Turtle Soup
Danielle Thorne
Published by Danielle Thorne at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Danielle Thorne
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedicated to Stacy Coleman
You can have your cake and eat it, too. Dream big.
Chapter One
Jack Brandon barreled past the senior couple avoiding their stares. If his flight wasn't delayed, he would miss it, and all because of some shuffling old farts. The moving sidewalk carried him across the terminal double time as he fumbled for his phone.
A woman moving in the opposite direction caught his attention. She whisked past, hair streaming like a kite tail. Her shoulder bag was a bright aqua that stuck out in the crowd. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that she had looked back. For a zinger of a moment they made eye contact then his ride on the moving sidewalk ended as his feet hit solid ground. The rest of him tumbled forward and his cell phone spun off in a wild arc coming to rest several feet away in pieces.
"You okay?" Humiliation rolled over him as a pair of leather boots, strung up Victorian fashion, nudged his shoulder. He pulled himself up quickly though she offered a hand. Ignoring her, he moved off for his phone.
"I'm fine."
"You sure?" The girl with the bag knelt and reached for the battery. Her jeans were fitted, her white blouse tied at the front. "I hope your phone's okay." She gave a little laugh as if she were making fun.
"I drop it all the time."
"You don't look that clumsy." She passed him the pieces.
People stood around looking sympathetic. Jack felt the red rise on his cheeks. She had to have climbed over the handrail to get to him so fast. He grabbed his carry-on and stalked off not bothering to smooth down his chinos or thank her. He could feel her eyes on his back as he practically ran to catch the plane.
The Delta 757 departed Atlanta and was in the air for over an hour before Jack pulled the seat to the upright position. The border of blue ocean came into view. He tried to push the mental weeds to the back of his head; the late flight, his chafed knee, the girl. It was early and he had a full day ahead. His cell phone chimed.
"Hello, Jack?" His secretary sounded like she'd fallen into a tin can.
"Yes?"
"How's the Caribbean?" She said it care-a-be-an, like the theme park ride.
"It's wonderful."
"I wish I was there."
"What can I do for you?" Jack tried to keep the irritation out of his voice.
Trudy clucked her tongue into the receiver. "Did you get the fax from Byron?"
"I'm not home yet."
"Get it back as soon as you can," she admonished.
"Done."
"And notarized."
"Yes, Trudy," Jack answered with a sigh.
"We should know something by Monday." The secretary's voice was filled with expectation.
He agreed. "I'm sure they'll consider us for the exhibit space."
"It's in the bag, dear."
Unconsciously, Jack shook his head. "This is just to get into the running."
"Then why am I sending you a list of buyers' agents?"
"Because I don't want to spend my life in a hotel."
"You won't," Trudy declared. "You'll spend six months in an aquatic wonderland educating the public and polluting the atmosphere on your commute."
"Beautifully said." Jack kept his voice low so his fellow passengers wouldn't sense he was on the defensive. But how could he be? Yes, it was an overcrowded, bustling city, but Atlanta had a world class aquarium and the Brandon Sea Turtle Foundation was a part of it. With luck, they would win the bid for the new exhibit space currently under construction.
"The fax number is in your planner."
"I know."
"Have a lovely trip," Trudy chirped.
He thanked her and shut the phone. She acted as if he was on some kind of vacation, but the truth was he was going home. The next few weeks were for research purposes only. He'd have to return to the mainland soon.
St. Thomas came into view, a leafy mound of paradise surrounded by light blue water. As they circled around the island, Jack thought he could see his boat snuggled in the private marina of Charlotte-Amalie. The streets were laid out in snaking lines along the port, where cruise ships anchored like giant dominos. He had a house in St. John his mother had left him, but he preferred sleeping aboard Calliope. When the plane landed, he would make a beeline for the marina. His crew would be waiting.
****
Twenty-five, twenty, fifteen...Jack slowed until he achieved perfect weightlessness then reached for his dive computer to count down the five-minute safety stop. Below, his intern, Scott, waved off a wandering remora, the break in his bubble stream causing Jack to look down. Lost in the green murk, the reef was no longer visible, but Jack was satisfied that their subjects were accounted for.
Turtle Cove was his quiet place. A small rocky cay wreathed by a series of reefs, he monitored it for the turtles that fed there. Sebastian did a casual fly by as if making sure both men found their way up to the surface. The green sea turtle weighed just over four hundred pounds. He was a mature, strong specimen, the biggest Jack had ever seen. He himself had harmlessly tagged the hind flipper three years before.
