Seven years ago. That’s how long they had been dating.
Jo slowed down, organizing her glasses, her gaze landing on his shiny badge. She was at a loss for words now. She’d cried them all out over the last two weeks.
Blue’s direct gaze held hers. “We really need to talk, Jo.”
Her chest tightened, and she clenched her jaw. Her father had said those words the night he left their family.
“I can come over later tonight after my shift.”
Jo shook her head. “I have plans, Blue. Enjoy your coffee. I have work to do now.”
She hurried into the kitchen before he could stop her. If he thought he was having lunch here, it would be Candy serving him, not her.
He didn’t have to tell her because she already suspected what had happened in Chicago. His mother and his sisters had been trying to get him to return.
Not them as a couple. Just him.
Later that evening as jazz played in Jo’s kitchen, she pulled the enchilada pan from the oven. Her homemade verde sauce bubbled at the edges, rich with the aroma of tomatillos, onions, and peppers.
Chicken enchiladas were one of her specialties, and she served them with homemade guacamole. At the diner, she included rice and beans as a dinner special, but that was more than she and Junie needed.
“That smells delicious,” Junie said as she sat on a stool at the counter. “Need some help?”
“You can get napkins and silverware for us.” Jo nodded toward the drawers, then remembered Junie knew where everything was.
She glanced around the kitchen of her cozy cottage on Sunshine Avenue. Against the vintage tile backsplash sat a professional-grade stand mixer, a mandoline, and a set of carbon-steel knives that most home cooks would envy. Top quality, all of it, and seldom used, because she spent most of her time at the diner now that her brother had left for university.
One change she’d made in the last year was to promote Candy to assistant manager, freeing up her weekday evenings. She had done that to spend more time with Blue and work on her new project. Now she’d rather fill extra time with friends like Junie and her sister Maileah.
She wasn’t waiting around for Blue anymore.
Turning to open a cupboard, the Crown Island Police fundraising calendar caught her eye. Blue was on the front of it, Mr. January, staring at her with his bright blue eyes and alluring smile.
“I’ve had it with you,” she said to his image. She snatched it from the wall and stuffed it into a drawer.
Junie raised her brow. “Whatever makes you feel better.”
“It sure does.”
Jo opened the cupboard and took down her grandmother’s dishes. The hand-painted vintage set with the scalloped edges, dusty pink roses, and olive-green branches always made her think of Sunday dinners they’d once shared. Jo placed two dinner plates and bowls on the counter.
“Those are gorgeous dishes,” Junie said.
“These were my grandmother’s. She gave me the entire set when she moved to her independent living home in San Diego. The pattern is called Franciscan Desert Rose, and there’s a story behind them.”
“How is she doing?”
Jo smiled. “Mamie Rose likes all the activities, and she’s with friends. She doesn’t seem to miss her old house.”
“That’s good to hear.” Junie collected the utensils. “So, what’s the story behind those dishes?”
“My grandmother cherished these because she’d befriended the designer, Annette Honeywell, who created this pattern back in the 1940s in Los Angeles. My grandmother was much younger and looked up to her.”
Jo traced the scalloped edge of her plate with her finger. “She liked the idea that a woman created these. I do, too. Sadly, this pattern is discontinued.”
Junie admired a plate. “That’s fascinating. Wasn’t there a significant pottery movement in California around then?”
“That’s right. Many works were originally inspired by Mexican pottery, like these dishes.” Nodding toward her backsplash, Jo added, “And those are Batchelder tiles I found at a salvage shop.”
