Mae's Cafe (Welcome To Chance Book 1) Read online

  Mae’s Café

  Welcome to Chance

  Book One

  By Elsa Kurt

  Mae’s Cafe

  Copyright © 2019 by Elsa Kurt.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: May 2019

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-599-7

  ISBN-10: 1-64034-599-X

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  Dedicated first and foremost to my husband, Paul.

  To Keith, who left us too soon.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Prologue

  On a warm, sunny, late spring morning, a man named William Grant found himself passing through a small, coastal New England town. He was on his way from New York to a writer’s retreat in New Hampshire. Minutes after his tires rolled past the sign shouting ‘WELCOME TO CHANCE, CONNECTICUT,’ he said to himself, “Now, that’d be a great title for a novel. Welcome to Chance.”

  Whether by coincidence or fate, his car suddenly started to shudder and clunk. Maybe, he thought only half-jokingly, the town was ordering him to stop here. Regardless, he knew he’d have to find an auto body shop or gas station fast. Assuming this little coastal town even had one.

  By providence’s magic, a service station came into sight. Luck indeed seemed to be on William Grant’s side that day, although by then white smoke had begun creeping out from under the hood, so he supposed he wasn’t that fortunate. As he pulled up in front of the wide, grey garage bay door, a young man came out. He wore the tell-tale uniform of a mechanic—dark blue dungarees, khaki-colored button-down shirt, both with dark stains like ink blooms here and there. Above the pocket on his broad chest sat a sewn on, white with red trim patch announcing his name to the world—Ricky.

  “Hello…Ricky,” William called out to him. “I seem to be having car trouble.”

  “Hey…” He jerked his head at William then at his car. “Yep, looks that way, buddy. Turn that ignition off before you blow us all sky high.”

  He jumped back into the car, whacking his head on the door frame, and turned the key quickly. “Sorry, sorry. Jesus, would it really have blown up?”

  “Nah, I’m just messing with you. Looks like you’re overheating. There wasn’t that much smoke, so you got here in plenty of time.” He popped the hood as he spoke, releasing a plume of billowy smoke. “Hmm,” he said.

  “Hmm, what? Is it bad?” William could discuss in detail quite a few topics with a considerable amount of knowledge—even expertise—mined over his fifty-six years on earth. From the intriguing history and culture of several small villages in Africa, the stunning and desolate dunes of Morocco, the fierce beauty of South American rainforests, all the way to the domestic arts of installing a garbage disposal, sealing a driveway, and most other household repairs. He knew nothing about cars, however. There was no way for him to hide it, so he was resigned to getting taken for a ride by Ricky, the mechanic. No pun intended.

  “No, shouldn’t be too bad. Don’t worry, buddy. We’re not in the habit of screwing customers. Small town, so nowhere to hide, you know.” He winked. “Tell you what, let’s go inside and get some paperwork going, and we’ll get you on the list.”

  “List? Um, how long do you think this might take?” William’s reservation at the cabin was for four p.m. Dinner service at seven. He’d start fresh in the morning with laptop, coffee, and a view of a pristine lake. Writer’s heaven. Granted, he was on no one’s time schedule but his own, but he’d also had this trip planned for a while. An entire month of uninterrupted writing. He hated the idea of even missing a minute.

  Ricky scratched the back of his head and squinted. “Hard to say. Come on in. Nice and cool in here.” He strode in, pulled a battered burgundy rag from his back pocket, and wiped his hands before rifling through a black fingerprint-smudged log book on the counter. “Hang on a sec,” he muttered. He lumbered around the counter again and walked over to the metal door that separated the garage from the front office.

  The moment he opened the door, the pops and hisses of pneumatic tools, the clank of wrenches, and the guitar wails of classic rock music filled the sparsely furnished, air-conditioned room. “Yo, Bobby! Tommy get in yet?” his voice bellowed over the din.

  Another voice, just as loud and gruff answered, “Nope, he ain’t comin’.”

  Ricky banged the side of his fist against the door and swore. When he came back to the desk, his expression bore equal parts annoyance and apology. “All right, well, looks like I’m a man down today. I got, like, three repairs ahead of you. It’s gonna be a few hours. How about I bring you over to the café in town? Best food around. And view, if you know what I mean. Just don’t tell my wife I said that.”

  William hadn’t a clue what he meant, but since there seemed to be no better choice, he agreed. Several hours later, the same young man would come into the café with the same mixed expression and tell him regretfully that he didn’t have the part necessary to fix his car, and it wouldn’t be in for at least two days. But what matters for this story is what happened after William walked into Mae’s Café.

  William discovered something else besides his next novel in the small coastal town of Chance, Connecticut. He found things he hadn’t known he’d been looking for, things he didn’t know he was missing. For the first time ever, William Grant was about to become part of the story. So, without further ado, Welcome to Chance…

  Chapter 1

  MAE

  Minutes after William was dropped off in town by the extremely talkative Ricky Baker, he was seated at a table in a charming, vintage décor café called merely Mae’s Café. A striking woman handed him a menu and set a glass of water down as she introduced herself.

