My husband always wanted to own a beignet shop. Always talked about opening a beignet and coffee shop. Ever since our late June honeymoon trip to New Orleans over a dozen years ago, and our even later breakfast that first sunny morning at the world famous Café du Monde that sits beside the muddy – and muggy – Mississippi River on Decatur Street, across from Jackson Square and the Saint Louis Cathedral. The charming café has been a New Orleans institution for over one hundred and fifty years. I was certainly feeling charmed that morning.

With the scent of chicory flavored coffee rising from the table and powdered sugar tickling our now married tongues and noses, my husband leaned back and said, 'Hey, wouldn't it be a great idea, Mags, if we opened up a place like this of our own back home?'

I agreed. I was a newlywed bride reveling in the glow of the first morning after our first night together as husband and wife. Of course I was going to agree. He was my husband now.

And now that Brian was dead, I was honoring his wishes and opening a beignet shop on one of the lesser-travelled downtown streets of Table Rock, Arizona. Population five thousand or so humans and another twenty thousand or so extraterrestrials – if one was to believe all the New Age mages living and operating from our odd little red-rocked corner of the world. According to the mages, aliens outnumbered Arizonans four-to-one.

And those mages should know – they were in nearly daily contact with the extraterrestrials, after all.

I should mention that Table Rock is up in Coconino County, Arizona. Not far from Sedona, a New Age capital in its own right. Not that you'll hear that from a Table Rocker, though. Table Rock is where folks move to who feel that Sedona is too 'mainstream.'

I moved here about six weeks ago because it's where my little sister, two nephews and Mom live. And no, I'm not a glutton for punishment. Though if you set a big bowl of chocolate ice cream, plate of chocolate cake or bag of French fries in front of me, I am, without a doubt, a glutton of the first order. And maybe Brian wasn't literally dead, but he was dead to me. That counts, doesn't it? I was telling everybody that inquired about him that he was dead. That counts too, right? And maybe I wasn't so much honoring his memory as rubbing his nose in the fact that he was all talk and no action, as he had been throughout the course of our marriage, but Maggie Miller was the kind of woman who got things done.

It may have taken thirty-nine years of living and a broken marriage. But if there was one thing Maggie Miller was going to do, it was get things done.

Today was a dry run. The grand opening was tomorrow. I was polishing the front counter and admiring my tenacity and fortitude in having made it this far when a lanky forty-something male entered the shop. Rats, I'd forgotten to lock the door behind me on my way in this morning. I live in a small one-bedroom apartment three blocks over from the shop, so walking or cycling to work are my preferred modes of transportation. That and the fact that I didn't have a car.

I once had a car – a pretty neat 2001 flame red Plymouth Neon – but I sold it to help set up this café. I hated seeing her go. It so happened that 2001 was the last year of the Neon – the last year for Plymouth, too, as it turned out. But every dollar counted and I didn't have many dollars left to count. At this point, I could probably count them all on two hands and a foot.

This morning I'd biked in and, pulling the old Schwinn in behind me, I'd forgotten to turn the key in the lock afterward as I was too busy hauling packages to the back to worry about petty things like locks and doors.

And look what the proverbial cat drags in.

This being Table Rock, I'd been thinking of hanging a No Shirts, No Shoes, No Aliens sign on the door. Not that it would have necessarily helped in this instance.

He reached out a long-fingered hand the color of sandstone. 'Hi, I'm Clive Rothschild.' We shook. He aimed a finger stage right. 'My husband and I own The Hitching Post next door.'

I nodded. I'd passed the place a hundred times since coming to town. I'd been meaning to drop in and introduce myself but getting the café up and running had taken all my time.

This being the Old West, of sorts, you'd think The Hitching Post would be selling lassos, lariats, spurs and saddles. But this was Table Rock. This was the New West. Heck, this was the New Age West. This Hitching Post sold bridal gowns and accessories – items of the 'I do and forever after' variety. It was that kind of hitching that Clive Rothschild was promoting. Clive had red hair and freckles. I liked him already. What can I say? We redheads have to stick together, even if his mane was prettier and more luxuriant than my own.

I was going to have to ask Clive what shampoos and conditioners he was using once I got to know him better. I didn't want to scare the man off by getting too personal too quick. I'd made that mistake enough times to know better. Clive was dressed casually, but expensively, in designer jeans and a T-shirt.

'Maggie Miller,' I replied. 'Welcome to Maggie's Beignet Café.'

He did a turn. 'Nice place you have here.'

'Thanks.'

'Is there a Mister Maggie Miller?'

'He's dead,' I replied, without mincing my words, looking him straight in his green eyes. I told you I tell everybody he's dead. See? I meant it.

His hands came up to his face. 'Oh, I am so sorry,' he cooed.

'Don't be,' I said. 'I'm not.' He blanched and I immediately felt bad for the man. OK, maybe I should have minced my words just a little. Shame on me, as Mom would say. And often did.

'Hey,' I said, trying to lighten the mood and bring a little color back into Clive's face, 'how would you like to be my first customer?'

That seemed to do the trick. Clive's face brightened immensely and his hands fell to his sides. 'Could I? That would be wonderful. I love beignets!' He rubbed his flat belly through the shiny material of his shirt. I expected a genie to pop out of his belly button and offer us a few wishes apiece. Unfortunately, no such luck, as none appeared.

'Sure,' I said. 'Today is a dry run. I was just going to prepare a batch of dough and give all the equipment one last test.'

OK, so it was a first test. I know – this was something I should have done before the day before the grand opening. If this second- and third-hand but seemingly working equipment didn't work, it wasn't going to be so much a grand opening as a grand failure.

'Why don't you have a seat at that table by the window —' I stopped. 'Oh.' I'd set out the eight tables that filled my small café to capacity but hadn't gotten around to setting up the chairs. I'd ordered three dozen from a big box store down in Phoenix. The whole lot of them were still stacked in the backroom.

I knew I'd forgotten something. I just hoped the chairs were the only thing. I placed a hand on either side of my head. Yep, it was still there. That was a good sign. Hopefully my brain had come along for the ride.

'Tell you what, Clive, let me get the fryer started.' The fryer was right there at the counter so the customers could watch all the beignet magic as it happened. I turned the dial up to three hundred and seventy degrees. That's the temperature you want if you're gonna make beignets. Anything less and...