A Wedding at the Blue Moon Cafe Page 3

  She turned on her boot heel and strode toward the kitchen, drawing strength from the ink trailing down her other shoulder—Japanese kanji symbols. Eagle, help me soar above. Spirit, heal my wounded soul. Wolf, protect me. Even at times like now, her confidence so shaken, her nerves jangled beneath her skin, her guardians were always behind her.

  They had her back. She drew strength from them and moved forward.

  Chapter Two

  After saying good night to Jeff and Amy and after Clarissa had disappeared without so much as a fuck you, Dylan drove back to El Cosmico, headlights illuminating the empty road. Angry at Jeff for bringing him to this hellhole. At Clarissa, too, but he couldn’t quite figure out what—maybe the lingering ache in his jaw from her right hook. He needed to cool off. He’d have to shower eventually, and it might be best under cover of darkness.

  He hadn’t been the only one with the same idea, but had found an unoccupied stall in the line of communal facilities and gone about his business. Refreshed after cleaning off the last of the grime and sweat from the road trip, he still couldn’t get Clarissa out of his head. So beautiful. And so screwed up and angry. Why?

  Then he reached for the faucet. And looked up.

  The night sky held a dazzling slew of stars. Holy shit, he’d never seen stars like that. Not even in middle school, when he and his brother had camped at the far end of the yard, the house blocking the streetlights.

  He didn’t know how long he stood there, an eternity, or a second. The stars swept through his head and erased every bad feeling that lingered. All that mattered was how amazing they appeared. How they lifted him up from the dregs and held him there.

  He might have stood there longer had the faucet in the next stall not spurted to life and a female squealed, “Cold!” Only then did he towel off, pull on drawstring pants, and stroll back to the yurt, looking up all the while, even after he climbed inside. Visions of Clarissa stayed with him, but her anger no longer infected him. When he lay down on the surprisingly comfortable bed, he stared at the stars through the open flap on the top of the yurt. Millions of the twinkling lights dancing in the stardust.

  Tomorrow, he’d make a fresh start with Clarissa. And as long as he stayed in Marfa, he’d shower at night.

  It seemed like he’d just closed his eyes, and then sunshine like a high-powered spotlight blazed in Dylan’s eyes. Shifting helped, but not much. The white canvas of the yurt acted like a damn magnifier. It took a moment to remember where he was. Then he wished he hadn’t.

  Marfa. Nowhereland.

  Soon to be a strangely overpopulated nowhereland. Damn if only he could have scored a room somewhere, even a trailer…then last night flashed through his memory. The stars, so incredible. Maybe a yurt wasn’t so bad.

  Once dressed, he strolled to the car, returning every wave and good morning along the way. Had more people arrived overnight? The hammock grove teemed with loungers, old guys playing euchre. More vehicles in the parking lot, and on the short drive to town, a few in his rearview mirror and ahead of him.

  “A virtual Marfa traffic jam, I bet.” He turned up the radio and sang along, or tried to, with Johnny Cash’s “I’ve Been Everywhere.” Had Cash visited Marfa? Hell, Rock Hudson had. James Dean. Elizabeth Taylor. The Coen brothers and the No Country for Old Men cast. A burn flashed through him at the thought of those guys eyeing up Clarissa. Had she worked as an extra? Probably not; he’d have remembered seeing someone like her on screen.

  Some of the town’s trivia he’d learned before the trip. He’d Googled Marfa out of curiosity. The number of articles surprised him. Marfa, apparently, was an arts mecca, and travel write-ups raved about the food. He laughed out loud when he found a mention of the Blue Moon Café, and the food critic gave the highest rating to Jeff and Amy’s beef curried rice and cocoa-rubbed pork tacos. No surprise there. Dylan had stuffed himself last night; though he was no foodie, he found himself going back for extra helpings. If he didn’t watch himself, he wouldn’t fit in his suit for the wedding.

  Man, talk about a day making a difference. Yesterday, Marfa appeared a little too like a ghost town. Today, people and cars everywhere. Guess the newspapers hadn’t exaggerated the draw of the festival.

