'Midnight at the Blackbird Café' Chapters 7 & 8

Fighting a yawn, I pushed away the image of Doc Linden’s sad eyes and tried to focus on the task at hand. It was closing in on midnight, and I’d purposefully stayed up late to hear the blackbirds sing their songs, and I was more than a little anxious.

As I slid the rolling pin over the pie dough, stretching it, shaping it, I heard Zee’s voice in my head with each pass. I had been ten years old when she finally taught me how to make piecrust from scratch.

“Careful now, darlin’. Too thick and the crust won’t cook all the way through. No one wants a soggy-bottomed pie. Soggy bottoms are always unfortunate.” Her hands, soft and sure, had covered mine on the rolling pin, guiding my strokes. “Too thin, and the crust will burn, and no one wants to taste charcoal when they’re expectin’ something sweet.”

“Granny, how do you know when it’s right?” I’d asked.

She’d smiled at me, her teal eyes twinkling. “You’re a Callow, Anna Kate. And Callows know pie. That knowledge is deep inside you. You’ll know. You’ll see.”

I felt a teardrop snake down my cheek, and I swiped it away with the back of my hand, unwilling to let emotions get the best of me tonight. I’d already made six pies but, still restless, decided to make one more with the abundance of blackberries I’d found in a bucket on the back deck earlier this evening.

I finished rolling two crusts, knowing they were about as perfect as they could be. There was something in the weight of the dough, its stretch, its texture, that told me as surely as if it could speak that it was ready to be baked.

Gently, I folded one of the crusts in half, then in half again and draped it over a glass pie dish. I unfolded the dough and pressed it against the glass, molding it to fit the dish perfectly, leaving a bit hanging over the edge. I dipped a spoon into the bowl of blackberry filling I’d already prepared, and though it was good, I thought it wasn’t quite right. It was a nagging feeling, one I’d had with each of the pies I’d made. Something was off.

It didn’t help that Mr. Lazenby’s voice was echoing in my head.

This pie don’t taste like the pies Miss Zee made.

The pie hadn’t—I’d sampled it myself. I’d eaten enough of Zee’s pies to know. Whenever she visited, she’d bake me special miniature pies, all my own, lovingly showing me how to make each one. Apple, blueberry, peach, cherry. Endless combinations.

None of mine tonight had tasted like hers.

I grabbed a clean spoon and took another sample of the filling, letting it roll around on my tongue. Something was missing—a flavor I couldn’t place.

“Now turn your back,” Zee would say before we added the top crust to those miniature pies.

“Why, Granny Zee?”

“I need to add the secret ingredient.”

“Secret? What is it?” I’d asked eagerly.

She leaned down. “I promised your mama I wouldn’t tell, but you already know what it is.”

“No, I don’t! I swear I don’t.”

“You do. You’ll put it all together one day, Anna Kate, when you’re older.”

“And if I don’t?”

“There’ll be a whole flock of women there to help guide the way, that I can promise you.”

“Give me a hint? Pleeeeease,” I added overdramatically. “It’s not something silly like love, is it?”

She’d bopped me on the tip of my nose with a floury finger. “That’s exactly it. The secret ingredient is love, darlin’. The purest kind of love there is. Now, turn around, and remember—these pies are our little secret from your mama.”

I may have been young, but I’d clearly heard a telltale pop of a sealed lid each and every time I turned. A sound anyone would recognize if they’d ever opened a full jelly jar. Love shouldn’t have been so noisy. Besides, Zee wouldn’t have broken her promise to my mom, so I knew that she’d been pulling my leg about the whole love thing.

Frustrated, I ventured into the deep pantry off the kitchen to search the spice and extract shelf. My gaze skipped over cloves, allspice, nutmeg, vanilla, almond, and lemon.

“What did you put in those pies, Zee?” I asked, poking around.

It couldn’t be a common ingredient, or I’d have been able to place it easily. I had a decent palate. I closed my eyes, recalling the unmistakable pop of a seal being released. The mysterious ingredient, I realized, couldn’t have come from a tin or twist-off bottle.

