Miracle at the Higher Grounds Cafe, Page 2

  “Some kid in my little brother’s class said so.” The quarterback turned for confirmation to a middle school version of himself. “Right?”

  Ding! Ding! Hancock and Emily entered the café.

  “Yeah! He was telling people at school.” The middle schooler outed Hancock, who stopped dead in his tracks.

  Hancock knew he was in trouble but did his best to play it cool in front of the older students. “Hey, man . . . I, uh, better go start on my homework,” he said to his classmate. “See ya tomorrow.”

  Chelsea eyed her son as he made his escape. “I was just trying to get you some customers,” he mumbled on the way up the stairs.

  Emily had spotted her Aunt Sara and run to her for a hug.

  A boy with a smartphone held it up for all to see. “That’s her all right. Look. Mrs. Sawyer Chambers.”

  Mrs. Chambers. There it was, plain and simple. Practically Amish.

  “You’re kinda famous,” the boy said.

  If a picture could tell a thousand words, then a Google image search could tell ten thousand. Swipe, swipe, swipe. Chelsea’s life flashed before her eyes—and everyone else’s, for that matter. The room was getting smaller, the smartphone screen bigger. Until finally . . .

  “Who’s that?” said the young magician who had turned his smartphone into an IMAX screen. The image stretched as far as the east is from the west: Sawyer Chambers in the arms of another woman. A redheaded beauty. A triple threat—younger, thinner, and prettier.

  The leader of the pack looked at the picture and then at the woman behind the counter and stated the obvious. “That’s not you.”

  “OMG,” said the prom queen with a look of pity.

  All eyes shifted to Chelsea. “Can I interest y’all in a cupcake?” she managed through gritted teeth.

  The prom queen broke the silence. “I’ll take one,” she said, motioning for her friends to flee the awkward scene. “To go.”

  As the café emptied, Chelsea melted into the counter, defeated. “Life was so much simpler before the Internet,” she moaned.

  “Don’t you waste another minute worrying about the Internet,” Sara said, wrapping her in a hug.

  “You’re right,” Chelsea said, pulling herself together. “I’m sure it’ll never take off.”

  Chapter 2

  Samuel watched from a distance. From heaven’s view, things were simpler. Clearer. Unobstructed by the clamor of everyday life. He peered through the stars, assessing the once familiar landscape.

  What he saw stirred concern. He remembered his first assignment here. The region had a sparkle to it, a glow. Now a pall had settled on the city. Entire neighborhoods were hidden by shadows.

  But still there were beacons of light. Like spires alit with gold, they punctured the darkness, streaking past Samuel and into the heavens.

  It’s dusk, Samuel thought, but not night. Not yet.

  He took note of an embedded glow and set his eyes on the source. The corner of the Higher Grounds Café. This place had been prayed for and prayed over.

  The Father won’t relinquish this territory easily, not without a fight. And I love a good fight!

  Prayers move God. And God moves angels. So Samuel was being sent. Other angels had more experience. Other angels had more strength. But no angel in heaven could match Samuel’s resolve. This was his first solo mission.

  “Sammy,” he said to himself, “time to fly.”

  He grasped the hilt of his fiery saber and lifted his small frame to its full height. He tightened his muscles, squinted his eyes, leaned forward, and speared earthward. The wind rushed his hair straight back. As he broke through the clouds, he spotted the figure of Chelsea sitting on her porch and wondered what role she was going to play in this unfolding saga. He was, after all, her guardian angel.

  Chapter 3

  It was a Friday night, and Chelsea was baking. She hummed as she worked. After years of feeling the pressure to keep up with the trophy wives of the ripped and famous, she welcomed the change of pace. Not to mention the boost in confidence. Her run-in with the posse of high schoolers had been redeemed (well, almost) when the prom queen called back to order five dozen of “those delicious cupcakes” for her mom’s birthday tea. It was the perfect opportunity for Chelsea to reintroduce herself to the community. She had dreamed up a grand entrance—a light, lemon cake topped with a swirl of Earl Grey–infused buttercream frosting.

