At least he’d discovered the shiny vinyl and chrome affair known as The Diner, his destination for the day. The food was more inspired than the name. He never came on Sundays, only Saturdays because it wasn’t as crowded. He’d learned the hard way not to come on Mondays and that they didn’t serve dinner on Tuesday or breakfast on Thursday. He sat with the New York Times on his tablet, a cup of coffee, and a big breakfast with an overstuffed Denver omelet. The cash register and a spare change collection box rested on the counter beside him, guaranteeing a buffer if the place got crowded. An empty stool sat on his other. He liked the counter. The locals with their loud kids didn’t give him the stink eye for taking up a booth. The counter also came with Jo, the waitress. She kept his coffee cup full and didn’t act as if her job depended on the power plant. He scooped up a fork full of hash browns.
“Want a little more?” Jo interrupted his reading and nodded at his nearly empty cup.
A full pot of blistering hot coffee awaited his approval. It wasn’t particularly good coffee, but better than nothing. The cost reflected the quality. He tolerated the stuff for a mere buck and a half, but damn, couldn’t the town have a Starbucks?
“Sure.” He shoveled in the potatoes that managed to be both crisp and fluffy. He wanted a swig of coffee or two to cleanse his palate before having another bite of jam-laden biscuit, but Jo paused, coffee pot dangling precariously over his cup as the main door released a pneumatic sigh behind him.
“Hi, Stranger. I wondered when you’d be back from the big city. I had five bucks on five-oh-five.” Her words weren’t meant for him.
“Sorry I’m early. What can I say? Too little to do there.” What a voice! The speaker lacked that irritating twang he heard too much of around here. Instead, she, because the owner was certainly female, projected lyricism with a hint of huskiness.
“You mean no one to do”— Jo’s brassy voice carried through the building.
“Please. I’m a dull girl.”
An eruption of noise from the booth of older men in the corner cut her off. He’d forgotten they arrived shortly after him. He recognized one guy from Adena’s office but didn’t know any of the others. Why bother?
“We’re back here.”
“Thanks for the warning. Now I know where not to go.” She reached across the counter and gave the waitress a one-armed hug.
As the old men laughed, he turned on the stool to take in the newcomer. She wasn’t as vamp as her voice. The pockets of her cargo pants bulged, contrasting the tight fit of her t-shirt. A blue and silver scarf wrapped around her neck and matched a streak of blue in the dirty blond hair pulled into a ponytail. Her lips were full and hinted with a smudge that suggested she liked red lipstick. She looked as out of place here as he did.
She flopped on the stool beside him without asking if the seat was taken.
“Can I get a tuna melt to go?”
How someone could eat tuna at seven in the morning was beyond him. His stomach clenched in horror. Tuna should not be served with cheese.
“Sure thing. I can get you French fries, but no extra veggies. The Dispatch had an easy tomato sauce with carrot recipe. When Alice made this week’s delivery, she said she had to hold back some stock for me, or else people would have bought out the harvest. What there was of it, anyway.”
“So not a good summer here?”
“Hot and dry, which was fine by me but so-so for the tomatoes. When did you get back?”
“Just now. I didn’t want to spend another night in the hotel room, not when there’s so much to do here. I loaded up my tools in the trailer yesterday afternoon and bugged out after the gala.”
Gala? Belkin wasn’t that type of town and she didn’t look like the high fashion, high society type he saw at the ones he’d attended.
“Only you would hate going to a party.”
“Trust me, you would have been bored to tears. I had to smile and be polite while letting the big money folks know I don’t do boats, not even yachts and no, I haven’t been to Cabo in December, but I’m already booked.” She put on a posh accent that sounded like some of the society wives he’d bumped into at networking events. He stifled a laugh.
The woman slapped her hands on the counter. “Jo, you should have seen the looks I got when I went to change in the gas station bathroom. Enter glam, leave like a human being.”
“What did you do with the dress? Beverly’s always looking for dresses she can resell for homecoming or prom. Belkin’s homecoming is two weeks.”
“It’s draped across the back seat. I’m sure it’s wrinkled, but if anyone can fix it, she can.” A huge yawn escaped her mouth and mint filled the air.
One of the old guys shouted, “When are you opening the shop?”
The out-of-place goddess bumped into his arm as she leaned back to look across the room. “A week from Wednesday. Say eleven am? I have to unpack and clean up whatever chaos you created. Sorry.” She spoke the last word softer, for his ears. He nodded an acknowledgement, although she barely grazed him.
“Can you make it eight? Or better yet this weekend? Some of us have day jobs.”
All this yelling made it hard for him to concentrate on his paper, although the blonde was doing her part to distract him with her mere presence. The dramatics were so typical of this area. He made a show of straightening his tablet. Not that anyone noticed. The shiny screen made a half-way decent mirror. The woman beside him was more interesting than a law to regulate ride-shares. She looked like a city dweller, with