The hum of a motor grazed his awareness and Jack froze. Ignoring the Diver Down flag, the intruder raced across the surface, inverted wake zooming impossibly close. Both Jack and Scott hit their dump valves to drop quickly out of harm's way, but the instinctive habit was not necessary. With heads still attached, they shot up the last few feet and ripped down their masks.
"Conner!" Jack screamed. The beefy man aboard Calliope quit shaking his fist long enough to see if corpses were bobbing in the turquoise foam. "Did you see that?" he shouted.
Beside him, Scott cried, "Jack, where's Sebastian? I saw him right before they passed over."
Jack heaved himself onto the boat's dive platform and tore off his buoyancy compensator. Conner followed to the top deck and the three of them scanned the water before surrendering to the logic that the turtle, too, had survived.
"We should go after them," Jack said angrily. Conner wasn't moved.
"And do what?" his best friend asked.
"Come on!"
"Man, you know I'd love to."
Conner searched the horizon and finding everything quiet motioned for Scott to start the engine. "We can run them down and report them, or we can cut out of here and go get something to eat."
Diver Down flags were ignored occasionally, but little was ever done about it. "Who was it?" Jack demanded.
"Not sure, but I'll keep an eye out."
Jack leaned over the rail as the indigo water sped past Calliope's bow. His pride seethed, but more from Conner's reaction than the ignorant charter boat. He knew he'd jumped the gun. Sometimes he reacted like he was still thirty years old and invincible, with a beautiful, ambitious fiancée beside him.
They cruised into the marina, and Jack grabbed his bag. "I've got to fax some forms to Trudy. Where are you heading?"
Conner pointed up the palm-dappled slope where a winding road led to their favorite grill. Jack turned his duffle inside out. "Where's my planner?" He picked through his clothes and shower bag. "What'd I do with it?" He went to his cabin below and brought up his briefcase.
"Why don't you get a Blackberry?" Conner asked.
"Like you're more organized than me?" Jack riffled through the contents. "I'm old-fashioned."
"Maybe you left it in the City of Peaches."
A horrible thought struck Jack. He had dropped his bag in the airport, not just his phone. Now he would have to call Trudy or miss the opportunity to apply for the new exhibit space.
"I'm going to have to call my secretary."
"She hot?"
"She's eighty."
Conner made a face.
"Don't worry I'll introduce you when you come up."
"Better hope she doesn't have your little black book," Conner warned with a grin.
Chapter Two
Sara Hart caught the shuttle bus to long-term parking. She collapsed into a seat and took from her bag a small notebook the man had dropped. A tab fell open to the B's. It was a planner for numbers and addresses.
She noted the entry Benton, Mark, and realized it was a little black book with notes in the margins. Bloomberg, Marie, of New York, was blocked from his cell phone. Campbell, Pumpkin -- could there really be a grown woman named Pumpkin? -- had a scratched out cell number and a gratuitous phrase describing her assets.
Sara giggled in spite of herself and looked up. No one on the bus seemed to be interested in what she was doing. The windows were down, letting in the fresh breeze. Peach and tulip trees waved pompom blossoms from sidewalks. The sun shined from rooftops, and the metal, glass, and mixed concrete superstructures glowed. In the springtime, Atlanta became an urban garden.
By the time she reached home in her door-dinged Blazer, she had a good handle on what kind of man she'd bumped into. The front page had a box that J.B. had filled in with nothing more than his initials and a 1-800 number. She dog-eared a few pages to show her sister once she unpacked.
****
"I can't believe you finally let Carly go to a slumber party."
"I needed a break."
"From your own daughter?"
"She's not a daughter anymore." Sara's sister, Ellen, threw a pair of shoes into an open closet. Her bobbed hair swung with vehemence. "She's a woman trapped in a child's body and if we don't start spending a little more time apart she will never see fifteen."
Sara laughed. Pulling the curtains back, she examined the view outside of their second story apartment. "I'm just glad she got invited."
"She was beside herself."
"Cary's a good girl," said Sara defensively. Her niece was also smart and a heck of a cook.
"I'm glad you took the trip. You needed a break, you're driving everyone crazy worrying about the lease."
"The lease! Don't bring up the lease!" Sara pictured the deli she was opening down the street from the Georgia Aquarium. "I'm expecting things to go right through the roof. Do you think I'm being unrealistic?"
Ellen gave her a reassuring smile. "Nobody can bake like you. Have you decided on a name? I'm still for Jellyfish Junction."