  Baking was therapy for Chelsea, and she was ready for a nice, long session. The complexity of her recipes had a funny way of matching the complexity of her problems. The day she learned of Sawyer’s infidelity, she baked a thirteen-layer bittersweet chocolate cake—one for each year they were married. After one bite, she dropped the entire thing in the trash. She remembered the acrid aftertaste like it was yesterday. She did a quick calculation. Eight months and seventeen days ago, exactly.

  “Time will heal all wounds,” Chelsea’s mother said.

  And she would know. Forgive and forget were words Virginia Hancock had lived by, but Chelsea wasn’t so sure. Forgetting was not in her nature. Especially when it came to Sawyer.

  Sawyer was drafted into the NFL less than a year after he and Chelsea were married. He spent eight seasons with the Cowboys, during which he played like an all-star and aged like a rock star. Led the league in rushing for three seasons. The Cowboys reached the play-offs twice. Sawyer was a regular ESPN highlight. People were already talking Hall of Fame. But a knee-level tackle in the first game of his ninth season finished that. Torn ACL.

  Sawyer had signed a fifteen-million-dollar contract, guaranteed healthy or not. He could have retired. He should have retired. Instead, determined to make a comeback, he rehabbed his leg and earned a spot with the Seattle Seahawks. But he was not the same player. And he knew it.

  Many a pro athlete goes through a midlife crisis. For Sawyer, it happened at the ripe old age of thirty-five. After three rough seasons in Seattle, he was third string. He overcompensated for his failures on the field with risky business ventures, extravagant gestures, and late nights on the town. Chelsea tried to shield her kids from their father’s sudden change in behavior, but she couldn’t keep up. Sawyer couldn’t settle down.

  By the start of the next season, the Seahawks dropped him. So did his agent. No one was interested in Sawyer anymore. No one except for Cassie Lockhart, a junior agent who was young and hungry and eager to represent an NFL star. She convinced Sawyer to join her for a meeting with the San Diego Chargers. Chelsea guessed she was after the commission. She had no idea the girl was after her husband.

  “It was the biggest mistake of my life,” Sawyer pleaded.

  “It’s certainly one for the record books,” Chelsea deflected. “Not to mention the tabloids and social media.”

  A few months later Chelsea left Seattle. And Sawyer. That’s when Sawyer vowed he would change.

  I wonder how that’s going for him.

  Chelsea had not spoken to Sawyer since. Her mother’s untimely death provided the perfect opportunity to start over. Or at least escape. She imposed strict communication rules when she moved back to her old hometown.

  “Half an hour with the kids each day?” he asked.

  “Yes, but they call you,” she negotiated.

  He agreed to her terms as long as she agreed this was only a “trial separation.” The jury was still out. Chelsea had divorced Sawyer a dozen times in her imagination, but she had two reasons that kept her from going through with it, and they were sleeping upstairs. Hancock and Emily loved their dad in spite of all his flaws.

  “Wish I could do the same,” Chelsea said aloud, as she boxed the last of the cupcakes. The first special order of the Higher Grounds Café was complete. She paused to admire her handiwork. Perfect. And they needed to be. Tomorrow she would deliver them to one of San Antonio’s most prestigious neighborhoods. And if she was going to make it on her own, without Sawyer, her new life had to start now.

  From Chelsea’s café, Alamo Heights was
due north, both on the map and in social standing. Chelsea’s SUV weaved up a hill lined with flawless homes and inviting gardens, typical of the coveted 09 zip code.

  “I miss our old house,” Hancock said as they arrived at the delivery address.

  Chelsea glanced up at a pristine Tudor home. It held an uncanny resemblance to their house in Seattle. Whoever lived here did not need the ten-dollar gift certificate she planned to deliver with the cupcakes. But after a slow week, Chelsea was feeling the need to re-establish the Higher Grounds Café in the community.

  Hancock rattled on. “I miss living by the water. Having my own room. Our backyard. The game room. Dad’s giant TV . . .”

  “Okay, mister!” Chelsea interrupted. “We’ll find a new house before long. Something nice. In the meantime, start thinking of some things you’re grateful for.” She reached her right hand over and knuckle-rubbed her son’s hair. “For example, I’m grateful for some one-on-one time with you.”

