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  “Years ago my daughters and wife were inhaling Robin Gunn’s stories and loving them, so I had to take a peek myself to find out why. I did. Robin’s characters are believable, and her stories have just the right blend of hope, broken hearts, disappointments, lighthearted fun, joy, and an eternal perspective. The Lord Jesus always plays a role, whether behind the scenes or in the thick of things. Robin lives the faith that’s so evident in her books. She knows how to tell a story—and the stories she tells make an eternal difference.”

  RANDY ALCORN, AUTHOR OF DEADLINE

  “When you read a Robin Gunn book, you know you’re going to receive a tender lesson in what it means to belong to Christ—and you will be blessed for it.”

  FRANCINE RIVERS, AUTHOR OF REDEEMING LOVE AND THE MARK OF THE LION SERIES

  “Robin’s warmth, insight, and humor spill over from her heart onto the written page. She delights us with the well-woven fabric of a well-told tale, and I’m certain Robin delights the Lord with her obvious passion for Him.”

  PASTY CLAIRMONT, AUTHOR OF GOD USES CRACKED POTS AND SPORTIN’ A ’TUDE

  “Robin Jones Gunn cares. She cares about her characters, she cares about her readers, and most of all, she cares about their mutual search for a life that pleases the Lord. Her novels are a delight to read—perfectly crafted, heartwarming, and fun. I’m always thrilled when one of Robin’s books appears on the top of my to-be-read stack!”

  LIZ CURTIS HIGGS, AUTHOR OF MIXED SIGNALS, BOOKENDS, AND BAD GIRLS OF THE BIBLE

  “Whenever I think of stories that touch the heart, I think of Robin Jones Gunn’s. They touch my heart and leave me wanting more. Reading a novel by Robin Jones Gunn is like spending time with a good friend … troubles are lighter and joys are deeper.”

  ALICE GRAY, AUTHOR OF STORIES FOR THE HEART BOOK COLLECTION

  “Robin Jones Gunn writes from a heart of love. Her tender stories honor the Savior and speak truth to a world desperately eager to hear it.”

  ANGELA ELWELL HUNT, AUTHOR OF THE TRUTH TELLER

  “Robin Gunn is a gifted and sincere storyteller who gets right to the heart of matters with her readers.”

  MELODY CARLSON, AUTHOR OF HOMEWARD

  THE GLENBROOKE SERIES

  #1 Secrets

  #2 Whispers

  #3 Echoes

  #4 Sunsets

  #5 Clouds

  #6 Waterfalls

  #7 Woodlands

  #8 Wildflowers

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  WILDFLOWERS

  published by Multnomah Books

  © 2001 by Robin’s Ink, LLC

  International Standard Book Number: 978-1-59052-239-4

  Cover design and images by Steve Gardner/His Image PixelWorks

  Edited by Janet Kobobel Grant

  Scripture quotations are from:

  The Holy Bible, King James Version

  Holy Bible, New Living Translation (NLT) © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.

  New American Standard Bible (NASB) © 1960, 1977 by the Lockman Foundation

  The Holy Bible, New King James Version (NKJV) © 1984 by Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  New Revised Standard Version Bible (NRSV) © 1989 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America

  The Holy Bible, New International Version (NIV) © 1973, 1984 by International Bible Society, used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House

  Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House Inc., New York.

  MULTNOMAH and its mountain colophon are registered trademarks of Random House Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photo-copying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission.

  For information:

  MULTNOMAH BOOKS • 12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200 Colorado Springs, Colorado 80909

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  Gunn, Robin Jones, 1955-

  Wildflowers / by Robin Jones Gunn. p.cm. eISBN: 978-0-307-82470-7

  1. Separated people–Fiction. 2. Restaurateurs–Fiction.

  3. Restaurants–Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3557.U4866 W55 2001 813′.54–dc21 2001003457

  v3.1

  For my sister-in-law, Kate Gunn Medina

  who for more than twenty-five years

  has bestowed generously on me

  love and friendship.

  You are a treasure.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books in This Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Wildflowers Recipe

  “I was asleep, but my heart was awake.”

  SONG OF SONGS 5:2, NASB

  Chapter One

  Genevieve was dreaming. She knew she was dreaming because this was the third—no, the fourth—time the same dream had invaded her sleeping mind. The dream always started the same way: She was standing inside her newly acquired Wildflower Café, looking out the window at all her Glenbrooke friends who had gathered to celebrate the grand opening. She was ready to open the door and let them in when she paused. Scanning the smiling faces, she searched for her husband, Steven. But Steven wasn’t there.

  Steven was never there.

  Pressing her eyelids tighter, Genevieve gripped the edge of her dream world and held her breath, willing herself not to wake up. She desperately wanted a new ending to this dream, a conclusion that was different from the way this scene had ended in real life.