I turned away from the spices and searched among the jarred goods, most of which Zee had canned herself. Plums, grapes, tomatoes, cucumbers, corn, raspberries, beets, rhubarb, peas, okra. All were in tall glass canning jars, but I was looking for smaller containers, a size that Zee could have hidden from me in a skirt pocket, something along the lines of a baby food jar or a jam sampler.

It was a futile search.

Ignoring the feeling that I was doing something wrong, I finished the blackberry pie and put it in the oven. The other pies had already cooled and were in the pie case, waiting for tomorrow’s diners. I checked the clock as I cleaned up and washed dishes. It was just past eleven.

If all went as it should, in less than an hour the blackbirds would emerge from the tunnel between the mulberry trees and sing songs— messages from the Land of the Dead—to those who ate pieces of pie today. While those people slept, they’d dream the message meant for them, sent by people who’d loved them.

At a minute shy of midnight, I opened the back door, and the energy of the excited crowd pulsed through the room. I shut off most of the lights, leaned against the marble-topped island, and waited with anticipation. Right at midnight a loud whoop from the birders went up when the blackbirds emerged.

Unbidden, tears sprang to my eyes at the reaction of the strangers, and I watched with a watery gaze as the birds soared upward in a tight formation. They swooped low as they circled the backyard, garnering ooh’s and aah’s from the crowd, then they landed, one by one, on the branches of the trees.

Four and twenty blackbirds.

Out the side window, I spotted multiple smartphones glowing in the darkness. The birders had gone eerily silent as they watched the blackbirds, as though expecting something moe. Most likely, they’d heard of the songs sung at midnight and were waiting.

“Come on,” I urged under my breath. “Sing.”

The birds remained silent, sitting, watching. I could feel their gazes on me, even through the darkness.

The longer they kept silent, the sicker I felt. Minutes ticked by. The birds would be gone soon, back into the leafy tunnel. “What am I doing wrong?”

But even as I asked, I knew. Instinctively, I knew.

The missing ingredient.

I needed to figure out what it was.

You’ll put it all together one day, Anna Kate, when you’re older.

I was quite a bit older now and still had no idea. My eyes stung with frustrated tears as I watched the birds take flight, soaring, then dipping low to return the way they’d come.

The birders applauded.

Bone-weary, I climbed slowly up the steps and planned to go straight to bed, not even bothering to brush my teeth, but as soon as I came into my bedroom, I noticed that the window was slightly ajar.

I thought I’d checked all the windows earlier when searching for the trespassing phoebe, but I must have missed this one. I walked over to the window and looked out. The birders were holding strong ​​in the yard, their animated chatter filling the air. As I started to slide the window down, I sucked in a breath when I saw two blackbirds sitting on the sill.

I hadn’t yet seen any of the birds up close—they rarely left the area around the trees. Suddenly shaky, I knelt down to get a closer look at them as the bedtime story Zee told me long ago echoed in my head.

It’s not until one of the guardians in the family passes over that she becomes a tree keeper, taking with her only the color of her eyes. Twenty-four in total, black as twilight, the keepers fly between the two worlds. They collect messages from those who’ve crossed and pass them along to those who mourn through sweet songs, songs that are too otherworldly to be understood in anything but a dream state.

Immediately, I was taken aback by the birds’ unusual eyes—a thin band of color rimmed dark pupils. I couldn’t make out the exact shade in the dim lighting, but I suspected one had green, the other teal. My mother’s and grandmother’s natural eye colors.

Tears pooled along my lashes, and I was beyond grateful that Zee had shared with me that bedtime story of my heritage. The Callows were guardians and gatekeepers of something incredible. All twenty-four of the blackbirds were my ancestors—generations of women protecting something amazing.

There’ll be a whole flock of women there to help guide the way, that I can promise you, Zee had said.

She hadn’t been exaggerating.

“What am I doing wrong with the pies?” I asked the pair.

