small garden of flowers. Butterflies flitted from blossom to blossom. Bees added their own music. A curved gray-stone walkway led to the red door. With its gray thatched-style roof, it reminded her of the Irish pubs she’d visited with Gracie on their trip to Ireland two years ago. A magical place Ireland was, and it had seduced her fanciful nature.
An overhead bell jangled when Hope opened the door. Air conditioning kissed her heated skin. Celtic music played softly. Irish emblems and pictures, similar to what she’d seen in Ireland, decorated the walls. Wooden booths lined one side of the cafe. Small tables were adorned with red-striped linens and vases of red flowers. The aromas of fresh baked bread and something chocolaty wafted through the air.
“Hi, darlin’, have a seat. I’ll be right with you.” A redhead whizzed by carrying a tray of coffee cups and sandwiches.
“Okay.” Hope settled in a booth and reached for a menu.
“No need for a menu, darlin’. I know what you need.” The woman spared her a wink before turning her attention back to the family at another table.
Yeah, a new life.
Clearly she needed to make some changes and better choices. While her career was on track, her personal life lacked promise. Why? Could Gracie be right? Was she desperate where men were concerned? Had she become one of those clingy, needy women guys harped about? She propped her elbows on the table and pressed her face into her upturned hands. I am such a weenie where guys are concerned. I try so hard, I scare them away.
She sat back and squared her shoulders. Determination steeled her spirit. Maybe it would do her good to take a vacation from men, to work on her self-esteem issues, and to decide what kind of man she wanted in her life. Andy, Gracie’s husband, was strong, yet gentle. There was no doubt he was devoted to her sister and their child. Andy was pretty quiet, though. She preferred a more talkative man, someone who could discuss literature and music and the meaning of life. She set her chin on her fist. Does such a man even exist?
She cast her gaze on the woman waiting on customers and smiled at the waitress’s choice of footwear, pink Converse high-tops with red-and-pink-striped knee stockings. Black spandex biking shorts and a red T-shirt with the word “Magical” in gold glitter blazing across the front completed her attire.
In her black shorts and white blouse, Hope felt colorless. Your hair’s not colorless, though, is it? Her hand fluttered to her new short tresses, and she wondered again how she’d been talked into such a radical change.
“Ah, here we are.” The redhead set a silver tray on Hope’s table. On it were two cups and saucers with a matching coffee service of the same rose-patterned china. “We’ll talk for a spell before I bring you your chicken salad sandwich and a slice of my chocolate decadent cake.”
Hope hadn’t ordered yet, so how did this woman know she loved chicken salad?
The woman extended a wrinkled hand with hot-pink fingernail polish and a large sapphire ring sparkling in the sunlight from the windows. “Hello, I’m Freya and this is my coffee shop.”
“Hello, Freya. I’m Hope. Hope Morningstar.”
“Oh, ’tis a magical name you’ve got.” Freya winked and poured coffee into cups, ancient and delicate-looking. “I save my grandmother’s china for my special guests. Those who need a bit of pampering and direction.”
“Direction?”
Freya nodded. “You’re lost, aren’t you?” Her voice had a lilting quality to it. One that soothed.
“Well, yes, I had to take a different exit for the mall and somehow I ended up on this street. I don’t know where I am.”
Hot-pink fingertips waved in front of Hope’s face. “Oh, we’ll talk of mundane things like the mall later. ’Tis a different kind of lost I speak of. Cream or sugar?”
“Both.” What did Freya mean, a different kind of lost? She was one strange lady. Nice, but strange.
She
An overhead bell jangled when Hope opened the door. Air conditioning kissed her heated skin. Celtic music played softly. Irish emblems and pictures, similar to what she’d seen in Ireland, decorated the walls. Wooden booths lined one side of the cafe. Small tables were adorned with red-striped linens and vases of red flowers. The aromas of fresh baked bread and something chocolaty wafted through the air.
“Hi, darlin’, have a seat. I’ll be right with you.” A redhead whizzed by carrying a tray of coffee cups and sandwiches.
“Okay.” Hope settled in a booth and reached for a menu.
“No need for a menu, darlin’. I know what you need.” The woman spared her a wink before turning her attention back to the family at another table.
Yeah, a new life.
Clearly she needed to make some changes and better choices. While her career was on track, her personal life lacked promise. Why? Could Gracie be right? Was she desperate where men were concerned? Had she become one of those clingy, needy women guys harped about? She propped her elbows on the table and pressed her face into her upturned hands. I am such a weenie where guys are concerned. I try so hard, I scare them away.
She sat back and squared her shoulders. Determination steeled her spirit. Maybe it would do her good to take a vacation from men, to work on her self-esteem issues, and to decide what kind of man she wanted in her life. Andy, Gracie’s husband, was strong, yet gentle. There was no doubt he was devoted to her sister and their child. Andy was pretty quiet, though. She preferred a more talkative man, someone who could discuss literature and music and the meaning of life. She set her chin on her fist. Does such a man even exist?
She cast her gaze on the woman waiting on customers and smiled at the waitress’s choice of footwear, pink Converse high-tops with red-and-pink-striped knee stockings. Black spandex biking shorts and a red T-shirt with the word “Magical” in gold glitter blazing across the front completed her attire.
In her black shorts and white blouse, Hope felt colorless. Your hair’s not colorless, though, is it? Her hand fluttered to her new short tresses, and she wondered again how she’d been talked into such a radical change.
“Ah, here we are.” The redhead set a silver tray on Hope’s table. On it were two cups and saucers with a matching coffee service of the same rose-patterned china. “We’ll talk for a spell before I bring you your chicken salad sandwich and a slice of my chocolate decadent cake.”
Hope hadn’t ordered yet, so how did this woman know she loved chicken salad?
The woman extended a wrinkled hand with hot-pink fingernail polish and a large sapphire ring sparkling in the sunlight from the windows. “Hello, I’m Freya and this is my coffee shop.”
“Hello, Freya. I’m Hope. Hope Morningstar.”
“Oh, ’tis a magical name you’ve got.” Freya winked and poured coffee into cups, ancient and delicate-looking. “I save my grandmother’s china for my special guests. Those who need a bit of pampering and direction.”
“Direction?”
Freya nodded. “You’re lost, aren’t you?” Her voice had a lilting quality to it. One that soothed.
“Well, yes, I had to take a different exit for the mall and somehow I ended up on this street. I don’t know where I am.”
Hot-pink fingertips waved in front of Hope’s face. “Oh, we’ll talk of mundane things like the mall later. ’Tis a different kind of lost I speak of. Cream or sugar?”
“Both.” What did Freya mean, a different kind of lost? She was one strange lady. Nice, but strange.
She
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