  She hoped the feeling was mutual. Chelsea had, after all, rescued Hancock from an afternoon of tea parties with his little sister and the babysitter.

  Chelsea stacked several boxes of cupcakes into Hancock’s open arms, and together they walked toward the grandiose front door.

  Chelsea rang the doorbell and waited, imagining lighthearted table talk and celebratory clinking of champagne glasses within. It was strange to be on the outside, but the soirees and black-tie benefits—those were Sawyer’s thing. He was the life of the party, and she often got lost in the shuffle. But not today. Chelsea relished the simplicity of her assignment. For a brief moment, she even contemplated introducing herself by her maiden name.

  She didn’t get to make a decision. The door opened to a slender blond woman who could have stepped off a catalog page showcasing “casual elegance.” She wore a diamond pendant above her asymmetrical black top, a black-and-white viscose skirt that seemed to float about her, and a surprised expression. “Chelsea Chambers?”

  “Deb Kingsly?”

  Deb threw her arms around Chelsea. “It feels like a million years!” she said. “I haven’t seen you since . . .”

  Chelsea knew exactly when. “The wedding,” she said, almost whispering.

  “Right,” Deb said, glancing at Hancock. “And who is this handsome fellow?”

  “This is Hancock—my delivery guy,” Chelsea quipped. “I reopened Mom’s café this week, and . . . I hope I’m not ruining a surprise, but I think your daughter ordered birthday cupcakes.”

  “And she’s been raving about them all week. I can’t believe you’re back! Come help me put the cupcakes on a platter, and then I have to introduce you to everyone.” Deb dragged Chelsea and Hancock into the kitchen, and from there to the formal living room. A dozen women, all well-dressed, some cosmetically curved, formed a horseshoe around Chelsea, who wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and tennis shoes.

  “Everyone, this is my childhood friend, Chelsea Chambers, wife of Sawyer Chambers.” Deb paused for the gasps. “She just moved back to San Antonio to reopen the old Higher Grounds Café in King William. Y’all have to stop by and make her feel welcome!”

  Chelsea smiled, grateful for Deb’s thoughtful (and very Texan) introduction. Each woman introduced herself and promised to visit the store. Most importantly, the cupcakes were a big hit. More than one diet was momentarily abandoned.

  Chelsea took the long route back, scouting out potential homes along the way. Somewhere, nestled among the pecan trees and terra cotta roofs, was the steeple of Alamo Heights Methodist, the church where she and Sawyer were married. On the surface it was a storybook wedding: The red carpet and white pews. Flowers everywhere. Each member of the Longhorn backfield dressed in a tux. Her sister and two best friends as bridesmaids. Her mother in the front row. But the bride walked down the aisle alone, carrying white roses and a child in her womb.

  “So does this mean we’re staying in San Antonio for good?” Hancock asked as Chelsea stopped to pluck a real estate brochure from beneath the For Sale sign of a picture-perfect home.

  “Would that be so bad?” Chelsea asked.

  “Maybe not. Not if Dad was with us.”

  As Chelsea passed from one zip code to the next, she noticed that yet another Café Cosmos had sprouted. A Now Hiring banner hung beneath the slick sign, but business was already booming. Luxury cars wrapped around the drive-through lane. Patrons spilled onto the patio, where the sunshine had convinced everyone it was spring.

  When Chelsea got back to the café, she was pleased to see a customer. But he hadn’t come for the coffee.

  “Can you sign for the Higher Grounds Café?” the uniformed postal carrier asked.

  “I am the owner,” Chelsea offered with confidence. Her burst of esteem was but a vapor. The letter was from the IRS.

  Chapter 4

  Eighty-six thousand dollars?” Sara exclaimed so loudly Chelsea had to hold the phone at arm’s length.

  “And seventy-eight cents,” Chelsea added. “Did you know about this?”

  “No, of course not. I mean . . . did Mom even know about this?”

  “According to the notice, they hand-delivered three letters. And she signed for each one.”

  “I’m so sorry, Chelsea. I wish I could help. The church pays us a salary, but it’s modest.”

  “Please don’t worry about it. I can take care of the debt. Mom knew that.”