The birds bobbed their heads and watched me with somber eyes, and then lifted off, soaring into the backyard to join the rest of the keepers.

I knew full well they couldn’t tell me—they couldn’t speak. Only sing. And I’d never receive a message in my sleep, either, even if I ate a dozen pies. Zee had told me once that one of the drawbacks of being a keeper was that they couldn’t sing messages of their own. Only notes from others. Even so, I thought perhaps they could have given me some sort of hint or sign, but as they disappeared out of sight, I was left with only a pit of sadness in my stomach and tears blurring my eyes.

Grief was a capricious companion. Sometimes distant and aloof. Sometimes so overwhelming it was hard to think a straight thought. Its mood changed at whim, making it emotionally exhausting to keep up.

There were times, like right now, when it felt as though I’d been grieving my whole life long.

Probably because I had been.

I sat there on my knees for a good, long while, hoping they’d return, before slowly standing up. I closed the window and climbed into bed, feeling like the weight of the world anchored me to the mattress.

I pulled up my quilt, tucking the worn fabric next to my face, and closed my eyes. I could hear the birders chattering loudly about the blackbirds. I fell asleep the same way I’d woken up that morning. To the sound of a ruckus outside my window.

8

Natalie

I’d slept in fits and starts and woke to a dulcet female voice insistently saying my name.

“Natalie. Natalie.”

I stirred, then stiffened in fear that I wasn’t alone in my bedroom. “Natalie, your father is dying.”

I bolted upright in bed and blindly reached for the baseball bat I kept next to the headboard. My heart pounded as my eyes adjusted to the early morning light streaming in through the windows, which were open only wide enough for the mountain breeze to ruffle the sheer curtains. The screens were in place. No one had come in that way.

Throwing the sheet off, I slid out of bed and hurriedly checked Ollie’s room, right next door. Her blanket was on the floor, and she was fast asleep in the toddler bed, her small hands thrown above her head. Her gentle, rhythmic breathing set me at ease for a moment.

I checked her closet, the only possible hiding spot, and found nothing out of the ordinary. Doubling back, I searched the little house top to bottom. There was no one.

Loosening my grip on the bat, I leaned against the wall, letting the adrenaline settle. I gave myself a moment, then went back into Ollie’s room.

I knelt down and retucked the quilt—her blankie, or bankie as she called it—around her, and watched her breathe for a moment.

I let my fingers linger on the quilt. It had been a gift from my mother to Ollie, crafted from remnants of her baby clothes. Mama had made many quilts in the same fashion, including AJ’s, which had gone missing after the car wreck that killed him, and she’d made many for friends and family.

But never one for me. She’d been working on it when AJ died, and in the aftermath, like most everything else in her world, it had ceased to exist.

My fingers drifted across the fabric, lingering on a soft terry cloth square in the corner. The image came easily of Matt holding a newborn Ollie in the crook of his arm like a football, her tiny head resting in his big hand. She’d looked like a little pink peanut against his muscled arm as she blinked up at him.

“She’s looking at me like I’ve done something wrong,” he’d said.

“Probably she’s wondering what in the hell just happened to her.”

He gently kissed Ollie’s downy head. “Don’t worry, sweet girl. Daddy’s here now.”

My heart hurt as I withdrew my fingers from the scrap of fabric cut from the outfit Ollie had been wearing that day.

Shoving the memory aside, I went back to thinking about the voice I’d heard. It had sounded so real. It couldn’t have been, though, as there was no one inside the house.

Inside.

Was it possible someone had been outside? Speaking through my open window?

I slipped on a short summer robe and a pair of sandals. A bold sunrise set the horizon aglow as I crept down the porch steps to check the perimeter of the little house for any sign that someone had been out there recently.

Several lights were on in the big house, including the kitchen. Not surprising, since my parents were early risers. If they’d seen someone trespassing, however, Daddy would have been out here with his shotgun long before now.