Sara groaned. "Terrible and tacky."
"You'll never sell anything with a name like that."
"Speaking of tacky--" Sara pulled the planner out.
Ellen flipped through it, gasped at some of the entries then examined the contact number. "Where'd you get this?"
She told her. "Why would someone put a toll free number in their address book?"
"Maybe he runs an escort business."
"I could see that."
"Good looking?"
"Very. Short black hair, olive-complexion, broad in the shoulders."
"Rude, but hot."
Sara nodded.
Ellen dialed the number from her cell. She listened for a moment then clicked the phone shut as if avoiding someone's answer.
"What?"
"Have you ever heard of the Brandon Sea Turtle Foundation?"
"The sea turtle rescue group. He must work for them."
"Probably at the aquarium," Ellen suggested.
"So J.B. would be his initials. Why didn't he put down his own number?"
"With a book like this?" Ellen thumbed through the pages and with doe eyes serious, handed it back to Sara. In thick letters, someone had penciled STALKER beside a woman's name.
When Sara woke up the next day, she tried to ignore the book beside her computer. After a phone call to the bank, she took a hot shower then lathered herself in moisturizer. Her hair still in a towel, she hit the search engine for information about the BSTF and its staff. The About Us link gave her nothing more than a brief history, but it did provide the founder's name: Jack Brandon.
"No way," she said to no one in particular. She browsed until she found a staff page that listed personnel. The research staff included marine biologists, divers, and a couple of interns. None of them had the initials she was looking for. The chairman was listed again as Jack Brandon.
Sara clicked on his biography. She scrolled down to a head shot. Jack was in fact, J.B. She studied his expression: confident but aloof, a man who knew how to get the job done. She sat quietly gazing at the profile then with a chuckle went back to the bathroom to comb out her hair.
Her blue eyes watched back from the mirror. Once a fair blond, time had darkened it, so she'd had it highlighted to satisfy her ego. She still called herself a natural, but it was pushing it.
Maybe tomorrow she would take a field trip. Perhaps she would run into Jack Brandon and his sea turtles. She decided to call first, to see if he was in. After a nerve-wracking transfer and two brisk rings later, a kind voice answered. "He's not in town," his secretary told her. Sara's heart pounded like a jackhammer. "Can I help you?"
"No," Sara stumbled in reply, "I'll call back."
"He should be in the last week of the month."
"Thanks." She hung up, wondering what the woman on the other side of the line looked like. He seemed the type that would have a beautiful woman to do his bidding. She curled her lip. It would be easy to put the book in the mail but dropping it off in person would be more polite. At the very least he could show a little appreciation. He'd been the one to run off.
****
The next three weeks were hectic. The chairs arrived for the deli and Sara opened on time, albeit without a sign or much publicity. Carly came in to help after school and before long they organized a six day routine. Sunday was her only day to relax, but the planner beside her computer got in the way. It made its way to her bag, and eventually the car. Finally business was so slow one afternoon, she took a detour home after closing early.
The Georgia Aquarium loomed, ironically, over Baker Street. A modern glass and steel structure, it looked like the bow to a futuristic Titanic jutting up from the city streets.
Jack's secretary, Sara discovered, was beautiful after all. Trudy, as she introduced herself, had thick white hair coiled into a bun and owlish eyes shining behind silver frames. She seemed delighted to meet Sara who got lost wandering through the maze of administrative tunnels on the second floor.
Sara handed the book over with an explanation and accepted a bottled water. They were talking about her previous catering career when a tall man walked by in shorts and flipflops. He did an about face.
"Conner!" Trudy greeted him. She motioned toward Sara. "Look who found Jack's planner."
His yellow hair was damp and he smelled faintly of fish. Sara saw amusement in his eyes. "You found the book?" Sara nodded. "You didn't read it, did you?" he teased. She blushed and tried to think of something to say. He gave her a knowing grin.
Sara tried to cover her laugh with a choked, "The pages fell open," but it faded off as Conner's face dropped and he waved to someone behind her.
Jack Brandon strode up. "Your book," Trudy said with pleasure. She passed it to him and he looked at Sara in surprise. She saw vague recognition and heard once more the cool voice.
"Where did you get this?" He fanned the pages as if reacquainting himself.
"You dropped it at the airport."
"You couldn't call me?"
"I tried," said Sara.
Jack raised a brow as if he didn't quite believe her. "You found me, how?"
