I cup my hands around my mouth and yell, “Help!”
Chapter Eight
Genevieve parked in front of Sam’s restaurant, Sugar Maple Kitchen, the next morning at nine fifteen.
After leaving Athens yesterday, she’d driven in utter silence for an hour while her mind scratched and strained down wild tangents. Then she’d called Natasha and poured out everything she’d learned in a torrent. She and her sister had decided to table their discussion and any and all research until they’d had a chance to sleep on the news.
Genevieve had suggested they meet at The Kitchen because she’d been wanting to see it and because eating here might afford her a glimpse of the elusive Sam.
She sailed past the storefront and into a restaurant that smelled of coffee, bacon, and cinnamon rolls. The combination immediately stirred a sensory memory of the times she’d woken in her grandmother’s house when she was a girl to this same tapestry of smells.
One small blackboard sign pointed to the takeout line. The other pointed to the dine-in line. Several people waited in both, and almost all the tables across from the long bar were occupied. It appeared that Sam’s place had become a local favorite. No surprise. He was so serious and determined that it was hard to imagine him failing at anything.
She planned to consume two strong lattes back-to-back and possibly eat something that had been grown on Sam’s land. Grabbing a menu, she took her place in the dine-in line. Breakfast casserolewith hash brown crust. Quiche. Egg scramblers. Pancakes. Waffles. Every item was marked paleo, gluten free, dairy free, or vegan.
Her expectations for her breakfast dimmed. It was asking a lot of a paleo waffle to expect it to be both healthy and tasty. She knew that Sam ate incredibly clean, but she hadn’t realized that he’d applied his personal dietary habits to his restaurant, nor that there was such a high demand in Misty River for this type of food.
After texting Natasha to ask what she wanted for breakfast, Genevieve placed their order, then carried the number an employee gave her to an open table.
Sam had obviously hired a skilled designer to help him execute his vision. The restaurant had a great vibe. Cool, simple, sophisticated, and a little bit rustic all at the same time. Lots of natural wood and clean lines and a great mishmash of old and character-filled with new and modern. The ambiance here reflected the ambiance of his farm.
Once, she’d wanted to become an interior designer. She’d always loved homes and home decorating and art. She’d been on her way to an interior design degree at Belmont when her romance with Thad had imploded. Before their breakup, her only experience with women’s ministry had been the years she’d spent in high school and college leading Bible study groups.
After their breakup, she’d clung to the Bible with desperation, believing it to be the antidote to her heartbreak. She’d dedicated every spare minute to reading it, scouring commentaries, and conversing with professors. Somewhere along the line, she’d decided to funnel everything she was learning into the writing of a study.
Amazingly, a Christian publisher had purchasedThe Deepest Love You’ll Ever Knowright before her senior year and released it just as she was graduating. The hugely positive response to that study had been a stunning gift, a mercy. Akin to finding a golden coin in the gray ashes at the bottom of a fireplace.
Seemingly overnight, she’d been catapulted into Christian celebrityhood,and she’d marveled at God’s amazing ability to redeem sorrow.
Requests for speaking engagements followed. She spent the six months after the study’s release traveling, always with the intention of returning to Nashville, putting her author persona on the shelf, and becoming a designer.
Over time she’d eventually recognized that her role as author and speaker wasn’t a short-term calling. It was her long-term ministry. God had used the debacle with Thad to guide her to His will for her in a way that nothing else could have.
Every so often, like now, when she was surrounded by the visible skill of a talented designer, she remembered the road not taken with a fond, nostalgic tug.
Natasha strode toward the table wearing running gear, her hair in a ponytail, and sat in the chair across from Genevieve. “Morning.”
“Morning.”
“Recovery update?”
“Still clean.”
“Not today, Satan.” Natasha had come up with the phrase, which she used often when questioning Genevieve about her well-being.
“Not today, Satan,” Genevieve agreed. “How are you?”
“I’ve got the worst headache.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Also, I’m a bad wife because Wyatt wanted me to watch a Star Wars documentary with him last night, but of course I’m not watching any TV during my Year of Living Austenly.”
“Naturally. You read or knit of an evening.”
“Naturally. But he kept after it, so we compromised. Since neither of us can play the pianoforte, I consented to watching someone else play the pianoforte on TV.”
“Because Jane and her people do a lot of sitting around, watching people play pianoforte.”