I considered for a moment that the voice had been my mother’s, then dismissed it almost as soon the thought came. The way the words had been spoken reminded me of Snow White’s singsong way of talking. Mama didn’t singsong. Not ever. Not even when she was actually singing. She had a gunfire way of punctuating lyrics that perfectly matched the tightly controlled way in which she lived her life.

Thick dew soaked my feet as I made my way toward my bedroom window. Crickets silenced. The wet grass showed no footprints other than my own, and the mulch bed beneath my window was undisturbed, covered in spots with sparkling spider webs. Dew droplets clung to the leaves of the boxwood shrubs and fragrant rose bushes.

Satisfied that there had been no intruder other than an eight-legged variety, I rolled my neck to ease the tense knots in my shoulders. I must have dreamed the voice. There was no other explanation.

“Natalie?”

Jumping, I spun around quickly, baseball bat at the ready. I let out a breath of relief as I came face-to-face with my father.

He threw his hands up. “Whoa, slugger!”

“Sorry.” I lowered the bat and willed my heart rate to slow. “I was lost in thought and didn’t hear you coming.”

“What’s going on?”

Looking fresh from a recent shower, he was already dressed for work in his crisply ironed pants and baby-blue button-down. Combed back off his forehead, his damp brown hair looked black in the morning light. As it dried, the hair would flop forward, its waviness winning out over a forced taming.

“A noise woke me up,” I said. “I wanted to make sure no one was out here lurking.”

Your father is dying.

My voice cracked as I added, “But I think I was just having a bad dream.”

While I’d been focused on finding a potential intruder, I’d been holding in the emotional deluge caused by the mysterious message I received. Of course it had been a bad dream. My father dying? No. Not possible. He looked … I studied him closely. He looked the same as always. Thank the Lord.

Absently, I pointed at my footprints in the wet grass. “No one’s been out here but me.”

Putting an arm around my shoulders, he started walking me toward the front door. “Seems like that nightmare still has you shaken up. You should have called me—you shouldn’t be out here alone looking for a bogeyman.”

I allowed myself to be drawn toward him. When I was younger I’d spent a lot of time glued to his side as he read me books, one after another after another—it was our favorite thing to do together, to disappear into the pages of another world. I’d always considered the crook of his arm to be the safest place in the whole world. “Daddy, if I called you for every bad dream I had, you’d never get a good night’s rest.”

As soon as I said the words, I wished I hadn’t. Even though I spoke the truth, I didn’t like exposing my emotional baggage to others. Especially him. My problems were mine, and mine alone. I didn’t want him worrying.

He stopped walking. “What can I do to help, Nat?”

“You’ve already done more than enough to help me … and Ollie, too. You and I both know I need to learn to be strong enough to stand on my own two feet, and if that means chasing after bogey-men at the crack of dawn, so be it.”

After Matt died, I’d found a job that allowed me to work at night from home. No doubt about it, being a home-based support representative for a local department store had been a lousy job, but I could stay with Ollie and it had paid some of the bills. The rest … that’s where my father had stepped in.

Over the past couple of years, he’d paid what I couldn’t, and all he’d ever asked in return was for us to spend time with him—he’d often come down to Montgomery to take me and Ollie out to lunch or dinner, which, if I were being honest, was simply one more gift he’d given us, not the other way around.

There had never been any mention of Mama during all those years of him visiting us—and even now I wasn’t sure if she knew how much he’d provided after Matt died.

I suspected not.

“Asking for help doesn’t mean you’re weak, Natalie. It’s a sign of strength.”

“That’s sweet of you to say, Daddy.” It was just like him to try to make me feel better about my flaws. “But I can’t keep asking. I already can’t repay you for all you’ve done for me.”

“They weren’t loans, Nat. I wanted to help.”

“I know, but I still feel like I owe you more than gratitude.”

He was silent for a moment as though mulling my words. “I have an idea of how you can repay me.”

