she was…she—” She shook her head, cutting off her explanation as she gestured toward Delia’s still figure, wringing her hands.
He released a slow breath. “We need to find a clean towel, see how bad this wound is on her arm.” He sat back on his heels, looking around for anything they could use. “And we should support her head.”
“Right. We need a pillow.” Elisa drew a shaky breath as she stood, and for a wild, unexpected moment, he wanted to comfort her. To offer assurances he didn’t have, to pull her into a hug for old times’ sake, to smooth that furrowed line between her brows.
And to explain that the kitchen probably wasn’t going to have fresh bedding at her disposal.
