My Heart Belongs in San Francisco, California Page 11

  “Sam.” He didn’t mean to spit out the word, but there it was.

  “Sammy.” She laughed. “I’ve been spending entirely too much time with Cookie. She’s rubbing off on me.”

  Marcus looked up from his plate. “If her cooking skills are rubbing off, then I might just have to hire you to bake for the restaurant too. Did I mention we’re going to offer desserts?”

  Now Sam wanted to throttle the man. How dare he try to steal Abby away from the Gold Rush Inn?

  “I’m no baker.” Abby put her hands up, as if admitting defeat. “Trust me when I say that I won’t ever be. I’m doing well just to peel a few potatoes and wait tables.”

  “All good things come with time,” Marcus said, his gaze never leaving Abby’s pretty face. “All good things come with time.”

  Sam went back and forth between wanting to say something he might regret to Marcus and wondering if he should warn Abby about the potential for disaster, if she actually followed through with Marcus’s plan.

  He pulled her aside and lowered his voice, ready to share his thoughts. “Miss Abigail, I do hope you will forgive me if I’ve overstepped, but taking care of yourself in San Francisco is a far sight harder than in Nottingham or even Philadelphia. These fellas around here are …” His words trailed off. “Different. We’ll leave it at that. And, as for Marcus, I find it difficult to believe he’s turning the saloon into a restaurant. Believe me, it won’t be the kind of establishment you need to frequent.”

  Abby put her hands on her hips, perturbed by his intrusion. “And what’s it to you?”

  “Nothing. Just saying the risk is too great.”

  “I can take care of myself, Sam. Besides, it’s just a restaurant. Nothing more.” She pulled away from him and turned back toward Mr. Denueve, who flashed a contrived smile before diving back into his eggs.

  Sam knew better, but this conversation was clearly over. Abby turned on her heels and headed toward the kitchen, clearly aggravated. Oh well. He’d rather have her upset at him than hurt by the likes of Marcus Denueve any day.

  Trained in Paris?” Cookie put her hands on her hips and paced the kitchen. “Is that what he said? He’s hired a chef who trained in Paris?”

  Sam nodded. “Yep.”

  Abby looked on as Cookie’s face contorted. She couldn’t understand why everyone was so upset at this news. Didn’t they see that competition would be good for business, not the other way around?

  “I heard the whole thing, Miss Cookie,” Jin added. “Fancy man cook fancy food.”

  With the wave of a hand, Cookie appeared to dismiss that idea. The tense lines on her forehead relaxed. “He’ll be gone in a week. Men round here won’t abide that fancy-schmancy stuff. They like hearty down-home cooking.”

  “He says this fella knows how to cook foods from around the world, stuff some of the guys have missed out on since coming here.”

  “He cook Chinese food?” Jin’s face lit up and he clasped his hands together. “I go eat. When he come?”

  Cookie glared at him. “Jin, in all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never asked me to cook Chinese food for you.”

  “You no offer.” He shrugged. “That why.”

  A groan escaped Cookie’s lips and she reached for a dishcloth to wipe the sweat from her brow. “So this is the thanks I get. My own workers, turning on me for a plate of food they haven’t even tasted yet.”

  Abby listened in until her mind took to wandering. What fun, to think about a classically trained chef coming to town. San Francisco could use a bit of culture, after all. She missed fine dining. Why, this new chef might be just the ticket to bring a bit of class to an otherwise chaotic town.

  Sam disagreed, if such a thing could be judged from the way he huffed around. He muttered under his breath, but she made out enough of it to realize he was truly upset by this.

  After some time, she could take it no longer. “Why are you so worried about Mr. Denueve turning the saloon into a restaurant? I would imagine it to be a good business venture for him, and you’ve been moaning about that saloon since I met you.”

  “Oh, he’s quite the businessman, all right. I have no doubt he’ll turn a profit.” Sam seemed to stop short of saying more, which intrigued her.

  “Then what does it matter? To my way of thinking, turning the saloon into a restaurant is a good thing. Maybe the menfolk will sober up a bit and eat foods from their homelands instead of ordering whiskey and such.”

