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Erin had hit the jackpot the day she’d hired Gerald and Jerome Hicks to run the kitchen. Where Gerald was round and easygoing, Jerome was skinny and fastidious, a true odd-couple set of brothers who created pure culinary delight for the folks of Clayton. The Hicks brothers may not have Cordon Bleu credentials like Vivienne, but they understood small town taste buds.
When Gerald’s jolly face disappeared, Kylie lingered to talk.
“Give me the scoop,” Brooke said. “When’s the wedding? What are your colors? What’s the dress like?”
A cloud passed over Kylie’s face but was quickly replaced by a smile, making Brooke wonder if she’d imagined the reaction because of her negative feelings toward Vincent. She hoped so. She wanted her old friend to be happy.
“I’m doing the wedding myself,” Kylie said. “You won’t believe this, but I’ve gotten pretty good at planning budget weddings. I’ve helped several of the girls in town and they all seemed really pleased.”
Brooke saluted her friend a forkful of roast. “Not surprised at all. Remember how you use to cut pictures out of bride’s magazines and arrange them into scenes?”
“I still do!”
They both laughed. Brooke was glad she’d stopped into the café and taken the time to visit with Kylie. She was still a great girl. What she saw in Vincent, however, remained a mystery to Brooke.
From behind her, Brooke heard the bell jingle over the opening door. Cool air swirled in. The change in Kylie was dramatic. Her smile disappeared. Her eyes grew wary. She pushed back from the counter and in a guilty whisper said, “I should get busy.”
Brooke figured the change could only mean one thing. Vincent had walked in and caught his fiancé talking to “the enemy” side of the family. Brooke rotated on the counter stool enough to see the new customer. It wasn’t Vincent, but Vincent’s sister, Marsha Harris, stood inside the doorway, umbrella dripping on the floor, icy gaze going from Kylie to Brooke.
Brooke lifted a hand in greeting. “Hi, Marsha. Wet outside, isn’t it?”
The steely glare would rival a laser. Brooke’s sumptuous roast lost its flavor. She sighed. Being at odds with anyone was not her nature.
Marsha snapped the umbrella shut and hung it on the coat tree next to the door before coming toward Brooke with a determined air. Thin, with the temper to go with her red hair, Marsha could make her presence felt. Brooke braced herself.
Without preliminary, her cousin leaned close and murmured, keeping her voice low, tight and controlled, though anger boiled beneath the surface. The strong odor of cigarette smoke spoiled the pleasant scent of lunch.
“You have a lot of nerve.”
Brooke carefully put her fork down. Having a sharp instrument in hand right now might not be wise. “More than I used to. You’d be smart to remember that. I’m not the same easily intimidated girl you remember.”
“Don’t make trouble for my brother.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You told Gabe Wesson that Vincent was causing the problems at the mine.”
Not exactly true but Brooke didn’t argue. Marsha had a way of twisting things to suit herself.
Marsha’s shrill voice rose. “You hate my brother and me just the way your grandpa hated mine and stole everything from our family.”
The cheerful chatter inside the small café ceased. Heads turned, listening. A deep flush heated Brooke’s face. Her stomach knotted.
“This is not the place to air your grievances against my family, Marsha,” she said quietly.
“Leave my brother and me alone.” Marsha jabbed a finger close to Brooke’s nose. “Or sleeping with Gabe Wesson won’t be enough to protect you.”
With one final, furious glare at Kylie, Marsha whirled and stomped out of the café.
Face flaming, hands shaking, Brooke fought back humiliated tears. She wanted to run away and hide. She wanted to crawl under one of the tables and curl into the fetal position.
She wanted a big strong shoulder to cry on. Gabe’s.
Maybe she wasn’t so brave after all.
Chapter Ten
“Don’t you pay one bit of attention to her.” Jerome Hicks had appeared from the kitchen, nostrils flaring and flapping a dish towel in the direction of Marsha’s wake as if shooing flies. “If you were stuck with Billy Dean Harris for a husband you’d be bitter, too. The louse hasn’t worked in so long he’s crippled his fingers from crushing beer cans all day.”
