Footsteps creak on the old hardwood floor as the swinging door opens. Darla walks into the dining room with a smile, her hands loaded with plates of steaming food. “Well good morning, young man.” Darla places a fresh plate of delicious-looking breakfast food in front of the older man sitting next to me. “We’ve got a very important journalist staying with us,” she tells the table. “Did you sleep well dear?” Her delicate hand pats my shoulder.
“I did.” The white lie is smooth as honey as it slips from my lips. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. The sight of Cara standing in front of me, talking to me, was playing on repeat in my mind.
Darla quickly runs through the breakfast menu, occasionally stopping to give me her advice before I place my order. With aflick of her pen and a gentle pat on the shoulder, she leaves the table, the door to the kitchen swinging behind her.
“Journalist, huh?” The older gentleman next to me turns in my direction as Darla skitters into the kitchen. I pour myself a steaming mug of coffee that I hope will settle my nerves, and nod at the man. He’s got a tanned face that reminds me of someone who’s spent most of their life working in the sun. Lines cut valleys along his cheeks, emphasized by the impressive handlebar mustache resting under his large nose. “From the looks of ya, you come from the city. What’s a city slicker doin’ in our neck of the woods?”
I smile politely at the older gentleman. “What’s wrong with my look?” I thought my dark jeans and green henley were appropriate casual attire. Not to mention, I remember how much Cara loved my henleys.
His dark eyes crinkle as he chuckles. “Nothin’. Just says city is all.”
“Huh,” I huff, my eyes squinting at his observation. “I’m Smith.” I offer him my hand and he takes it in his strong grip. Large calluses scrape against my hand, noting his decades of hard work. He introduces himself as Culver. “I’m here to do a story about Rose Prairie. Specifically, I’m learning about the town and the events that have started to gain notoriety. If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you to Rose Prairie? I’d like to learn why people enjoy visiting.”
The woman across from us catches my eye as she takes a sip of her orange juice. She’s leaning forward in her seat, her hand casually pulling her hair behind her ear before tilting her head in our direction.
Culver sucks his teeth. “That’s a complicated question. The standard answer is that I used to work here some thirty years ago and thought a visit would be nice.”
“And the real reason?” I prod gently. Part of being a journalist is learning how to read people. Culver seems like a nice man, but there’s a shadow to him like he’s troubled by something.
“Off the record, hotshot.” I hold out my hands in surrender and he chuckles. “Old flame. Heard she’s a widower now. Like you, I heard about this town, and like a light going off I had this feeling.” His hand rests against his heart, tapping lightly. “A pull telling me I needed to come back.”
“Oh my gosh, that’s beautiful.” The woman across from us puts a hand against her throat before she clears it. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but I couldn’t help but overhear.” She rests her hand against her husband's forearm, her ring glinting in the morning light. “I’m Cheryl, this is my husband Hugh.” The husband in question dips his chin in acknowledgment. “Would you be interested in our story?” Her face beams as I smile politely, inclining my head for her to continue. “We were married at The Lookout fifteen years ago. We planned to come earlier when the meadow would be full of beautiful prairie roses, but life had other plans.” Her blue eyes mist over and Hugh places a reassuring arm across her shoulders. “Anyway, we had to put off our trip until now. But I love seeing all of the beautiful fall trees and I’m happy that we’re going to get to stay for the festival.”
Darla walks in with a steaming plate and sets it in front of me. Blueberry pancakes are stacked high resting beside homemade hash browns, bacon, and eggs making my mouth water. “Did I hear you talking about the festival? I think it’s just great that Ms. Williams has come in and transformed our little town. She’s got everyone involved. I think she’s really creating something special here.”
More guests make their way down for breakfast joining our conversation and giving me plenty of information to use in my article. One younger couple was passing through and decided tostop and visit the pumpkin patch I saw a sign for on my way in. They enjoyed their time so much, they decided to extend their stay.
In the back of my mind, I know that this wouldn’t be happening if I were staying in a hotel in the city. People mind their own business, oftentimes overlooking everyone else. Does this kind of thing happen everywhere, or is this special to Rose Prairie?
Plate scraped clean, I glance at my watch. Time flies when you’re having a good conversation. The soft laughter of the group follows behind me as I step out the front door and onto the wooden porch.
Time to go try to win Cara back.
***
Cara works behind the counter, smiling as she greets her customers. I’m standing in the back of the line, hidden from view by the patrons in front of me, so I take the opportunity to look at her. Truly look at her for the first time in over five years.
She moves with confidence and grace behind the counter; her smile never leaving her face. Did she smile like that all those years ago? I can’t remember. Cara seems to glow, entirely in her element, naturally pulling people toward her. Her brown hair, longer than it had been, swings down between her shoulder blades in a ponytail, cascading down her neck. Her ears are studded with multiple piercings, including a bar going from one side of her ear to the other. The green apron settled across her front does nothing to hide the curves underneath, but it’s her face that captures my attention.
I suck in a ragged breath, replacing the air knocked from my lungs at her beauty. Her naturally tan skin exudes youth, her cheeks a healthy pink. Those honey eyes, the same eyes I can’tforget, are rimmed with dark lashes, and they glimmer with joy as she laughs with a younger woman.
Was I that much of an idiot that I let this woman slip through my fingers? Could I not see what was right in front of me?
The fact is that I did see what I had. I just don’t know how I lost it.
Cara still hasn’t noticed me as the line shortens. She’s so beautiful and carefree, completely in her element. A soft smile pulls at my lips as I watch her work, emotions welling up in my chest. The sight of her, and the memory of how she left me, has me pulling my gaze away and toward the people lingering in the shop.
Customers chat quietly as they gaze out the front windows, looking out toward the town square. Parents walk hand-in-hand with children through the autumn leaves, backpacks happily bouncing on their backs. Looking around, I can see why this small town is talked about. It has this incredible sense of community, the kind where everyone knows everyone, where people help out without asking questions. The kind that some people search their whole lives for.
“Are you in line?” A woman’s voice asks from behind my shoulder and I spin on my heel to look at her. I hadn’t really gotten in line. I wanted to look at Cara with her walls down, without a stoic mask settled onto her delicate features.
I motion her forward, an apologetic smile on my face. “Go ahead.” She thanks me quietly as she steps into the gaping space between me and the line.
Cara is still bustling behind the counter, her laughter drifting over to me and I’m hit with the realization that I once thought I’d never hear that sound again. A subtle warmth settles in my chest and I find myself chuckling quietly to myself shaking my head as I walk over to bookshelves, mindlessly picking up the first book my fingers touch.
Images of Cara laying in my bed, hair unbound and resting at her shoulders, the tiny strap to her silken top hanging off her shoulder as she reads her latest romance novel flood my mind. She always loved reading and I’d often walk into my bedroom, having spent most of the evening at work to find her there. Cozy as a bug in a rug, I’d say.
More images come to mind, cherished memories of our time together. The way her mouth would fall open when I kissed my way down her body. The playful glint in her eye when she issued another childish challenge that neither of us could refuse. The way her hair shone in the sunlight as we sat outside at a coffee shop, its rays creating a halo around her.