  Sara sighed. “Well, it makes sense why she left you the café. Now I feel guilty about getting all of Grandma’s jewelry!”

  “And all this time I thought I was her favorite,” Chelsea deadpanned.

  “So I guess this would be a bad time to tell you that you were adopted?”

  Sara could always make Chelsea laugh, even when her stomach was in knots. “Nothing would surprise me these days.”

  “Famous last words, sis.”

  The terms were as simple as they were strict. Pay $86,000.78 within thirty days, or the IRS would seize and sell all the assets of the Higher Grounds Café. Unfortunately, Chelsea and the kids were living in the only asset worth seizing. She needed to pay. Which meant she needed to speak with Sawyer.

  That evening Chelsea tucked the kids into bed, tidied up the kitchen, and folded the laundry. When she couldn’t put it off any longer, she went to her nightstand for her phone. It wasn’t where she had left it, and she thought of taking that as a sign to save the call for another day. But it wasn’t like her to lose things.

  Chelsea scoured the café, pulled apart the sofa, and even looked in the washing machine. No phone. She was walking down the hall in defeat when a muffled laugh escaped the kids’ bedroom.

  She cracked open the door and saw a a bluish glow escaping from under the covers of the top bunk.

  “The guy was seven feet off the ground! I wish you could’ve been there.” Hancock’s whisper swelled with excitement.

  “Me too,” came a familiar voice on the other end of the line.

  Chelsea drew a nice, long breath and approached the bed.

  “All right, chatterbox,” she said softly. The figure beneath the sheets froze. The voice on the other end of the line fell silent, and a sheepish Hancock emerged.

  “I know I shoulda asked . . .” Hancock started to explain, his voice growing louder.

  Chelsea put a finger to her to lips and extended her hand.

  Hancock returned the iPhone to its rightful owner, sneaking a peek at the bunk below. To his relief, Emily was still sound asleep.

  “Good night, Hancock.” Chelsea gave him a warning look and crept out of the room. She pocketed the phone and started down the hall.

  “Uh . . . Chelsea?”

  She jumped. A hearty chuckle was now coming from her back pocket.

  Chelsea pulled out her phone. Sawyer’s face filled the screen.

  “That’s what I was hoping to see,” Sawyer said. “Not that I don’t admire the other view,” he added, flashing Chelsea a mischievous smile with ivory white teeth.

  She flipped over the p
hone, leaving Sawyer with a lovely panorama of her grandmother’s oriental rug. She knew better than to FaceTime with Sawyer Chambers. Chelsea smoothed her ponytail, exhaled through gritted teeth, then turned over the phone to face him. Briefly.

  “I need to speak with you,” she told him. “Can I call you back?”

  Twenty minutes later, Chelsea’s blood was boiling. “Why am I just finding out about this?” she shouted into the phone.

  “You wouldn’t take my calls!” Sawyer countered. “What’d you want me to do? Send a singing telegram? A bouquet of flowers?”

  And with that Chelsea hung up.

  Fifteen million dollars would last most people a lifetime. Not Sawyer Chambers. He had invested in oil fields, commercial real estate, and junk bonds. He speculated in Miami condos and Arizona windmills. He could have more easily held a greased pig than his money. Nothing worked.

  Chelsea had known the money was going fast, but she had a safety net. Four million dollars in an annuity fund that Sawyer had promised he would not touch. Not without talking to her first.

  Another broken promise. Sawyer had sunk his last million into a franchise at Dallas Love Field. Within six months the creditors were at his door, and he’d had no choice but to drain the account. “It was that or bankruptcy,” he had reasoned.

  Chelsea could picture the face that went with that pleading tone. Furrowed brow, square jaw, to-die-for blue eyes. She knew all Sawyer’s looks by heart. Thirteen years ago, that same famous face had persuaded Chelsea to skip her psychology class and go two-stepping at Sandy Springs Dance Hall . . .

  Sawyer’s image adorned the cover of the football program their junior year at the University of Texas. The photo caught him midair in a goal-line nosedive over his offensive line. Yes, he scored. In that game and twenty-two consecutive others. Everyone knew Sawyer Chambers.