Something More by Janet Dailey Page B

to the kitchen swung open and Ima Jane poked her head out. “There you are. I thought I heard someone,” she replied, then said over her shoulder, “don’t worry about keeping anything warm. Angie’s here. You can dish up whenever you want.” She pushed through the door and headed straight for the bar area. “How about some coffee?” She lifted a coffeepot off its burner plate on the back bar.
    â€œPlease.” Angie crossed the empty room and quickly claimed the coffee mug Ima Jane set on the bar counter.
    The woman’s dark eyes twinkled when she saw Angie wrap both hands around the mug. “I see you’re like me. I don’t function all that well until I’ve had my first cup.”
    â€œSad but true,” Angie admitted, savoring that initial jolt of caffeine.
    Ima Jane poured a cup for herself, then motioned toward a nearby table with place settings for three. “Have a seat,” she said as she emerged from behind the bar. “We always have our meals down here even though we have a little apartment upstairs. It doesn’t seem to matter what Griff is preparing; there’s always something he needs from the kitchen down here. Personally, I think he just likes cooking in the big kitchen best.”
    â€œWe all tend to be creatures of habit,” Angie offered by way of a response, and sat down at the table, more interested in drinking her coffee than making conversation.
    To Ima Jane, silence was clearly something to be avoided at all times. “Isn’t that true,” she agreed and hopped to a different subject. “After we closed last night, I rearranged the pictures and found a place to hang the old newspaper stories about your outlaw ancestor.” She motioned toward the wall behind Angie. “It looks good there, don’t you think?”
    Obligingly Angie glanced over her shoulder to note the location of the framed articles. As she turned back, a man came out of the kitchen deftly balancing a large serving tray.
    â€œIt’s a perfect location,” Angie remarked, then caught the aroma of spicy sausage and a faint whiff of vanilla mixed with cinnamon. Hunger suddenly gnawed at her empty stomach.
    â€œIf you’re talking about those old newspaper articles, they’d better look good hangin’ there ’cause I ain’t movin’ any more pictures around. Last night was enough,” Griff stated in a grumbling voice and lowered the serving tray onto the table next to theirs. “She messed around here for two hours makin’ me switch things around, movin’ this one here and that one there, then changed it all around again.”
    His complaints failed to make a dent in Ima Jane’s warm smile. If anything they seemed to amuse her. “Don’t pay any attention to my husband,” she said to Angie. “He isn’t happy unless he has something to gripe about.”
    He responded with a loud harrumph, then nodded curtly to Angie when Ima Jane made the introductions. Before Angie had a chance to acknowledge him, Griff turned away and lifted two individual platters of food off the serving tray. He set one before Angie.
    â€œWe’re having French toast and sausage this morning.” The announcement had the ring of a challenge.
    â€œIt’s one of my breakfast favorites.” Angie unwrapped the silverware and laid the napkin across her lap.
    â€œThen you’ll love Griff’s version,” Ima Jane informed her, as she dipped her knife into the mound of whipped butter on her plate. “He makes his own cinnamon-raisin bread, which is delicious all by itself, but the recipe for the egg dip is one of his most closely guarded secrets. The one for his sausage is probably second. He made it, too. In fact, everything he serves is made from scratch, including the butter.”
    â€œYou churn your own?” Angie asked in amazement.
    â€œAlways,” Ima Jane inserted when her