into one. They shared things they’d never told their husbands, wives, or analysts. And then they left a tip commensurate with how much they’d unburdened themselves.
“Hey, pal, stop right there,” Babe said. “We really don’t need to know where you met The New Granite King of Springfield or what you did to get there. Today is the first day of the rest of your life and all that jazz. Besides, whatever you did, we can probably top it.”
“You don’t say.” Chase leaned in to hear more.
“I once served coffee to a double murderer right where you’re sitting-not that I knew it at the time. Right, Paula?” I nodded, not eager to talk about it. I had worked for the murderer and it had not been my favorite job.
The man gave us a strange, almost admiring look, and there was an awkward silence when that particular line of conversation evaporated.
“Look, I didn’t mean to cut you off,” Babe said, refilling his cup and giving him a donut on the house. “It isn’t that we don’t care about you, but we’re a don’t ask, don’t tell kind of diner. At least until we know you better. One of Babe’s rules.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Babe. That’s not what your mama called you, is it?”
“As a matter of fact she did, but it’s not what’s on my birth certificate, if that’s what you’re driving at.”
I knew Babe’s given name was Wanda and so did anyone else who cared enough to take a magnifying glass to the health department inspection certificate hanging on the wall near the cash register, but this guy was either stupid or flirting. Quite possibly both. He startled both of us by taking a picture of her with his phone and staring at the image although the original was standing right there.
“Let me guess. Your name’s Darlene.”
“No.”
“Brittany?”
“Please, do I look like a Brittany? Listen, pal, there are about a million women’s names, not including the New Agey ones and the ridiculous meant-to-be-creative spellings of old names, and the odds of your guessing mine in the next two minutes, which is all the time I have before the party at booth five wants their checks, are about a trillion to one. So, give it your best shot because now you’re down to thirty seconds.”
“You’re Monica.” The triumphant look on his face suggested that he thought he’d hit the jackpot. He waited for a reaction.
“Game over.” Babe patted her apron pockets for her receipt pad, found booth five’s tab, and excused herself to bring them their checks.
He looked shell-shocked, as if he didn’t believe her, and looked to me for confirmation.
I’d never realized it before, but Babe really was trapped at the diner. As much as she held court and had a steady stream of admirers and friendly faces every day, she also had to deal with loonies like this. What was next? Guessing her weight? It made me appreciate my business, where I rarely saw my clients from March through October, unless they had an infestation of slugs or leaf miners.
“So what is her name?” the guy said, sliding over one seat closer to me. He slurped down the dregs of his coffee and wiped his mouth and his nose on his cuff. If I’d regained my appetite, I’d lost it again.
“Like she said. Her mother called her Babe.” I got up to leave.
“Where you going?” Babe yelled. “Pete’s got a new Nigella cookbook. He’s making converts with it. Two women already left him their phone numbers and asked if he did private parties. Can you beat that? Let’s just hope they were looking for baked goods.”
“I’m going to the nursery. Gotta pick up some orders, including yours. And I may drop in on Caroline. I’ve been trying to reach her. I may catch you on the way back. Otherwise I’ll see you tomorrow when I work on your planters.” I nodded briefly to the man at the counter, who was now staring at me in a way that made me glad I was leaving.
For some reason, I dragged my feet in the parking lot. I didn’t want to simply hop in my car and take off alone, so I sat there, fidgeting with my mirror, my seat belt, and anything else I could think of, waiting to see if Mr.-I-can- guess-your-name would come out soon. He didn’t disappoint. Two minutes after I left he emerged, holding his phone at arm’s length and shuffling towards a dirty white pickup that had streaks of rust on the side I could see and probably more on the side I couldn’t. He was trying to look casual but failing miserably. Neither of us was fooling anybody. I pantomimed searching for something on the passenger seat, in case he was looking in my direction, wondering why I hadn’t driven away. Then I turned off the engine and went back inside the diner, ostensibly to retrieve whatever it was I’d forgotten. I could feel his eyes on my back as the screen door slammed behind me.
Babe was surprised to see me back so soon. “It was the Nigella reference, right?” she said. “You’re having second thoughts? Dang, Pete could turn out to be a domestic god. I may send him to culinary school. It could be a very good business investment.” I shushed her and dragged her to the farthest booth in the back of the diner.
“Is he still there?” I asked.
“Who?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.
“Countertop Man, who wouldn’t know black honed granite from Black Oak Arkansas. Is he still out there in the white pickup?”
She looked again. “If I had my periscope, I’d be able to answer more intelligently, but from where I’m sitting, no Countertop Man.” She gave me a look that bordered on maternal. “Have you eaten anything today or just guzzled coffee and diet Red Bull? You’re acting kinda jumpy. Five dollars says you’re overcaffeinated.”
“Something is not right with that guy.”
“Tell me what you think over food, okay?” She ordered for me, a Paradise Special-eggs, pancakes, French toast, bacon-well done. And a large decaf.
“Make double sure it’s from the orange pot. No more high test for this girl.”
Five
I did feel better once I’d eaten. After the lunchtime crowd had thinned out, Babe came back to sit with me and brought over a plate of warm chocolate chip scones. She gave me one. Periodically I checked the door, waiting for Countertop Man to reappear.
“You know, everyone didn’t go to prep school,” Babe said, “and maybe he doesn’t have a meaningful relationship with his dentist.”
I’d had a crush on my dentist when I was little-until he hired that big blond dental hygienist. Barbara, I think her name was. I was only eight, but I was no fool. I knew what was going on and I hated her.
“And so what if he’s a con?” she said, breaking off a hunk of scone. “If he’s out, he’s paid his debt. What are those guys supposed to do-put themselves on ice floes? You gotta be open-minded.”
Between the deliriously rich scones and my memories of my first crush, I’d lost the thread of the conversation. Prep schools? Ice floes?
I was surprised to hear Babe talking this way. I’d never given ex-cons and prison recidivism much thought, even less than countertops, but it seemed that Babe had.
“You see those tables and chairs outside?” she said. “Look pretty good, don’t they? They’re con jobs-refinished by convict labor.”
“Are you kidding me?”
She wasn’t. She’d heard about the program from Ms. Baldino, one of the town librarians. Apparently all the benches at the library had been refinished by convicts, too. Who knew?
“They learn a craft, make a few bucks, and maybe find a different line of work when they get out instead of whatever got them locked up. Everybody wins.” I hadn’t realized convict labor still existed in this century. It seemed so Dickensian. But I suppose I was being naive. There were a lot of things I hadn’t experienced either chained to my desk in New York or buried in my gardens in Springfield.
After mopping up every last crumb on my plate, I got up to leave. Again I did reconnaissance in the parking lot. Countertop Man was gone, and I felt foolish for ever having been suspicious. Since it was later I went straight to the nursery and bagged the idea of going to Caroline’s. I would see her tomorrow.