  He had to cruise to find a parking spot, which made the walk to the café longer. The wall of glass along the front of the café showed a crowd inside. Jeff and Amy bustled around with plates and coffee. No Clarissa? He pushed open the door and the energy of the place hit him. Everyone in such a good mood, talking, laughing.

  One laugh rang out over the others. Magical, like bells tinkling. He scanned to see who the laugh belonged to.

  Hip first, Clarissa bumped open the swinging door to the kitchen, carrying two trays full of dishes.

  “Oh my God.” It was her. Beaming, light on her feet. Beautiful, absolutely amazingly beautiful. She practically danced through the aisles, set one tray on a stand, and delivered the other with such grace, she might have been a ballerina.

  “Um, Dylan?”

  Jeff. But Dylan couldn’t stop staring at Clarissa, all smiles for the two men she served next. Why couldn’t she look at him like that? “Yeah. Hey, bud.”

  “You hungry?”

  He met his friend’s smiling gaze as Jeff set two plates in front of customers. “Starved. And I rarely have an appetite in the morning, but after last night, I can’t wait to see what you have on the menu.”

  Jeff nudged him as he strode past. “Come on. I’ll take care of you in the kitchen.”

  “In the kitchen?”

  “Unless you’d rather wait twenty minutes?” He jerked his head toward the front, where couples lined the bench.

  “Kitchen it is.” He followed Jeff past the counter where J. D. sat on a stool. When the old cowboy gave him a steely glare, Dylan nodded and kept moving into the kitchen. He couldn’t help taking one last glimpse of Clarissa before the doors swung shut.

  Amy stood beside some guy at the industrial-sized stove, flipping something that made Dylan’s taste buds jump for joy. “Dylan. Good morning. This is Harvey. He’s been with us, what, four-and-a-half years?”

  Harvey shook a frying pan and flipped its contents. “Almost five. Hey, Dylan.”

  “Hey, Amy. Nice to meet you, Harvey. What’s cooking?” Not a casual question. He hoped they’d cooked enough for leftovers.

  Within a few minutes, Harvey slid a plate toward him. “House special. Enjoy.”

  “Oh man. I will.”

  Not even Clarissa’s cold stare wilted his appetite. She entered with the flair of a showgirl, setting other appetites into high gear. A glimpse of a tattoo down her side made him gawk. A bird? Very colorful and detailed. Another tat on her right ankle depicted a paw. A dog’s?

  She paused in front of the door. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

  So striking, she could be a pinup girl. “No. Today, I’m all yours.”

  The slightest twitch—like he’d pricked her with a pin—and she glanced at her hands, then at Amy.

  Amy called over her shoulder, “What’cha got for me?”

  “Um….” Clarissa shifted her hips and bit her lip.

  Holy hell. Dylan nearly melted. The curl of her mouth between her teeth, the slow swing of her leg…. he might’ve slid off his stool if she hadn’t bounced ahead.

  “Oh yeah.” She ticked off four orders on her fingers, then spun out the door.

  Amy chuckled as she set to work. “Quite the crowd this morning. You up for it, Harvey?”

  He waved the spatula. “Bring it on.”

  Dylan hated feeling so useless. “I’d love to help if you need an extra hand.”

  Amy tilted her head back toward him. “Really?”

  “Sure, it’s why I’m here.” What else would he do, play cards with the old men at El Cosmico? Yee haw. He’d only end up worrying about what was going on at the office. Whether he should have left at all.

  “Have you waited tables before?”

  Why the surprise? “
I bartended for two years. We served food at the bar.” Kind of the same. Sort of.

  She wrinkled her nose. “It gets pretty crazy during the festival.”

  “So I’ll be busboy. Come on, let me help.” He shrugged. “Serving, busing tables, whatever.”

  Jeff hurried in. “Man, we need more hands.”

  “No, we couldn’t.” Amy sounded uncertain.

  Clarissa strode in, calling out more orders.

  Dylan held his up hands. “You got ’em, more hands right here. Tell me where to start.” He ignored Clarissa’s look of horror. “I have purely selfish motives. I don’t want you guys to kill yourselves before we can go out tonight.” He carried his plate to the sink and scrubbed it clean.

