breakfast.”
A hot flush crept up Amy’s neck, and she stole a look at Ethan, who was watching the exchange with amused interest. From his expression, it was clear that Heather had filled him in on the history between Amy and Bryan.
“I think I’ll just have some toast and tea, Betty.” Amy handed her unopened menu back to the owner.
Betty tucked it under her arm and gave Amy a concerned look. “Aren’t you feeling well?”
“I’m fine.”
“You always order an omelet for breakfast.”
Gritting her teeth, Amy prayed that the flush on her neck wouldn’t work its way up to her cheeks. “I’m not that hungry today.”
“Humph.” Betty made a notation on the order pad. “How about you, Bryan?”
“Coffee. Black. And scrambled eggs.”
“What about some bacon or sausage? Maybe a pancake or two? And you know our cinnamon rolls are to die for.”
“Not today, thanks.”
“Humph.” Again, she scribbled on her notepad. “Ethan?”
“A three-egg omelet with ham and mushrooms, a side order of country potatoes and a biscuit. Oh, and coffee with lots of cream.”
“Now that’s what I call a breakfast.” Betty nodded her approval as she jotted down the order, then stuck her pencil in among the strands of brown and gray hair that were woven into a bun on the back of her head. “Coffee and tea will be right out. Amy, you better slide yourself in a little or you’re going to end up on the floor.”
As Betty hustled away, Amy lost her battle to keep the warm color from invading her face. It surged onto her cheeks, intensifying as she risked a peek at Bryan and found him watching her with an unreadable expression as she eased in an inch or two. Ethan, on the other hand, seemed amused by the whole thing, and she glared at him across the table.
Clearing his throat, the photographer had the good grace—and the good sense—to change the subject. “So…Dylan is a cute kid, Bryan. But being a father must be a challenge. I admit I’ve been giving it a lot of thought since Heather and I got engaged. To be honest, raising a family wasn’t one of my top priorities until I met her. But it’s amazing how love can change your perspective. Still, the responsibility of that whole parenting thing kind of blows my mind.”
Betty deposited their mugs and joined right in on the conversation. She’d been in Davis Landing so long that she knew everyone—and felt like part of their families. “You’ll be a natural, Ethan. Don’t you worry about it. Just love your kids. That’s the main thing. And you bring that son of yours in here soon.” Betty directed her last comment to Bryan. “Get him one of those hot-fudge sundaes you and Amy used to like. My treat for his first visit.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks.” Bryan watched her leave, then turned back to Ethan. “Betty’s right. Love is the best thing you can give your kids. Just let them know that they come first in your life, and that you’re on their side. My dad and mom did that with my brother and me, and I’m trying to follow their example with Dylan. It’s a little harder when there’s just one of you, though.” A shadow passed over his face, and he reached for his mug and took a sip of coffee.
“Heather told me you’d lost your wife,” Ethan sympathized. “I’m sorry. Was it very long ago?”
“Five and a half years.”
Twin furrows appeared on Amy’s brow, and she turned to him for the first time since Betty had deposited their drinks. “How old is Dylan?”
“Five and a half.” As Ethan and Amy stared at him, Bryan answered the unspoken question suspended in the silence. “Darlene had a condition known as preeclampsia. It’s not an uncommon complication of pregnancy, and most of the time it’s mild. Hers wasn’t. In its most severe form, it can endanger the mother and put the child at risk. There’s no cure except delivering the baby, and timing is everything. Ours was off. Darlene suffered a cerebral hemorrhage, and Dylan was taken eight weeks early by C-section. He made it. She didn’t.”
Horrified, Amy stared at Bryan. His spare, curt speech had been delivered in a clinical, dispassionate voice as he stared into the murky depths of his coffee. But his white-knuckled grip on the handle, the deep creases of strain around his mouth and the tense line of his jaw spoke of a pain and trauma undimmed by the passage of years. She wanted to say something, anything, to comfort him, but her throat was too tight to let any words through, even if she could find some that were appropriate.
Ethan seemed just as much at a loss as she was. As they exchanged a What-do-we-say-now? look, Betty came to their rescue and deposited their plates on the table.
“Here you go. Ethan, I put a packet of honey on your plate. I know you like that with your biscuits. Bryan, I had Justine add a little parsley to those scrambled eggs. Dresses them up quite a bit. Amy, here’s a little cinnamon-sugar mixture for that toast. I remember you used to like that as a little girl. I like it myself. Turns plain toast into comfort food. Can I get you folks anything else?”
Ethan found his voice. “No, thanks. This looks good, Betty.”
“Just give me or one of the girls a wave if you need something. Eat up.”
As Amy stared down at her plate of toast, she doubted whether she’d be able to choke down more than a few bites after listening to Bryan’s sad story. Maybe the cinnamon sugar would help. But as for turning the toast into comfort food…not today. It would take more than that homey recipe to ease the ache in her heart that Bryan’s story had produced.
He stirred beside her, and she heard the clink of cutlery against crockery as he forked a bite of egg. Ethan, bless him, had shifted the conversation to an innocuous discussion of fishing conditions on the Cumberland River, and Bryan was responding. Amy let them chat, keeping her attention focused on her plate. She didn’t want to look at Bryan. Not yet. Not until she worked through the emotions his story had stirred up. Not until she felt enough in control that she could risk letting him look into her eyes without worrying that he’d see right into her heart and know that she still cared for him. That his pain had touched her far more than it could have if she’d truly moved on with her life, as she’d told him she had in the staff meeting.
At least everyone ate fast. Ethan cleaned his plate, and Bryan put a good dent in his scrambled eggs. Amy tore her toast into little pieces and clumped them in a pile, hoping no one would notice that most of it remained uneaten. However, as she slid from the booth, followed by Bryan, he gave her plate a quick scrutiny. When he stood beside her, his face just inches from hers, his green eyes were questioning, probing.
Feeling somehow exposed, Amy checked her watch. “Well, I’m off. I’ll see you two back at the office. Just put this on my tab,” she instructed Betty, who was passing by.
“Sure thing, hon,” the owner called over her shoulder.
Then, without a backward glance at the two men, Amy headed for the exit. And tried not to run.
Leaning back in her office chair, Amy rested her elbows on the arms and steepled her fingers as she stared at her computer screen. Since breakfast two hours before, in between phone calls from the printer and an impromptu—and disruptive—visit from Typhoon Tim, she’d managed to find out an awful