We climbed the porch steps. “I hope you’re not going to say money, because I don’t have any. Unless you count the kind that’s in Ollie’s toy cash register. And if that’s the case, I hope you don’t mind that it comes with bite marks. Those plastic coins are some of the best teethers around.”

He smiled. “I don’t want money.”

“What, then?” I’d do just about anything for him.

“Same as always. I want time. Stick around here for a while. Six months. A year. Give yourself the chance to get to know this place again. A chance for this place to get to know you again.”

There was only one reason he’d be asking that of me this morning. “You heard Mama and me having words last night.”

“Hard not to.”

I longed to say she’d started it, but I bit my tongue instead, not wanting to get worked up all over again.

“Time is what I want, Natalie. Can you do that for me?”

He knew me too well—and how my first inclination would be to run. My gaze cut to the big house. Mama’s face was clearly framed in the kitchen window above the sink—she was watching us.

“You know I don’t—and can’t—make excuses for your mother,” he said, “but she was on edge last night and took it out on you. She has a lot going on right now.”

“With Anna Kate. Yes, I know.”

Surprise flared in his eyes. “You know about Anna Kate?”

“While I rather wish it was either you or Mama who told me about her, yes, I do know. I met Anna Kate yesterday at the park. She seems nice.”

“I’m sorry. We were waiting to tell you until we knew for certain.”

“There’s no denying she’s a Linden.” It had taken me a moment to see the resemblance, but that was because I hadn’t been looking. The possibility that I had a niece out in the world had never once crossed my mind. AJ had been only eighteen when he died.

“Yes, I knew the minute I saw Anna Kate in person yesterday.” Daddy’s chin lifted slightly as he glanced off in the distance. “Your mother and I were going to discuss it with you today.”

I tapped the head of the bat on the top of my foot. “Now you don’t have to. I already know. For the record, I think asking Anna Kate to supper was a nice gesture.”

“You and I might be the only ones to think so. Anna Kate turned me down flat.”

I twisted his words and threw them back at him. “Give Anna Kate the chance to get to know this place. A chance for this place to get to know her.”

By place, we knew we both meant Mama.

“I’m sure Anna Kate is overwhelmed right now,” I added. “She needs time to adjust to the idea of us.”

Sadness haunted his eyes. “I’m not sure time is going to help in this situation. What happened in the past … She thinks the worst. Justifiably so.”

In all the years I’d heard Eden Callow’s name cursed to the heavens, I never really stopped to think whether my parents had been right to persecute the young woman. I’d simply believed their truth that Eden had killed AJ and gotten away with it.

Their truth. But had it been the whole truth?

After overhearing their conversation last night, I now questioned all I ever thought I knew about Eden. I kept tapping the bat against my foot. “Overcoming the past is a challenge, especially since it looks like you and Mama were wrong about Eden and treated her badly. The key to it all, I think, is that you need to show Anna Kate who you are now, because your relationship with her isn’t about what happened back then. It’s about what happens from here on out.”

He glanced away, toward the big house. “If only it were that easy, Natalie.”

As his head turned, the sunrise caught his face just so, highlighting deep shadows beneath his eyes. Had those been there before? “No one said it was going to be easy.”

His chin came up, and he faked a smile. “I best get going. I’ll see you later on?”

“I’ll be around.”

“And tomorrow?”

It took me a moment to understand why he was suddenly so interested in my whereabouts. “Then, too. I’ll stick around for a while, Daddy. I promise.”

“A year?”

“Don’t go pressing your luck. I’m not putting a time frame on it.”

He hugged me. “All right. I’ll take what I can get.”

“Thanks for coming out here and checking on me.” I squeezed him more tightly than I normally would and frowned. Had he lost weight? Breathing in the smell of him, I picked up the hint of soap and mint and something else I couldn’t quite identify. Something sharp, bitter, and completely unfamiliar.

“Anytime. I’m always here if you need me.”

He released me, and I suddenly felt chilled. “Have you been feeling okay lately?”

“What makes you ask?”

Your father is dying.