  “I sincerely doubt that.”

  “You’re worried he’ll cut into your profits?”

  “No.” Sam shook his head. “I’m worried he’ll undercut me altogether.”

  “How so?”

  Judging from the look on Sam’s face, this was not a good thing. “That’s how business works, Abby. Competition. He’ll start with lower prices, finer foods.”

  “Hey, now.” Cookie put her hands on her hips.

  “I’m not saying it’ll really be finer, just saying that’s how he’ll advertise: lower prices, finer foods. Then, after he gets the fellas in his pocket, he’ll nudge those prices up.”

  “Just keep your prices low,” Abby argued. “The men will keep coming here.” She felt sure of it, in fact.

  “While he’s raising prices on our supplies? We’ll be forced to keep elevating costs on our food too. This plan of his has the potential to end up putting us all out of business—and don’t think that’s not in his plan. He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

  “Posh. You’re overreacting.”

  From the expression on his face, she’d struck a nerve. Sam looked downright miffed as he muttered, “Am I?”

  “Yes.” She squared her shoulders. “As you are prone to do.”

  Oh dear. She’d crossed a line, and a pretty big one, at that. Oh well. Sam would get used to this idea in time.

  Sam faced Abby, stunned by her words. “You think I overreact?”

  A little shrug followed on her end and her cheeks flamed pink. “Just feels like you’re turning a little thing into a big thing.” Her brow wrinkled and she appeared to lose herself to her thoughts. “What’s that expression you Americans use? Something about mountains and molehills?”

  “You honestly think I make too much of things? How is it possible that you’ve come to this conclusion in the little amount of time you’ve known me?”

  She crossed her arms. “I’m just saying, in this particular situation, that you are already seeing the worst before it even arrives. Try to look on the hopeful side, Sammy.”

  “Sam. And there’s no hopeful side where Marcus Denueve is concerned. Trust me, Abby. I’ve known him a lot longer than you have. I know what he’s capable of.” That was the real problem here, of course. Abby didn’t know Marcus’s history. She didn’t realize that his ultimate plan included taking over the town and picking the flesh off the bones of every citizen on his way to the top.

  Abby appeared to dismiss his concerns. “Right now, he’s simply capable of opening a restaurant, and that has you in a dither. A bit of class might be a good thing, Sam. Can’t you see that? And healthy businesses thrive when others give them a run for their money. I’ve always found that to be true, whether in England, Philadelphia, or San Francisco. Competition is a good thing.”

  “For the one who has the upper hand, maybe. And trust me, he’ll give me a run for my money, all right.” Sam couldn’t take much more of this conversation. Either Abby was blind or simply naive. He did his best to sound fatherly as the words, “Eyes wide open, Miss Abigail,” spilled out. “Some things—and people—require keener vision.”

  “I’ve never been accused of sleepwalking.”

  “I understand. Just be aware that some men are not what they appear to be.”

  “I’m a big girl, Mr. Harris. And, as for Marcus Denueve, why he seems a perfectly decent chap. Well dressed. Nicely groomed.” She looked Sam over from head to toe, as if comparing him to Marcus.

  “A clean body is no indication of a clean hear
t. Don’t be fooled by the exterior, or his enticements to pay you a better salary.”

  Cookie gasped. “He wants to steal Abby away from us?”

  “Yep. Wants to put her to work at the saloon.”

  “What?” Cookie looked as if she might faint.

  Actually, Neville looked a bit pale too. Not that Sam had time to pay them much mind at the moment.

  “He’s sly, that one,” Cookie said.

  Now Abby looked downright mad. “It won’t be a saloon, it’ll be a restaurant by then. And just for the record, he’s asked me to play a few piano pieces, nothing more. Besides, who are we to judge another man’s heart?” She turned to face Cookie. “Aren’t you the one who’s always spouting off scriptures? How about this one: ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’”

  The words were spoken to Cookie, but Sam had a feeling they were meant for him.