  “Good morning. I’m Mae. Would you like to hear today’s specials?”

  “You’re Mae, as in Mae’s Café, Mae?” William found himself unable to stop staring. It wasn’t just the sight of this young woman in a vintage, floral-print dress and dainty apron, or her long, side-parted fawn-colored hair, or even her surprisingly husky voice slipping through her full, red matte lipstick lips keeping him compelled. It was all of it and more.

  The way she self-consciously twisted one of those long barrel-curls around her finger yet gazed steadily into his eyes as she spoke—that. And then, perhaps more than anything else, it was those eyes. Grey, round, bottomless pools a man
could get lost in. For a split second, William believed he was in an old black and white film and Mae was in Technicolor. He thought, She’d make the ideal heroine in a story. A need to know more about her consumed him instantly. She obliged.

  “Yup.” She laughed, giving a proud yet self-deprecating shrug. “I just turned twenty-six, if you’re wondering. I opened this place up when I was twenty-one. It’s, um, inspired by my dad. This place was his dream, and…I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Sorry. I—I’ll give you some time to look at the menu.”

  She turned abruptly and walked to the counter then disappeared into the back. Had she waited a moment, he’d have told her, “It’s okay, Mae, people often find themselves telling me their stories. It’s a thing, as they say.” He’d be speaking the truth, people really did tend to spill their guts to William Grant. He supposed it was his face. He appeared “care-worn,” or so he’d been told. Likely it’s just a polite way of saying he looked like he’d seen his share of what life threw at you and then some. They’d be right too. Even in his prime—back when Time Magazine described him as the “adventurous, ruggedly handsome photo-journalist and winner of the prestigious Courage in Journalism Award”—people tended to over-share.

  When his journalism days ended and his need to write had not, William simply changed courses and started writing novels. One after another. Write, publish, tour, and promote, begin again. He’d locked himself away with his memories and thoughts, ones he believed to be an endless pool of words. But then the stories ran out, and William was left hollow. It had been over a year since he’d published his last novel, inspiration had yet to hit, and twinges of anxiety nagged him daily. His publisher and friend, James McKenna—perhaps as anxious as his under-contract author—booked his retreat as a surprise birthday gift.

  “William, old friend,” he’d begun in that officious tone of his, “you need a change of scenery. Here, take this and bring me back something spectacular. First round is due in three months. Oh, and happy birthday. You’re getting old.”

  So, for lack of a better idea, William had accepted the offer—or order, as it seemed—and three days later left the house in the hands of his caretaker and set off toward a little town in the Monadnock region of New Hampshire called Peterborough. That was the plan, at least. Until Chance. Or rather, until Mae Huxley.

  On that fateful, warm, late spring morning, William Grant spoke to Mae for quite a while. It was there, with Mel Torme, Rosemary Clooney, Dean Martin, and Frank Sinatra crooning through the speakers above, that he found his next story. Only it wasn’t just one story; it was several, all intertwining and melding together under the roof of Mae’s Café, inspired—in part—by the beautiful, enigmatic Mae herself.

  Before Ricky Baker had even come to tell him the news about his car, William had canceled his reservation at the cabin, found a place to stay, and set about getting backgrounds and histories of the people who called this seemingly sleepy town home. Mae had agreed to let him hang around so he could observe and write.

  ***

  “Who the heck is this old guy coming in here sayin’ that he’d like to write a book about Chance?” Bruce Grady scowled across the café. “He’s probably trying to get into your pants, Mae. Not everyone that seems nice is nice, you know.”

  “Everyone deserves a chance, Bruce. God, when did you get so cynical, anyhow?” To herself, Mae conceded that by comparison, he was indeed an old guy. Fifty-six to a twenty-six year old was, well, old. She also admitted—again, only to herself—that she found William Grant extremely handsome.

  She punched Bruce’s arm lightly and scoffed. “He’s been nothing but respectful, so shut up. I’m going back over there to tell him he’s welcome to it.”

  She sat down across from William and said, “Okay, just to forewarn you—Chance is a small town. As my dad would say, we’re wedged between Westbrook and Old Saybrook like a fat woman’s thong, and we nudge into Essex like a hernia. Blink and you’ve passed through it.”

  “Does he not like it here?”

  Mae faltered, and William realized his error immediately. “He did. He loved it, actually. But he was afraid once strangers started coming in, they’d ruin it. Honestly, I can’t see what anyone outside of Chance could find interesting here. We’re just regular people, living regular lives, Mr. Grant.”

  It’d been some time since William Grant had smiled. But yes, this woman—this girl—made him smile, albeit slowly. The unbidden voice of the Tin Man squeaked in his mind, “oil can, oil can,” and he felt the creases in his cheeks deepen as the grin pushed wider. The accompanying chuckle was rust-tinged as well. “Well, it’s as good a choice as any I’ve seen, Mae, and I’ve seen a lot of them. Your café seems like the mecca for the whole town too. I bet you’ve gotten to know all of their stories quite well.”