Sara reared back as if he'd stepped on her toe. "I called the number, didn't leave a message, looked up your website, and thought I'd be kind enough to drop it off."
"I see," said Jack, who didn't bother to introduce himself or ask her name. Her retort had turned his cool demeanor to ice. "What do you want for it?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Do I need to pay you for the trouble?"
"It was no trouble. I just thought it would be easier to drop off."
"Uh-huh," he said as if she were making up excuses he could see through. "A month later." Trudy decided to answer a phone that hadn't rung and Conner disappeared.
Sara bristled, pushed her purse strap up over her shoulder and looked past him. "I was busy." She had never been treated so boorishly. Her legs took her quickly out the door.
"Wait a minute." Jack caught up with her. "Here." He thrust a pair of tickets into her hand.
"What's this?"
"Passes."
"I don't need any passes."
She pushed them over, accidentally brushing his hand. The warmth of it caught her off guard. He gave a little chuckle under his breath. "I'd take you to lunch but I'm afraid my schedule's full."
The nerve of the man confounded her. Angry at the flush that plumed up her neck she gave him a locked-jaw gaze. "I'd starve before eating with you."
****
Sara ate dinner with Ellen and Carly in the apartment they shared uptown. "I'm going to name the deli Turtle Soup."
They exploded into laughter and her niece gave her a thumbs up. "And Jack Brandon will think of you every time he drives by."
"I don't want him to drive by unless he's in a hearse."
"He might sue."
"No," Sara disagreed, although some of the steam in her locomotive dissipated.
"You're not going to actually serve turtle soup, are you?"
"Course not."
Ellen held up a fork to halt the conversation. "I've had turtle soup before."
Carly moaned. Sara laughed. "Where was that?"
"Grand Cayman." She looked at her daughter. "Once your father and I spent a week in Grand Cayman diving the wall."
"The wall?" asked Carly.
"A coral cliff. There's a turtle farm there that hatches babies and provides meat for the industry."
"That's disgusting."
"No, actually it's good. Not that much different from beef, really."
"Gross," Carly said. "Doesn't that promote poaching?"
"Why?"
"Because you give people a taste for it."
"It doesn't matter," Sara argued, trying to reroute them back to her own affairs. "I can't actually serve the stuff, they're endangered."
"All you'd really be doing is giving him free publicity," said Ellen.
"It's not publicity. I like it."
"So do I," said Carly, "and I'd like to meet him. Maybe he'll come in."
"I hope he does so I can serve him an arsenic bisque."
"When's the sign coming?" asked Ellen.
"Two weeks, but if I'd had known it would be this much of a nightmare I would have thought twice."
Ellen grinned. "No, you wouldn't have. Even without a sign the grand opening went great, and besides, where else would Jack Brandon eat?"
Chapter Three
Jack walked into Turtle Soup behind Conner. The fragrance of homemade bread almost brought him to his knees. Everyone in the office was talking about the place. It was a block away from the aquarium, another window in a long line of businesses along a busy street.
He scoffed at the island décor. The walls were whitewashed, the floor tiled in green, and the artwork sea-inspired. Some of the tables were wrought iron, others wicker. It looked out of place in downtown Atlanta, even near the aquarium. The two men walked up to the counter and checked out the display. Trays of rolls were under the glass counter. There was a pot of soup simmering over. "Can I help you?"
She came around the corner in response to the front door's bell. The girl from the airport, the one with his book, had hair piled up on top of her head, gold hoops hanging from her earlobes.
"Oh," she said, but something told him she suspected this moment would come. He glanced down the street to the aquarium. Turtle Soup? He felt a flicker of ridicule.
"Hey!" sang Conner. He pointed his finger and looked back at Jack. "Look! It's our little friend."
She smiled. "Sara Hart. You get tired of seafood?"
Conner went into pickup mode. "You never called."
"You never asked me to."
"I've been waiting for you to come by with my planner."
"You carry a planner?"
Jack felt like he was going to throw up. "If he did I'm sure you'd return it to him."
A cloud of menace passed over her face. "I didn't expect to see you in here. Wouldn't a place like this be against your principles?"
"Not unless you actually serve turtle."
"I cook clams," she said coolly. "I'd use turtle if I could get a hold of it."
"They're endangered, sweetheart."
She jerked back at his meaningless term of endearment. "I hear they're pretty tasty."
"Just because something's tasty," he answered, glancing over the counter at her waistline, "doesn't mean it's worth the trouble."