“Just making sure. Since I’m going to be sticking around for a while.” I tried to make light, but I could hear the strain of worry in my voice coming through loud and clear.

He jumped off the porch with a flourish, kicking his heels up to show off. “Do I look like a man who’s feeling puny? Don’t you worry about me, Natalie.”

As he walked off, I noted that he hadn’t actually answered the question. I kept watch over him until he disappeared through the patio doors of the big house before I turned to go inside, wake up Ollie, and get on with the day.

As I swung the baseball bat onto my shoulder, I told myself not to let the worry take root—that I’d had a bad dream. Nothing more. He was fine. Just fine. Absolutely fine.

If my father were dying, I’d know it …

Wouldn’t I?

Anna Kate

Early the next morning, I woke up before my alarm went off. Today, all was quiet outside, and I knew exactly where I was.

In Wicklow with the blackbirds.

I should have been exhausted after the day I’d had yesterday, but I felt oddly rested. Sitting up, my first thoughts were of coffee. Although I was slightly obsessed with herbal tea, I always kick-started my days with coffee. But soon I started thinking about the blackberries Summer had dropped off. Zee’s cobbler sounded like a perfect breakfast treat—I hadn’t had a chance to make it yesterday, but I had the time now.

I hurriedly showered, dressed, and pulled my hair into a sloppy bun. Before I went downstairs, I made the rounds of the small apartment. Zee had been a minimalist, and it showed in her sparse furniture and lack of knickknacks. Her artistic flair wasn’t lacking, however. The walls were painted eggplant purple. The deep sofa was mint green, and the floral upholstery on the single armchair was a riot of colors. The small kitchenette was bare-bones, and I figured that was because Zee mainly cooked downstairs. Her room was painted summer-squash yellow. Crisp white curtains and bed linens added to the bright, sunny atmosphere. I closed the door and went down the hall for my shoes. My bedroom was painted a serene green that reminded me of a mint leaf, and it had the same white, light fabrics as Zee’s room. The whole apartment, while colorful, reminded me of nature. It felt like Zee.

I opened the curtains to check on the birders. Most had gone, but there were a few who remained behind in sleeping bags. I spotted Sir Bird Nerd milling about, his binoculars in hand, and I was surprised he hadn’t headed back to Mobile.

It wasn’t until I turned to go that I saw something green on the other side of the window, on the corner of the stone sill. Puzzled, I slid the window upward, knelt down, and saw that the green belonged to a leaf. It was held in place with a small stone.

Smiling, I carefully picked it up. I realized the blackbirds had given me a clue after all. When they’d bobbed their heads last night, it had been toward the corner of the sill where this leaf sat. Between the darkness and my tears, I hadn’t seen it.

I gently turned the brittle leaf over in my hand. It had five lobes, the tips of which looked like hearts. This leaf was browned along its edge as if in distress, and something deep within me responded to its call for help.

It was a mulberry leaf.

I quickly slipped on my sneakers and went running down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door, which thwacked behind me. I hurried across the lawn toward the mulberry trees, immediately noticing that some of the unripened fruit had dropped overnight. White, green, and pink berries littered the ground beneath the trees. Leaves had started to brown and curl inward.

I bent and pushed my finger into the ground beneath the trees. Their distress wasn’t from lack of water—the earth was dry but not parched.

Confused and a little nerve-wracked, I knew the blackbirds had given me that leaf for a reason.

You’ll put it all together one day, Anna Kate, when you’re older.

As Zee’s voice rang in my ears, I calmed. I closed my eyes and tried to recall any part of her bedtime story that had to do with the trees.

It’s the love shared between the two worlds that allows the passage­ way to remain open, Anna Kate, darlin’. Without the love, the trees will wither and die.

The love. The phrase echoed in my head as I stood under the trees, looking upward at the sad leaves and drooping berries.

While on earth, it’s the job of us guardians to tend to the trees, nur­ture them, and gather their love to bake into pies to serve those who mourn, those left behind.

Gather their love to bake into pies.