  “Well, everybody has one, right?” She nodded, giving affirmation to her own question. “I mean, I find them interesting.”

  It’s what persuaded her, in the end, to talk to him, or so she told herself. “Well, the lunch crowd is coming in. Stay as long as you want. I’ll ask Bruce—he helps me out in here—to take a few tables so I can sit with you in between customers and you can ask away.”

  “Thank you, Mae. If you could be a dear and keep the coffee coming, I’d be grateful.”

  Mae’s cheeks flushed. William pretended not to notice, but of course, he did. He watched her approach an older couple as they entered the café.

  “Hey, Mr. Brightsider. Hi, Mrs. Brightsider,” she called out with genuine pleasure. “Taking your table by the window or the patio today?”

  The gentleman deferred to his wife. She debated briefly, placing one hand on her husband’s arm, the other to her cheek. She looked outside, shook her head, and pointed to the table inside, by the window. Mae walked them over and handed them menus. William quietly observed it all from his corner table.

  In between Mae’s short bursts of history and facts about the establishment, William—never Will, Bill, or God forbid, Willy or Billy—absorbed Mae’s Café, taking longhand notes on his trusty, ever-present notepad:

  Mae’s Café, gold letters. Stand-alone brick building on the corner of Old Main and Elm Street.

  French blue awning & façade. Glass-paned front door. French doors to patio. Vintage décor. 1940’s?

  Bruce. Boyfriend? Perhaps.

  William stopped writing and pulled a small laptop from the well-worn, camel-brown messenger bag by his feet, opened it, and typed quickly in the search field. The café’s Facebook business page declared it “a quaint local attraction in the heart of historic downtown Chance, Connecticut.” William looked around and thought, Well, it would be, if there were ever an influx of newcomers to town. Still, he noted that she kept her small WELCOME flag waving in hopeful anticipation from a cracked, terra-cotta pot with a scarlet blossomed hibiscus by the newspaper rack at the door. A wrought iron fence surrounded the patio, along which she had hung window boxes full of cascading crimson petunias, sweet potato, and licorice vines, all of which she’d grown in her little greenhouse garden behind the cafe. An antique bike with a wire basket—full of more flowers—leaned against the rail.

  Inside was as delightful. Black-framed classic film posters adorned the floral print wall-papered walls. Small, sparkly chandeliers hung from the ceiling over each booth, and the flooring sported a bold black and white checkerboard linoleum. Along the dining area’s back wall stood a baker’s rack displaying old-fashioned kitchen and household gadgets and utensils. It was nestled between two tall seafoam-green bookcases, which held candles, greeting cards, books, pottery, and other various wares from local artists and vendors. There were about a dozen round wood tables, each hosting either two or four mismatched chairs with floral upholstered seats. Old-timey swing music played at just the right volume. Stepping into Mae’s Café was like stepping into another time, a simpler one at that. There was a lightness there, an ease and comfort. William wrote:

  A sense of hiraeth ov
ercomes you as you smell the fresh apple pie and percolator-brewed coffee. Patrons linger here. They push their chairs out slowly, then tuck them under the table neatly. They seek out Mae with hopeful, almost anxious eyes. When they find her, visible relief settles their shoulders and smooths their brows. Mae accepts hugs and gives them, squeezes hands, and allows her cheeks to be kissed, all with alacrity and equanimity. It is easy to see she is beloved. She seems unaware of this.

  As for the food in Mae’s Café, everything was made with love by Mae herself. Fresh vegetables and herbs straight from her garden. Eggs from her chicken coop. Local meats and cheeses. For the brave and curious, she included on her menu authentic meals served in the forties—things like pea croquettes and deviled chicken and something called “cola marsh ice.” There were no Styrofoam or plastic to-go cups. There were white diner coffee mugs with thick, stubby handles and delicate teacup and saucer sets. Vintage china for dining on, and vintage floral-print glasses for drinking. If you wanted it to go, you brought in your own mug. Leftovers and take-out orders were sent home wrapped in aluminum foil packages inside brown paper bags. It all bespoke a quiet, clear message—the modern world wasn’t forbidden here; it was just unwelcome.

  Then there was Mae herself. Mae Scarlet Huxley, formally. Her long hair—styled in a deep side-part reminiscent of Lauren Bacall in Casablanca—cascaded over her bare shoulders in sultry waves that swept back and forth across her back when she walked. Her mouth was full, perhaps even too full by some standards, but her cheeks dimpled and creased so prettily when she smiled or laughed that one could not help but laugh or smile along with her. On that day she was dressed in a floral print halter dress that cupped her breasts, hugged her waist, and then flowed loosely over her hips and thighs, ending at her knees. Her legs were long, colt-like, and tan. William expected to see a dainty pair of Mary-Janes on her feet, but Mae had paired her dress with black Converse hi-tops. Somehow, its jarring contradiction was delightful.