  A little more than two months ago, when Genevieve stood inside the Wildflower Café the same way she now stood in her dream, the phone had rung. Steven was calling to say he was stuck in Chicago. Heavy snowfall had delayed all flights that day, and he wouldn’t be able to fly out until the next morning. She told him she understood. She said she didn’t hold it against him.

  Yet in her subconscious she kept returning to that moment, waiting in her dream for the phone to ring. This time she would tell him what she really thought. She would let herself cry and tell him it wasn’t okay for him to be stuck in Chicago. The snow wasn’t a good enough excuse. He had done this to her one too many times.

  Genevieve knew that in dreams people could fly on rocket ships or clouds or with wings they had suddenly sprouted. Snowflakes could turn into giant soap bubbles. In dreams, even a weary airline pilot could ride all the way to Glenbrooke inside one of those magic soap bubbles and arrive at the front door of the café at just the right moment.

  With all her might, she tried to make the desired ending come to her in her dream. But it was no use. Her dream cut off, as it always did, like a broken reel of a home movie. Once again she was stuck in the darkness, hoping against hope that she could rethread the puddle of dream film gathered at
her feet and start up the unresolved scene in her subconscious one more time. But it didn’t work. She was stuck.

  Genevieve opened her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Get over it, Genevieve. Let it go. This is the way things are.

  She blinked, trying to adjust her eyes to the bedroom’s darkness. On the rooftop of their warm home pattered the persistent Oregon spring rain. Beside her, Steven slept.

  Steven Ahrens, the steady airline captain who had swept Genevieve up into his life more than twenty years ago slept soundly, as he always did. He lay on his back with his left arm above his head and his right arm on his chest. In the faint glow from the digital alarm clock, Genevieve watched her husband’s frame as each unhurried breath came after the other. In his sleeping and in his waking, Steven lived his life at a predictable, unruffled pace. Routine was everything. And everything was routine.

  Genevieve listened as the rain tapped on the window. She thought about how she had hoped their life would be different when they moved to Glenbrooke. Opening the Wildflower Café was possibly the biggest event in her life, aside from giving birth to their three daughters. Why couldn’t Steven have been there with her at the grand opening? Why did she continue to coax a different ending out of her subconscious? She couldn’t change the past.

  Fluttering on the edge of sleep, Genevieve told herself she didn’t want to change everything about the past. Half awake, half asleep, she hovered over a reflecting pool of memories. Her heart had flown often to this familiar place where the earliest images of her love for Steven glistened with pristine clarity and beckoned her to draw closer.

  In her mind’s eye, Genevieve saw herself swimming in Lake Zurich on that brilliant summer afternoon so many years ago. She was eighteen on the outside and perhaps younger than that in her heart. Her slim frame emerged from the brisk water, and she hurried to the towel she had left on the grass beside her girlfriends. The towel was there, but her friends were gone.

  Standing on the corner of her towel was a fair-skinned young man who asked in very poor French if she knew the time. His build was medium and muscular. His fine, short hair was combed straight back. He had a perfectly straight nose that topped the O he formed with his lips like an exclamation point.

  Genevieve guessed he was American and answered him in English. His face warmed with a shy, grateful expression. He took off his sunglasses, revealing deep blue eyes, blue like the sky above the clouds. He smiled at her, and Genevieve was smitten.

  The memory shifted to a sidewalk café only five blocks from Lake Zurich where Steven was trying his first taste of raspberry strudel with heavy cream. Genevieve wore a pale yellow summer dress and sipped a demitasse of Turkish coffee. Wisps of her thick, brown hair danced across her forehead as she sat across from this fascinating, twenty-four-year-old man, and she used her well-practiced English to tell him what it was like to grow up in Zurich.

  His steady eyes seemed to memorize every detail of her face. He listened to her with an expression that said, “You are the most captivating woman I’ve ever met. Ask anything of me, and I’ll do it.”

  What she asked of him, without a single word, was for her first kiss. What he gave her with that kiss was a kingdom. His kingdom. His life. And into the life of this soft-spoken man with the warm, steady gaze, Genevieve contentedly had tucked herself like granulated sugar folded into a bowl of whipped-up egg whites.

  Now, in the sanctuary of their bedroom, Steven turned toward her in his sleep. His straight nose was only inches from her as his steady breath fluttered over her eyelids. She was so close to him yet Genevieve was so far away. Even the memories of their love’s first awakening brought no warmth to her spirit. All the doors to her heart were shut, and all the shades were pulled down tight.

  When Genevieve entered the back door of the Wildflower Café at seven-thirty that morning, she felt weary from all the wrestling she had done in the night. She noticed that a few slender sunbeams had managed to slip past the heavy rain clouds. The sunbeams blazed their way through the window above the large kitchen sink, warming her forearm as she washed her hands. Perhaps Glenbrooke would have some sunshine today after all. It made her feel hopeful.

  Leah Edwards, Genevieve’s assistant, charged through the swinging door from the dining room with her usual energy. “Hey, good morning! I didn’t expect you this early.”

  “Steven is taking the girls to school. I thought I’d start on the brownies.”