I reached up, cupped a cluster of berries.

The secret ingredient is love, darlin’. The purest kind of love there is.

I dropped my head back and sighed at my thick-headedness. Zee had been right—I knew exactly what the secret ingredient was—it had just taken me a little while to put it together. “Sorry!” I called into the leafy tunnel. “It’s been a long week.”

As I pulled the cluster from one of the trees, however, it took only a moment for my excitement to wear off. These berries were hard, greenish pink. Unripe. I couldn’t possibly put them into a pie as they were—the pies would be inedible. I debated whether I could cook them down to a syrup, adding extra sugar to make the berries palatable.

It was worth a try.

But that wasn’t the end of my worries. My gaze swept over the trees—while there were still a lot of berries, there wasn’t enough to make a month of pies, never mind a year’s supply.

How had Zee done it?

Then I recalled the pop of the secret ingredient she’d added to the pies she’d made me.

Of course! She’d processed the berries. I ran back into the café, still clutching the cluster of unripe berries. I waved to Sir Bird Nerd, promised the zucchini some TLC, and ran up the steps and into the kitchen. I checked the pantry, the freezer, and all the cupboards. There was no cache of preserved mulberries.

Hands on hips, I clenched my jaw, and took a deep breath. I’d figured out the hard part—I’d ask Jena and Bow what they knew of the mulberries when they came in later on. For now, I’d start the mulberry syrup to use in the pies I planned to bake later today.

Unfortunately, the pies I made last night were simply regular old pies, and I winced at the thought of dealing with Mr. Lazenby’s disappointment. And mine, too, when I realized the blackbirds would have no songs to sing tonight, either.

Tomorrow, however, everything would change. Suddenly I couldn’t help but wish the day away, even though it was barely six in the morning.

I went about making coffee, remembering Bow’s instructions on how to use the fancy coffee maker that held three pots.

Once the coffee was brewing, I washed the mulberries and set out to remove their stems, which might have been the most tedious job I’d ever undertaken. So dreadful, in fact, that I ended up setting the bunch aside to work on later. After I was caffeinated.

I poured a cup of coffee and gathered together the ingredients for the blackberry cobbler. In a saucepan, I heated sugar, cornstarch, blackberries, lemon zest, and vanilla and let it thicken as I worked on the cobbler’s topping.

As I measured flour, I heard a tap on the back door and saw Gideon Kipling’s face outlined in the window above the sinks.

I waved him inside. “You’re out early. The birders aren’t bothering you, are they?”

“Not at all,” he said, peering out the window into the side yard. “They’re dedicated, aren’t they?”

“They’re something. What have you there?” I gestured to his hand.

He held up a jar of honey. “I saw you were up and thought I’d bring you some of that honey you were drooling over yesterday.”

“I was not drooling. I was too dehydrated to drool.”

He laughed. “Fair enough. If you don’t want it.”

I dusted my hands on my apron and lurched for the jar. “I might be drooling now.” I admired the color. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“I have the feeling you’ll put it to good use.”

“I most definitely will. Coffee’s hot. Want some?”

“Absolutely.” He crossed to the shelves where the mugs were stored and grabbed one. Then he backtracked to the fridge for the cream, knowing exactly where it was located in the double-wide refrigerator.

I stirred the blackberry mixture and turned off the heat before grabbing the coffee pot. I motioned with my chin to the mug and creamer he’d set out. “You come here often?”

Putting his hands on his hips, he looked astounded, as if only now realizing what he’d been doing. “Sorry. Habit. I used to have coffee with Zee a few times a week before the café opened for the day.” He glanced around, his gaze eventually going upward, lingering on the blackbird quote on the soffit. “I’ve missed it.”

Surprise rippled through me as I filled his mug. “I didn’t know you two were that close.”

“Zee was a good friend to me.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Grief ballooned in my chest.

With a nod of acknowledgment, he said, “You couldn’t have.”