"Something every poacher should know." She turned her attention to Conner. "What can I get for you?"
Her attention riveted on his partner, Jack became invisible. Once he interjected, "For crying out loud, just pick something!" but they ignored him. They discussed every type of soup on the menu, most of the bread, and finally Conner asked her if she owned the place.
"Yes, I do."
"Congratulations. How's business?"
"Picking up."
"This is a good location."
He looked at Jack waiting for him to agree but he didn't. Instead Jack said, "Nice name, are we going to eat or what?" then stuck his hands in his pockets and exhaled loudly.
"You should let us bring some brochures down here," said Conner.
Sara shook her head. "No," she smiled, "that might conflict with things I'm already planning to do."
"Like?"
"I'm checking into some businesses with animal rights concerns, maybe some plugs for the aquarium."
"No National Geographic?"
"Like they need plugging."
"A few flyers from the Caribbean Conservation Cooperation wouldn't be a bad idea."
Sara sidled her focus over to Jack. He gave her a level gaze that said he agreed. "No way." She touched Conner on the hand, "But if I ever need a salesman I know just who to call."
He grinned. "If you ever need a dive instructor, do that." Conner sat down at last.
"What do you want?" Sara asked Jack, dropping her tone three octaves.
"Nothing. I just came to watch my friend eat."
"Your friend has good taste."
"I'm afraid at the moment he doesn't have any taste at all."
"If you're not hungry, then you can let yourself out. This isn't a library."
"No, you'd have to own a book to call it that."
"I can read, can you?" She pointed to a plaque beside the register that said, "No Whining."
"I'm not whining. I'm leaving."
Jack marched past Conner who was shoving bread down his own throat. By the time he reached the aquarium he had worked up a choking thirst. His stomach reeled with hunger, his chest with fury. Turtle Soup? Where had she gotten that idea?
Chapter Four
Conner left Sara a napkin with his number on it. If Jack's partner wanted to take her out, that was her business. If it drove Jack crazy, that was Conner's. Not that he wasn't a nice guy, he just wasn't someone she would seriously consider dating. She hit Ellen's number on speed dial. "Guess what?"
"Geez, Sara, do you know what time it is?"
"Dinnertime?"
"You know I have an early session with the Martins in the morning," complained Ellen.
"That's what you get for being a shrink. They need a priest."
Ellen groaned.
"Guess who came into the shop today?" Sara asked.
"Jack Brandon?"
"How'd you guess?"
Ellen suddenly seemed more alert. "What happened?"
"He walked out in a huff."
"What'd you say to him?"
"I asked him what he was doing in there, then his friend starting talking about alliances, like with the Foundation and the shop."
"What'd you tell him?"
Sara snorted. "I'm not going to further his purposes."
"Not a big deal unless the Beluga Bar opens next door."
"He was a jerk, again."
"Sara," Ellen interrupted, "if you're going to open a place down the street from his office and name it after him, you're going to get a confrontation."
"Bring it on. It gives me something to look forward to while I'm kneading bread."
Her sister mumbled something about brushing her teeth.
"His friend Conner asked me out."
"You like him?"
"He's okay."
"Don't do it. You'd just be opening a can of worms."
****
The can of worms called Turtle Soup two days later. Sara recognized Conner's voice immediately. "How are you?" she asked in return. She'd already closed up and was up to her elbows in dishwater.
"Good. I'm leaving next week for home," Conner said.
"Where's home?"
"St. Thomas."
"How long have you lived there?"
"About nine years. Now that we've moved the Foundation to the Georgia Aquarium, I'm going to be coming and going. I've enjoyed my first visit here though."
"You've worked for Jack for nine years?" Sara wondered how he could put up with him.
"Six actually. It was the Foundation or Sea World."
"You don't seem like a company man."
"I'm not. Ask my father."
"What does he do?"
"What everyone else in Indiana does."
"You're an Indiana boy?"
"Home grown."
"How does a farm boy from Indiana end up in the middle of the ocean?"
"He goes to Florida for spring break and never leaves.
"You took up diving?"
"Like a fish to water."
Sara rolled her eyes. "You go to school?"
"Eventually."
"What'd you major in?"
"Biology."
"Marine science, I suppose."
"You'd be correct. Of course a lifetime of fly-fishing helped. I worked on charter boats for awhile, and used the money for dive classes."
"How'd you meet Jack?"
"Filled out an application and hit it off at the interview."
"You'd hit it off with anyone," Sara said generously.
"I'd like to hit it off with you."
