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“I’m not being forward or anything like that,” he said, “but this is pretty greasy, and I don’t want you falling.”
Before she responded, she was visited by a fleeting but tantalizing thought:maybe I want you to be forward.
Attempting to keep things light and relaxed, Maren teased, “Are you sure you’re not hanging on so that you don’t slip and fall.”
“Well, obviously, that’s part of it,” he wasted no time admitting.
“My grandmother used to say that,” she told him, “that the roads weregreasywhen really they’re just slick or slippery.”
“My mom calls itslickery.”
“Slickery,” Maren repeated, testing it out. “Perfect.”
Thankfully, not one vehicle passed them on Maple Street. They turned the corner onto Harmony Place and walked along the edge of the road again as the sidewalks were not cleared of snow. Past the narrow side yard and the side of the house, and the tall white fence that closed in the Inn’s back yard, past the north side of the garage itself, which was yet fifty feet off the road, and then finally, they came upon the Coffee Loft, with its refurbished brick exterior and a bank of frosty windows.
“Oh, good, they’re still open,” Maren noted, her words accompanied by puffs of white breath. “I meant to text Aiden to make sure but then forgot.”
“And a good thing, too,” Alec said, indicating the three vehicles in the parking lot, two of which were pick-up trucks with plows attached, likely private contractors, and a large town plow, which was parked sideways in the shallow lot, taking up three spaces. “Looks like they need sustenance.”
Alec let go of Maren’s arm and pulled open the door to the café , allowing her to enter first.
Inside two guys in canvas coats and baseball caps were sitting at a table by the windows while two more men, wearing yellow reflective vests over their winter gear, were being waited on by Aiden.
With her arms bent at her chest, huddling against the cold that had been deliberately ignored while she walked but now seeped into her bones, Maren gave a tiny happy wave to Aiden, who acknowledged her and Alec with a grin.
Standing side by side with Alec, Maren perused the counter-to-ceiling chalkboard menu, as if she didn’t know the thing by heart even though she hadn’t worked here in more than a year, and as if she didn’t feel Alec watching her.
She turned toward him, and he did not remove his gaze, didn’t pretend he hadn’t been staring at her.
“What?” She asked and lifted her gloved hands to lay them over her cheeks. “They’re bright red, aren’t they? They always do that in the cold.”
“No, it’s not—well, yes, they are bright red,” he answered. “I was just wondering about something.”
Maren lifted her brows, wordlessly encouraging him to say more.
“So, do you...um, how do I ask this—do you plan for conversation at dinner?” Alec inquired. “In advance, I mean.”
Puzzled, Maren asked, “What do you mean?”
“You are very capable—as a host and conversationalist— but I get the sense that if there were an extended silence at a dinner table of ten people, you would find it awkward. So, you prod conversation by asking questions about your guests. I guess you might be curious as well, but are those questions posed mostly to keep any conversational lulls at bay?”
A sheepish grin answered after his clarification.
“I’ve been found out,” she confessed. “I do, actually—prepare, that is. I mean, not laboriously, just enough to have some conversation at hand. Well, not conversation. I can’t just spew into an awkward silence, in a stilted voice, as if I’m reading off cue cards,Say, Mrs. Adamczyk, can you tell us about your favorite color and why you like it so much. That would be awkward and be contrived. But I give some thought to questions I might ask the guests, to draw them into conversation. I steer clear of politics, religion, and most current events. I’d rather let the guests be the subject.”
“You didn’t ask me anything,” he remarked.
Caught off guard by what felt like a complaint, Maren stammered, “I-I didn’t know anything about you. Or, I knew very little about you.”
Thankfully, he relieved her of his scrutiny, shoving his hands into his coat pocket as he now consulted the big menu written in chalk. “And you didn’t want to know more?” He followed up.
Maren wondered if his casual tone was intentional or not.
“No, it’s not—well, I feel as if I know the Adamczyks, for all that Jasmine talks about them. And she’s mentioned her cousin Rachel a few times over the years, when we worked together here, so I had some insight there.”
“You worked here? At the Coffee Loft?” Inside his coat pocket, his hand moved, seemingly pointing toward the floor.
“I did,” she answered. “While I was in college. That’s how I met Ellie B, the previous owner of the Morning Glory.”