  “It’s hardly a judgement call on my part to warn you of a man with a reputation,” he said. “But don’t take my word for it. Ask anyone around here what they think of Marcus Denueve. Ask Cookie. Ask Jedediah Tucker. How do you think he came to lose all of his money?”

  Abby shook her head and reached for a dishcloth. “Why would I engage in gossip? Isn’t that a sin?”

  He released an exaggerated sigh. “I can’t win here. So, do as you wish. I can only hope and pray you don’t find out the hard way that not every man is what he claims to be.”

  “I’m not naive, Mr. Harris.”

  Perhaps she wasn’t. This was a woman who had traveled the world, after all. What life skills had he obtained to compare? A trek from St. Louis to San Francisco was hardly the same. Still, staring at her right now, standing in Cookie’s kitchen, she looked like a woman in need of protecting. And he would like to be the first to sign up for that job.

  Abby fussed and fumed all day over Sam’s words. Did he think she was a baby in need of coddling? If so, then shame on him. She didn’t need another father figure in her life. She already had one of her own. Actually, two, if you counted Neville. And you certainly had to count Neville, as he was ever-present. What was it with men, to think she couldn’t take care of herself? Did she really come across as a pampered child?

  The anger that rose up inside of her caused Abby to forget about the pain in her joints. In fact, by early afternoon, after the lunch crowd left, she felt absolutely energized. So much so, that when Les entered the kitchen with a large bucket of cherries, she grabbed it without thinking twice. Of course, she almost dropped it in the process, and Les rushed in to help.

  “Whoa, Nellie. That bucket’s full-up.”

  “I can see that.” Abby hefted it onto the counter top. “Looks like we’ll be having cherry pie again soon.”

  “I can’t resist. I’d pick cherries all day, just for a slice of Cookie’s pie.” Les glanced around the kitchen. “Where is everyone?”

  “Cookie’s gone to the mercantile for flour. She ran short.”

  “I see. And Jin?”

  “Don’t tell Cookie, but I think he’s taking a nap.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time. And Sam?”

  Abby flinched at the mention of his name, but tried not to let it show. “In some sort of business meeting with his father. I don’t know. I think they’re dreaming up a plan for a bakery next door.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard all about that from Cookie.” Les took a seat on one of the wooden stools and gave Abby a thoughtful look. “I’ve been reading the book you loaned me.”

  “Wuthering Heights? What do you think?”

  “Well, it’s rather dark and dreary, I must say, but I’ve stumbled across a line that has captivated me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, and it suits my situation perfectly.”

  “Tell me.” Abby took a seat.

  Les cleared her throat and then spoke in an exaggerated theatrical voice. “‘He shall never know I love him: and that, not because he’s handsome, but because he’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made out of, his and mine are the same.’” She paused and dropped her head down onto the table.

  “Are you all right?” Abby asked.

  “Yes, it’s just so beautiful. How wonderful would it be, to have someone feel that way about you? To know that your souls were firmly linked and that he loved the real you, the one and only you.”

  Abby grew silent at the very thought of this. If all the fellas in the world were like Sam—determined to make her feel like a child—she would never know that kind of love.

  Fine wrinkles formed between Les’s brows. “You okay, Abby? Seem a bit out of sorts. Was it something I said?”

  “Just tired. And wondering how I landed in a town filled with stubborn, pigheaded men.”

  Les guffawed and slapped her knee. “Welcome to my world. And here I thought I was the only one who felt that way. Go figure.”

  “Not sure I like your world, to be perfectly honest. These men are of the opinion that we women can’t take care of ourselves.”

  “I’ve spent my whole life trying to prove otherwise.” Les squared her shoulders. “Then again, maybe I’ve done too good a job.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve pushed most of the fellas away with my forward thinking, I guess. They don’t look twice at me. Not like they’d look at you, anyway.”

  For a moment, she looked sad. This caught Abby by surprise.

  “You have your eye on anyone in particular?” she asked.