  Amy sent Jeff an indecipherable look “We’d love to go out. You know tonight’s a late night, though, right? Oh, Harvey, those look fantastic. I need to catch up.”

  Jeff paused for one second to give him another are-you-sure once-over, then set to work making his orders. “You’re a lifesaver, man. Grab an apron and a tub. Three tables just emptied. We need to clear them and get people seated.”

  “Consider it done.” He cinched an apron around his waist and headed out with the bucket. How long had it been since he’d cleared dishes? Even his own? The people waiting at the front of the café perked up and lost their disgruntled expressions. Maybe he’d saved Jeff and Amy from losing them. He held up a finger to them. “One more minute and it’s all yours.”

  Clarissa breezed by. “Don’t promise tables. You don’t know the line order.”

  “Only trying to keep them in the café. They’re unhappy.”

  She called over her shoulder from a nearby table. “They’ll be glad they stayed once they eat.”

  Why did she have to make everything an issue? “If they don’t get a table, they won’t have the chance.” He finished clearing the third table and wiped it down. “All set. Oops, more are leaving.” He nodded to where five people were rising from their table.

  Panic crossed her face. “I’ll be right there, folks.”

  “I can check them out.” He waved them to the counter.

  “You don’t know the computer system.” Her words came out in a strangled rush.

  “How hard can it be?” Hopefully not too hard, but as he reached the computerized cash register, the screen prompt stumped him. “What login should I use?”

  She appeared at his side. “I’ll run through it once. Pay attention.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard but he mentally noted the password: starrynight.

  I’ll be damned. It zapped his concentration. Shit, pay attention. He reoriented his focus to play catch-up but couldn’t help his goofy grin.

  She gave him a sidelong what-the-hell look. “Do you follow?”

  Anywhere she wanted. “Yeah, I think so.”

  The five people waited behind the couple she’d checked out. “Okay, do it.” She smiled at them but it faltered slightly when he bumped his hip into hers to nudge her from behind the computer.

  “Thanks for your patience. Was your breakfast all right?” He used his famous salesman smile, the one he saved for his toughest clients, and pecked through the process. Of course, the five had three separate checks, but what the hell, all the better to practice.

  No sooner had they finished than a woman stepped up. “Will a table be available soon?” Two men stood behind her.

  “Yes, follow me.” Clarissa swept in front and grabbed three menus so deftly, it might have been choreographed.

  Jesus, she’s incredible.

  Incredibly bitchy.

  No—raw, like someone had hurt her and the wound hadn’t healed. She needed delicate handling.

  He realized he’d been staring when she whirled back, cocked her jaw, and gracefully pointed to another emptying table. Two middle-aged women approached, their casual dress and trendy haircuts a sign of wealth. He reached for the check. “Morning, ladies. Everything to your satisfaction?”

  One arched a brow and raked her gaze over him. “Our compliments to the chef. And kudos on the excellent service.”

  He bowed his head and handed over the change. “Our pleasure entirely. Enjoy your day, ladies.”

  The woman’s fingers brushed his. “It’s off to a great start.”

  Me-ow. His grin faded when Clarissa shot invisible darts with her gaze and jerked her head toward the cluttered table.

  “On it.” Hmm, angry about the table not cleared, or the innocent flirt?

  Jeff carried a large tray into the dining area. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine.”

  A customer waved her napkin at Jeff. He paused by the table. Whatever she said, she sent a flirty look toward Dylan, then Jeff turned, looking somewhat dumbfounded. Clarissa, at a nearby table, might’ve blown steam through her ears.

  Holy hell, now what? Dylan couldn’t remember screwing up. The tête-á-tête broke up and everyone went their own way without berating him. So far so good.

  Customers arrived and departed in a steady flow. It finally settled down just before four, and Dylan’s stomach complained of hunger.

  Amy flipped the sign on the door to Closed. “Just enough time to clean up, eat, and set up the booth.”

  Dylan shook his head as she hurried back to the kitchen. “How is she not exhausted?”

  Clarissa stacked dirty dishes into a tub. “It’s not work for Jeff and Amy.”