  Leah’s short blond hair was tucked under a baseball cap, which was her favorite substitute for a chef’s hat. When Genevieve catered Leah and Seth’s wedding six months ago, a fast friendship formed between the two women. Genevieve soon discovered that she would never have been able to make this dream café a reality if it hadn’t been for Leah’s choice to leave her former career at the hospital and join her.

  “Has it been busy?” Genevieve quickly dried her hands and pulled an apron over her head.

  “No, just the regulars. Oh, and someone who wants to see you. He’s at table four.”

  “Who is it?” The only opening from the kitchen to the dining room was a swinging door, so Genevieve couldn’t see who was at table four.

  “He said his name was Richard Palmas. He wants to interview you.” Leah popped two slices of rye bread into the toaster.

  “Interview me? Why?”

  Leah flipped two fried eggs on a plate and handed it to Genevieve, motioning for her to include the toast. “He’s writing a book on great cafés of the Northwest. I’m guessing he wants to include the Wildflower in his book. Here, these eggs are for Dr. Norton. And don’t butter the toast. I’ll cover the kitchen while you go meet Mr. Palmas.”

  Genevieve delivered the breakfast, greeted an elderly couple at table seven, and warily made her way to table four. A middle-aged man in a black, V-necked sweater and jeans greeted Genevieve with expressive eyes.

  “Would you like more coffee?” she asked.

  “No thanks. You must be Genevieve. I’m Richard Palmas. How are you this morning?”

  “Fine.” Genevieve noticed that he had been taking detailed notes.

  “Did your associate tell you I’m writing a book on the best cafés in the Northwest?”

  “Yes.”

  “When would be a good time for me to ask you a few questions?”

  “Around nine o’clock would be good. It usually slows down then.”

  Richard glanced at the eight unhurried customers in the small café. Raising an eyebrow, he said, “Is this your morning rush?”

  “Yes. Such as it is.” Genevieve felt her neck warming. “This is our morning rush.”

  “Then I will take another cup of coffee,” Richard said. “And some breakfast while I wait.”

  “I’ll bring you a menu,” Genevieve said.

  “No.” Richard touched her arm lightly before she could slip away. “I don’t need a menu. Bring me whatever you would consider your house specialty.”

  Genevieve smiled tentatively. She hoped he couldn’t tell how uncomfortable she felt. “Does an omelet sound good to you?”

  Richard tilted his head and gave her a confident grin. “Sure. Make it the best omelet on your menu.”

  Genevieve slipped back into the kitchen, thankful for a place to hide. “Are you ready to switch places?” she asked Leah.

  “Sure. I went ahead and mixed up the brownies, but I haven’t started the soup yet. The broccoli is in the sink. Do you know if we have any more decaf tea bags? I couldn’t find any this morning.”

  “I’ll check on it. Anything else?”

  Leah balanced two plates on her left arm. “Did I tell you yesterday about the fan over the stove? It keeps turning off and on. It might be a short. I left it off all morning.”

  “Okay, I’ll have it checked.”

  Leah slid into the dining room with the pancakes while Genevieve gave her thick, brown hair a twist and secured it with a clip at the back of her head. Don’t let yourself feel intimidated by this man. It’s only an omelet. You’ve
made hundreds of omelets before.

  As omelets go, the bacon, cheese, and mushroom omelet Genevieve prepared was respectable. Not award-winning, but certainly respectable. Leah served the omelet to Mr. Palmas while Genevieve made the broccoli cheese soup and cooked the other breakfast orders. Nine o’clock arrived, and only three customers, who were finishing their morning coffee, remained. Genevieve turned the kitchen over to Leah. She decided to leave on her white apron and walk into the dining room as if Richard Palmas were any other Glenbrooke customer.

  It would have worked except that from the moment she entered the dining room, he seemed to be scrutinizing her every move.

  “I heard you grew up in Switzerland,” Richard said before she had a chance to sit down.

  “Yes.”

  “And you lived in Pasadena before moving here a year ago.”

  Genevieve nodded.

  “I also heard you’re married to a commercial airline pilot.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Interesting. You must travel a lot.”

  “No, not very much. We have three daughters. Our oldest is in college now, but the other two keep me close to home since Steven is gone so much of the time.” Genevieve adjusted her position on the chair and chided herself for divulging so much personal information. She tried to redirect the questions to the café. “How was your omelet?”

  “Better than most.”

  What was that supposed to mean?

  “Did I hear correctly that the café is closed on Sundays?”

  “Yes, our hours are seven to four on weekdays and eight to two on Saturdays.”

  “No dinners then, only breakfast and lunch.”

  “That’s right. Only breakfast and lunch.” Genevieve noticed how hard her chair felt. A cushioned pad would make a world of difference. She noticed, too, that the round table at which they sat was too large for them to have a quiet conversation. She felt as if she had to speak louder than she liked to be heard over the heater’s hum and the echoing clatter of dishes in the kitchen.