His flirtatious remark caught her off guard. "How about we catch a ball game and see about that?"
"You like baseball?"
"I love baseball. And I have season passes, too. Want to go?"
Conner shouted into the phone, "Absolutely!"
****
They met at seven-thirty outside of Turner Stadium. Sara decided to forego dressing up to discourage any notions Conner had about hitting on her. With her hair knotted in a tight French braid, tan shorts, and a Braves tee shirt, she found him at the season pass gate. "You ready?" she called.
"Always," he smiled.
They spent most of the evening on their feet. The seats were good, the hot dogs delicious. They went out afterwards for ice cream. Conner ordered butter pecan to her sherbet, and they took a pink booth in a far corner of the shop.
"So how did you come up with the idea to start a deli?" asked Conner between licks.
She thought back. "I've always wanted to do something besides catering. Once I got the nerve to start thinking about opening something, they announced the aquarium and I had a few years to get everything together."
"But you haven't been open long?"
"No." Sara shook her head, hesitated, wondered how much she should divulge. "There was a minor distraction a couple years ago. I almost moved to Mississippi."
Conner made a noise as if he equated the state with his own hometown.
Sara laughed. "You don't care much for the simple life, do you?"
"I spend most of my time in sand up to my neck. Shorts and sandals are cool, but sometimes it's nice to get a taste of civilization."
"So you're not a Parrothead?"
"You can have it both ways, ask Jack."
"Ask Jack?" Sara repeated. "What's he, your idol?"
"No, just my boss. He's more small town than I am."
"No way."
"You'd be surprised. He may be a little flashy but inside he's a suffering family man."
"Suffering?"
Conner shrugged. "He always wanted kids."
"Sorry, but I find that hard to believe. Comes across a bit of a player if you ask me."
"He's had a few bumps in the road. Besides, you know how it is—all those socialites wanting to donate their money and catch themselves a playboy."
"So how come nobody's caught him?"
He turned the tables on her with a nudge to her knee. "How come nobody's ever caught you?"
She smiled, took a vicious bite out of her sugar cone, and avoided his gaze.
"Ah-ha," he said with a leer.
"I was engaged once," she relented, "but it ended badly."
"What happened?"
As if it meant nothing to her, Sara answered, "About a week before the wedding I found out he was cheating."
"Ouch."
"You're not kidding. No refunds on anything but the dress."
"At least you got that satisfaction."
"Not really," Sara grinned. "I burned it."
Conner digested this with his last bit of ice cream. "His loss."
"Whatever. I'm over it."
Chapter Five
Jack dawdled outside of Turtle Soup for two minutes before deciding that one cup of soup wouldn't hurt and neither would a piece of heavenly homemade bread. Café Aquaria served lunch in the aquarium, but he wasn't in the mood.
He walked into the store as brash as he could muster, admitting to himself he was curious about the owner and what his partner saw in her.
A girl blossoming out of the last stages of pubescent awkwardness glanced up from the register. She glowed with innocence and an early tan. Her dark hair and eyes matched his and he felt an instant connection with her even before she opened her mouth.
"You're Jack Brandon!"
Jack smiled, pleased at the recognition. "I haven't been blackballed have I?"
"What?"
"I'm still allowed on the premises?"
"Why wouldn't you be?"
"I'm not a favorite with the owner."
"Oh, Sara." The girl grinned. "She's my aunt."
"You're related?"
"Yep. And she told me to be on the lookout for you."
"Why's that?" Jack glanced through the glass counter at homemade biscuits and cornbread. The niece pulled out a basket of free samples.
"She just wants to know if you stop by."
"Don't tell her," Jack teased, and he gave her a covert wink.
She held out her hand, adult-like, and shook his. "I'm Carly, and I'm terrible at keeping secrets."
"Jack," Jack said. He stepped back and raked the goodies with a hungry eye. "I better order something and make a fast getaway."
Carly giggled. She pointed at the pots of warm soup. "Pumpkin bisque and minestrone, unless you want vegetable stew."
Jack had already decided. He took a recyclable container of pumpkin soup and a half dozen wheat yeast rolls.
"How about a cookie?"
"Free?"
Carly shook her head. "We're just trying to break even."
"I'll take a couple," Jack said generously. He craned his neck for a better look. "Make it the oatmeal ones. I thought your place was doing well?"
"It's going okay, but not good enough. Sara's kind of a penny pincher."
"Big surprise," grumbled Jack. "So who named this place?"