  While he helped straighten up, he noticed the painted candles on some of the tables. Shame, they were incredible and obviously hand-painted. “Why paint something so beautiful onto a surface that’s going to melt away?” He wondered aloud. Then wished he hadn’t when Clarissa gave him another evil eye.

  “Why not? Customers love them.”

  “Of course they do. They’re unique and the detail shows the painter took a lot of time to create it. But all that work just…disappears.”

  Dishes clattered into her tub. “Everything in life is temporary.”

  Were they still talking about painting? Or something else? “Not art. Most people that talented put their work on canvas so generations can enjoy it. How long do these last, a few nights?”

  “Long enough.”

  “How is that long enough?”

  “Because people change their minds. They decide they want something else, something better, or different, and they forget all about the pretty design on the candle.”

  “My point exactly. They wouldn’t forget it if it was permanent. Like those murals. They’re fantastic.” Not that he knew a lot about art, but they appeared the same style, similar desert color scheme, probably the same artist.

  “Just because the candles are temporary doesn’t make them any less real than the mural.”

  “Right. I didn’t say they weren’t—”

  “I know what you meant. You didn’t have to say it.”

  Why so defensive? “Do you know the artist or something?”

  She leveled an oh-come-on look at him.

  “I’m guessing you do. Please convey my appreciation of his or her work.”

  She wiped the table with robotic moves, circling over and over the same spot. “I’m not your errand girl.”

  He huffed a humorless laugh. “Jesus, I can’t win.”

  She straightened, cocked her hip and pouted. “Poor baby.”

  The way her lower lip jutted showed the skin inside, slick and pink. He wanted to touch it. If he put his fingertip there, would she suck it inside? Roll her tongue around it? The image sent a jolt from his fingers straight to his groin, and his cock thickened painfully fast.

  To hide his boner, he turned too fast. He bumped the table and sent a candle flying. He caught it midair and inspected it. More than halfway gone. “Should I get a new one?”

  She snatched it from his grasp. Her whirl-and-saunter combo left him gaping again.

  “So that’s a yes?” he called after her.

  She kept walking—if anything so graceful could merely be called walking. Man. How did he
keep alienating her? Dylan Wall, the guy who could sell sand to a camel.

  So much for fresh starts.

  ***

  One. Two. ThrEE. FOUR. Clarissa would never make it to ten without screaming. Egotistical, self-centered jerk! What did he know about art? Laughter in the kitchen helped defuse her tension. Until she heard the topic of discussion: Dylan. How the female customers couldn’t stop undressing him with their eyes. One even congratulated Jeff on the new draw to the café—the hunky bus boy.

  Clarissa huffed. “Emphasis on ‘boy.’” She set the tub down a little too hard and some utensils fell to the floor.

  Taco in one hand, Jeff bent to retrieve them. “Admit it, Dylan was a big help today.”

  “We’ve managed fine without him.” She rinsed off the dishes and set them in the dishwasher.

  Amy’s sad smile filled Clarissa with guilt. Yes, she overreacted to Dylan. Why, she had no clue except he reminded her too much of her past life. And you’ve never come to terms with it. A clue that it’s long overdue.

  She kept her head down when Dylan burst in with two more full tubs stacked one atop the other.

  “Here’s the last of the dirties. Any leftovers? I’m starved.”

  The bins clanked onto the counter beside her. Without acknowledging Mr. Good Humor Frat Boy, she began emptying them into the dishwasher while the others talked about tonight’s street dance.

  “Are you guys going?” Dylan pulled a stool up to the counter.

  Amy set a plate of food in front of him. “We’ll be at the booth till ten. The festival kicks off at five. Didn’t Jeff fill you in?”

  “A little.” Dylan chuckled. “He’s been busy.”

  Clarissa chanced a look in time to catch his accusatory stare. No, she hadn’t mentioned tonight’s activities. I’ve been running my ass off all day.

  Scrubbing down the stovetop, Amy said, “You’ll have to come. Lots of good stuff going on, and some excellent bands lined up.”

  “I’m not the greatest dancer.”

  Amy waved the scouring pad. “So? It’s all about having fun. That’s why we invited you to come to Marfa early. To experience all the town has to offer.”