  “Mm-hmm.” Les nodded and the edges of her lips curled up in a delightful smile, giving her a girlish appearance. “Like I said, I doubt he’d give me more than a glance, seeing as how I dress like one of the fellas most of the time.”

  Fascinating news. “Ever give thought to changing that?”

  Les shrugged. “Gave up on panning ages ago, but these old Levis are worn and comfortable now. Can’t picture myself going back to a corset and laces. Too confining.”

  “I’m not saying you’d have to take it that far, though you’ve certainly got a slim waistline to accentuate. But if you’re ever inclined to dress up, let me know. I’ve got some gowns you could try, just for fun.”

  “You think I should?” Les’s brow wrinkled.

  “That depends on how badly you want to catch the eye of that fella of yours.” And by fella, Abby meant Sam. She couldn’t argue the notion that Sam and Les had eyes for each other.

  “Hmm.” Les seemed to lose herself in her thoughts. “I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Abigail.”

  “Please, call me Abby.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Abby. But don’t think I’m going to end up looking like you—a picture postcard.”

  “I’m no picture postcard.”

  The expression on Les’s face showed her thoughts on the matter. Clearly, she disagreed. “Compared to the few women in this town, you certainly are. So, hold your head up high and carry on. Folks’ll live vicariously through you. I know I do.” For a moment, Les seemed to lose herself in her ponderings. Just as quickly, she snapped to attention.

  “Interesting,” Abby countered, “because that’s just what I’d say about you. I admire you very much, Les. You’re so independent and strong. I wish the fellas around here saw me like that instead of a baby to be coddled.”

  “Sounds like we could give each other lessons.”

  “Lessons? Funny idea.” Abby shook her head. “If you want the truth, half the men in this town could stand to take a few lessons in manners. Then they would know how to treat a lady—gently, but with respect. There’s a balance to it, I think, one that eludes most men.”

  Les’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Well, there you go, Abby.” She slapped her knee. “You should teach classes. I know I’d come.”

  “Teach classes?”

  “Sure. Manners ’n’ such. For the men and the ladies. Folks would pay for a class like that, I dare say.”

  “Would they now?” Abby paused to think it through. Maybe there was something to Les’s su
ggestion. She would have to give it more thought. Right now, though, she simply had to don her apron and get busy plucking more chickens.

  Sunday morning dawned clear and bright. Abby could hardly believe she had the luxury of sleeping in. With the restaurant closed on Sundays, she was free to lounge in bed until time for church. And, upon rising, she was finally able to wear one of her nicest dresses. All of this, in preparation for her first visit to church with Cookie. The smell of bacon tempted her, as always. By the time she made the descent down the stairs, the others had already eaten.

  “Oh, am I too late?”

  Cookie shook her head and pointed toward the kitchen. “I saved you a plate, honey. But eat quick. It’s quite a walk to the church, and we’ll need to leave in about twenty minutes.”

  Abby ate her food and helped with the dishes, then they set off on their way, Cookie leading the pack out the door.

  “I’m so glad the restaurant is closed on Sundays,” Abby observed as Sam put the CLOSED sign in place on the restaurant’s door.

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Cookie’s appearance conveyed her peacefulness. “We’re closed so that folks can rest and recuperate. I keep some baked goods on the table out front. Don’t know if you noticed, but they’re leftovers from the week, so that the men can always find food. Most just go to the saloon, though.”

  “On Sunday?” Abby cringed. “Really?”

  “Folks don’t pay any mind to religious customs around here, I’m afraid,” Sam interjected from behind her. “Not for lack of trying on our part.”

  “Yes, as for me and mine … we’ll rest and worship on Sundays. Nothing less.” Cookie took off at a faster clip toward the church.

  “Could you slow down a bit?” Neville called out. “These aching joints of mine can’t keep up with you.”

  “If you’d shave off those sideburns you’d move a lot faster.” Cookie slowed her pace and lit into a monologue about the weather. After a while, she grew silent.

  “I love how quiet and peaceful the town is on Sunday mornings,” Abby observed as she looked around the various places of business, all closed up tight. “I’m glad most places opt to stay closed today.”