But for some reason, I felt as though I should have known. About him. And about Zee’s relationship with Summer, too. It stung, this feeling of exclusion, which seemed strange to me since I’d never minded being left out of Wicklow before now. I’d always accepted that this was a forbidden place I’d never see, with forbidden people I’d never know, and that was that.

Only, it turned out it wasn’t.

Pushing those thoughts out of my mind, I topped off my mug. “I’m glad you said something. I like knowing you and Zee were friends. It’s … comforting.”

“Really? Then why the sudden frown?”

“Oh, it’s nothing about you and Zee, I promise. It’s only that for a second there I was overcome with the deep need to bake you a zucchini loaf.”

Laughing, he added cream to his coffee but didn’t bother stirring it through. A white cloud bloomed in the dark liquid as he said, “See, Wicklow’s already getting a hold on you. I told you it would.”

“Not hardly.” I went back to making the cobbler’s batter, adding sugar, salt, baking powder, and, lastly, buttermilk to the flour and butter.

He leaned against the sink apron. “This coffee is good. Reminds me of Zee.”

“It should. Jena taught me Zee’s way of making it.” I’d been happy to carry on one of her traditions, but it was another thing that made me feel strangely left out.

“What’re you cooking up over there?” he asked.

“Blackberry cobbler.”

“Did you know you smile when you measure ingredients?”

I glanced at him. “I do?”

“With every ingredient. I noticed because I think it’s the first I’ve seen you smile since you’ve been in Wicklow. Which is a shame, because you have a nice smile.”

I ignored the sudden flustered feeling that nearly made me drop the wooden spoon I was using to mix the batter. “Cooking and baking make me happy.”

“Runs in the family, then?”

“It does. I learned from the best.” I assembled the cobbler, stuck the eight-inch square pan in the preheated oven, set the timer, and faced him. “Are you hungry? How about an omelet?”

“Thanks for the offer, but I should get going. I’ll be forever in-debted if you save me some of that cobbler, though.”

“That’s a fair price for the honey.”

He finished his cup of coffee, rinsed the mug, and set it in the dishwasher. “When you have some extra time, I need—”

His words were cut off by someone pounding on the front door.

Mr. Lazenby had his face pressed to the glass, which only seemed to highlight each and every frown line. “Miss Anna Kate! I need to be talkin’ to you!”

I let out a breath.

“What’s wrong with him?” Gideon asked.

“The pie,” I said, heading for the front of the café.

“The pie?” I heard Gideon mumble behind me.

“Miss Anna Kate,” Mr. Lazenby said as soon as I opened the door, his color high, “the pie is broken. I didn’t get a dream.”

“I know. Come back tomorrow.”

“What about today’s pies?” he asked, eyes wide.

“Broken too. There actually won’t be any pie sold today,” I said, making a spur-of-the-moment decision. “Everything will be back to normal tomorrow. See you then.” I forced a smile and closed the door.

I turned back to Gideon, only to hear pounding on the door again.

I spun around.

“But I’m hungry,” Mr. Lazenby said pitifully through the glass. “And something smells real good.”

hesitated only a second before pulling open the door. It was the least I could do for the sorrowful old man.

“You’re a nice girl,” he said, passing me by, heading straight to the island where Gideon was already pouring him a cup of coffee.

They said their hellos, then Gideon headed for the back door. “Thanks for the coffee. I’ll talk to you later, Anna Kate.”

“But wait. You were saying something earlier …”

“It can keep.”

“You sure?”

He nodded. “Don’t forget to save me some of that cobbler.”

I followed him to the screen door and leaned against the jamb. “Gideon? I know I’m not Zee, but I’ll be down here most mornings around six if you want to come on by for some of her coffee.”

Sunshine glinted off his eyes. “I just might take you up on that.”

With that, he was off, down the deck steps and walking across Zee’s garden toward the back of the yard.

I turned to face Mr. Lazenby and rubbed my hands together. “Now, while we wait for that cobbler, how about we pass the time destemming some mulberries?”

Next: Chapters 9 & 10

 

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