Susan Mallery - Secrets Of The Tulip Sisters

“You know what, Mom? You’re right. I should take some time off.”

Marilee’s expression tightened. “I’ve told you not to call me that. Especially at the office. I’m nowhere near old enough to have a daughter your age.”

“Good thing Kelly doesn’t work for you. She’s even older than me.”

“I have to say I don’t care for your attitude.”

“Sorry. I should probably get out of here, then. I need to pack and close up my apartment.”

“You’re actually going somewhere?”

“Uh-huh. Home. I’m going home for the summer.”

Marilee sat up. “Home? To that backwater town? Are you crazy?”

“No. I think it will be fun. I haven’t visited in forever. I’ll let you know when I’m heading out. And I’ll make sure Kathy has all the information she needs for the listings we have.”

“You can’t simply leave me. You have responsibilities.”

“You’ll be fine, Mom. You always are.” Olivia smiled. “At least this way you don’t have to cut my hours.”

* * *

Reporting for work at 5:00 a.m. was not for sissies but there were a few things that could mitigate the horror. One was the smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls hot out of the oven. The other was Billy Joel blasting at a volume just short of hearing loss.

Helen Sperry walked in the front door of The Parrot Café at two minutes to five. Being on time wasn’t difficult what with her basically living around the corner. She paused to inhale the glorious, gooey scent, then smiled when she heard the opening line to “Uptown Girl.”

“I’ll bet Billy can afford to buy all the pearls he wants now,” she called as she flipped on lights. “What do you think, Delja?”

There was no answer from the kitchen, but that was okay. Delja America wasn’t much of a talker. Instead she expressed herself through her amazing cooking and baking.

Helen hummed along with the song as she walked into the kitchen. “Morning. Everything okay?”

Delja had been with the diner since she graduated from high school nearly forty years before. She was barely five feet tall, but had the build of a linebacker. The muscles of one, too. She could flip a fifty-pound bag of flour onto the counter like it was a small baggie filled with grapes. And the things the woman could do with eggs bordered on miraculous. She was a widow, with one son—the current mayor of Tulpen Crossing—and a daughter who lived in Utah.

Delja looked up at Helen and smiled. Helen crossed the kitchen to receive her morning hug—the one that nearly squeezed the air out of her body. She hung on as tight as she could, trying to return the body crushing with equal force, but suspected Delja was not impressed by her upper body strength.

Delja released her, then held her at arm’s length.

“You good?”

The question was asked in a low, gruff voice. It was the same one Delja had asked every single morning for the past eight years—ever since Helen had taken over the diner from her aunt.

“I am. Did you talk to Lidiya? Are you going to stay with her this summer?”

Every year Delja visited her daughter for three weeks. The entire town wept as the supply of cinnamon rolls dried up. Tempers grew short and people counted the days until Delja’s return.

“September.”

“Okay, then. You’ll email me the dates?”

Delja nodded once, then turned back to frosting the rolls.

There was more they could discuss. Their personal lives, what supplies might be running low, whether or not the Mariners were going to have a winning baseball season, but they wouldn’t. Delja preferred a single-word response to actual conversation and did most of her communicating via email. If something had to be ordered, she would have already sent a note to their supplier.

As for checking on her work, Helen knew better. Delja started her day at two in the morning. By five there were biscuits in the oven, all the omelet extras had been prepped and oranges squeezed. At The Parrot Café, the back of house ran smoothly—all thanks to Delja.

Helen went to her office and tucked her handbag into the bottom drawer of her desk. She glanced in the small mirror over the sink by the door. Her black hair was pulled back in a French braid, her bangs were trimmed and her makeup was subtle. All as it should be. The fact that she couldn’t see below her shoulders meant she didn’t have to notice that her last diet had failed as spectacularly as the previous seventeen. Which was not her fault. Really. How could she be expected to eat Paleo while living in a world that contained Delja’s cinnamon rolls?

She returned to the front of the store and started the morning prep. There were place settings to be put out and sugar shakers to be filled. Silly, simple tasks that allowed her to collect herself for her day. And maybe, just maybe, give her a second so that the butterflies in her stomach calmed down from their current hip-hop to a more stately waltz.

The Parrot Café (named for parrot tulips, not the bird) had been around nearly as long as the town. Helen’s aunt had inherited it from her parents and when she’d married, her husband had joined the team. From what Helen could tell, the two of them had been very happy together. The café was open from 6:00 a.m. until 2:00 p.m., seven days a week. Until Helen had come along, the childless couple had shut down every August and had traveled the world. Then Helen’s parents had been killed in a car accident, leaving the only child an orphan. There had been no other family, so Helen had come to Tulpen Crossing.

She supposed her aunt and uncle had tried. As much as her world had been thrown into chaos, theirs had been, as well. They’d done what they could to make her feel welcome, but she’d known the truth. They hadn’t wanted children. It had been a choice—yet they were stuck with her.

She’d done her best to not be any trouble, and to learn the business. By the time she was thirteen, she was already waiting tables. The patrons loved her and no one knew that she cried herself to sleep every night for the first three years after her parents had died.

Her parents had been poor but happy—both musicians. That meant there hadn’t been any money for, well, anything. The only thing she still had of her parents’ was the piano they’d played and their wedding rings. She kept the former in her living room in her small house and had had the latter made into a pendant she wore every day. She hadn’t inherited much of their musical gifts, but like them, she did love Billy Joel. He was her connection to the past.

By five thirty Helen had the coffee brewing. The rest of the wait staff showed up at five forty-five and the first customer would walk through the door exactly at six. By seven thirty every booth would be full, as would the counter seats. There was always a lull around ten that lasted until the lunch crowd showed up. By then Delja had clocked out and the culinary students from the school up in Bellingham were hard at work in the kitchen, prepping for lunch.

It was a system that worked. The students got to practice in a real world restaurant, her customers had an opportunity to try new and fun food, along with traditional favorites, and she had a steady supply of labor. Many students signed up for weekend shifts and those who lived local often wanted a job with her for a couple of years to get experience for their résumés before moving on to somewhere a lot more elegant than The Parrot Café.

Helen glanced at the clock, then reached for a mug. She was still pouring coffee when she heard the front door open. Her butterflies started a quickstep and for one brief second, she thought her hands might actually shake. Which was ridiculous. And right on cue, the recorded sound of breaking glass was followed by the opening chords of “You May Be Right.”