Thatcher sipped his coffee, saying nothing, hoping the subject would die.
Landry wagged his spoon just as he had his fork earlier. “S
ee, Hutton? That’s what I’m talking about. Most men would be furious, railing at the sheriff, at everybody who would listen about the unfairness of your detention. You act unaffected, but I wonder if behind the steely veneer, you’re seething. Or are you truly this slow to rile?”
Before Thatcher could answer, motion toward the back of the café drew his attention. The swinging door into the kitchen was being pushed open. By Laurel Plummer. By Laurel Plummer’s bottom. Her very shapely bottom.
She was attempting to wedge through the door with both hands raised, each supporting what looked like a baking dish draped in a dish towel. It was a precarious balancing act.
In an instant, Thatcher was out of his chair. Mr. Martin was late to respond because he’d been behind the counter matching the day’s receipts with the money in his till.
Thatcher pulled wide the door.
“Thank you, Mr. Martin,” she said as she was turning. “I shouldn’t have tried to—” She came to an abrupt stop and blinked up at Thatcher. Several seconds passed without either of them speaking, then she mumbled a thank you and sidestepped to go around him.
He reached for the dish in her left hand. “Let me take this one.”
“No thank you. I’ve got them.”
Mr. Martin rushed around the end of the counter. “Mrs. Plummer, forgive me. My people working in back were supposed to tell me when you got here.”
“It’s quite all right. They were busy.” She took a breath and gave a shaky smile. “As ordered, a pecan pie and a peach cobbler.”
She handed them to Mr. Martin in turn. He set the baked goods side by side on the counter and whisked off the muslin towels with the flourish of a magician over a top hat. “Ah, they look scrumptious. Beautiful, too. My wife, God rest her soul, always got the crust too brown.”
Laurel looked pleased but self-conscious over the compliment. “I hope your customers approve.”
“I’ve got two gents here now who turned down dessert, but I’ll bet they’ll reconsider.” He winked at her. “Gentlemen, Mrs. Plummer has started baking for me, and her pies are out of this world. The cobbler is still warm. Can I tempt you? I’ll add a scoop of ice cream on the house.”
“You’ve sold me,” Chester Landry said. He had pushed away from the table and was standing with his napkin in his hand. “Mrs. Plummer, Chester Landry.” He touched his chest and gave her a nod.
“How do you do.”
“Actually, I regretted that my dinner partner—oh, forgive me. This is Mr. Thatcher Hutton.”
The introduction required her to acknowledge him again, something she had avoided doing since her stunned reaction to another unexpected meeting with him. Having recovered, she now said coolly, “Mr. Hutton.”
“Mrs. Plummer.”
Landry said, “As I was saying, to my disappointment, Mr. Hutton had declined dessert, so I felt compelled to do likewise. Thank you for coming to my rescue.”
“I hope you enjoy the cobbler.”
Landry pulled an empty chair from beneath the table. “Would you care to join us?”
“No.” Then, as though realizing how curtly she’d answered, she added, “I can’t. I have other deliveries to make.”
She turned back to Mr. Martin and spoke to him in an undertone. Thatcher didn’t catch her words, but Martin said, “Of course, of course,” and bustled back around the counter to the cash register.
Laurel meticulously folded the dish towels and tucked them beneath her arm. When Mr. Martin returned to her, she extended her hand, and he counted out bills into her palm. She slipped the money into a pocket of her skirt. “Do you want to place an order for Thursday, Mr. Martin?”
“Can you do another apple? And people are still raving about the lemon meringue.”
“I could make another lemon, of course. Although…” She dragged out the word, capturing the café owner’s attention. “I also do a chocolate meringue.”
“One apple, one lemon, one chocolate.”
She reached across the counter to shake his hand. “Thank you. I’ll see you before closing on Thursday.”