If I truly intended to make it on my own, I had to send him a message the next time I was in Chicago, not from here.
• • •
I finished my job hunt in the Corner Diner, which looked like someone had transported it from the fifties. Red vinyl seats. Gleaming chrome. The smell of fresh coffee and apple pie. A cool air-conditioned breeze, just enough to lift the heat from the midday sun streaming through the windows.
There were plenty of windows. As the name proclaimed, the diner was on the corner, so glass wrapped around both sides, giving a street-side view to as many patrons as possible.
The worn linoleum floor squeaked under my shoes, and people glanced up at me. A few curious looks. A few smiles, not overly friendly but warm enough.
There were a couple of people eating a late lunch, but most seemed to be on a coffee break. Three tables of postretirement couples. Two of construction workers. Two more of shopkeepers, all of whom I’d met earlier in the day, and all of whom greeted me with a nod and a smile. And, finally, one table occupied by the obligatory “guy working on his novel.”
As I crossed the diner, the would-be novelist looked up from his laptop. He was in his early twenties, with a lean face, dark eyes, and darker hair tumbling over those eyes. I’d have thought he was seriously cute if I were five years younger. And if I went for the tortured artistic types. As it was, I smiled and continued to the counter.
“Margie?” called a rich tenor voice behind me. “I need a refill.”
I glanced back to see the novelist holding out his mug. The server—a wide-hipped woman in her early thirties—picked up the coffeepot . . . and headed for a patron on the other side of the restaurant. I walked to the counter, where a beefy man with prison tats frowned as he watched the server.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Is the manager in?”
“That’d be me.” He extended a thick hand. “Larry Knight. Owner, proprietor, and chief cook.”
“Only cook,” said a reedy male voice behind me.
“Which is just the way we like it,” a woman chimed in. “Best in the state.”
As Larry blushed, I turned to see the elderly couple that’d greeted me this morning when I’d gotten out of the taxi. We exchanged smiles.
I asked Larry if he was hiring.
“Mmm, no,” he said with what sounded like genuine regret. “This is a small operation, miss. Me at the grill, Margie and two other ladies sharing serving duty. Have you tried the—?”
One of the construction workers started coughing, his face screwed up as he spat on the floor. He lifted his coffee mug, peered in, and let out a roar.
“Margie! The cream’s turned. That’s the second time this week.”
“Count yourself lucky,” one of the shop owners said. “Three times for me, plus once with salt in the sugar container.”
Larry scrambled from behind the counter, cream carton in one hand, fresh coffee mug in the other, sputtering apologies.
“Not your fault, Larry,” the construction worker said. “We all know who’s responsible for condiments around here.” A glare at Margie, who squawked that she checked the creamers every day and those ones weren’t due for another week.
“Then you’d better check the fridge,” Larry said. “Make sure it’s working right.”
“Any chance on that refill?” called the writer. “I don’t even take cream.”
Larry apologized some more, took the pot from Margie, and hurried over. The old folks nearest me watched Margie disappear into the back, then one murmured, “Larry really has to let that gal go.”
“He’s too softhearted,” the other replied.
They both nodded, half approvingly, half not, then checked their tea before sipping it.
“Sorry ’bout that,” Larry said to me as he returned to his place behind the counter. “And sorry about the hiring situation. Can I get you something to eat? On the house? My way of saying welcome to Cainsville.”
I took him up on the freebie, but ordered the cheapest thing on the menu—a grilled cheese sandwich. “And I need to buy a cranberry orange scone for Grace over on Rowan, please.”
“We’re all out of—”
“Don’t even try it, Larry,” one of the old ladies cackled. “Not with Grace. You should know better by now.”
Larry sighed. “I’ll bake up a batch from the freezer.”
When he went into the kitchen, the elderly couple waved me over to squeeze into the booth with them. They introduced themselves as Ida and Walter. As I waited for my lunch, they gave me—unprompted—Larry’s life story, at least as it pertained to Cainsville. To them, that was the only part that mattered, despite the fact that he’d only been here a few years. Before that, all they’d say was that he’d spent some time traveling the wrong road, which I could have guessed by the prison tats.
“Got mixed up with a bad crowd,” Walter said.
“He’s too trusting. People take advantage. Like her.” A poisonous glower in Margie’s direction as she took an order.
My sandwich arrived, and as I ate Ida and Walter filled me in on the town’s inhabitants, an endless litany of names I’d never remember. When I finished, I got Grace’s scone from Larry. As I was heading out, the would-be writer was trying to get another refill from Margie and, again, being ignored. He glanced at me as I passed the coffee station, then lifted his mug and eyebrows simultaneously.
I looked at Margie. She was on her cell phone. Well, as long as I was trying to make a good impression . . .
I took the coffeepot over and refilled his mug. He thanked me and said, “Now I bet you expect a tip.”
“Um, no. I was just—”
“Being nice?” The smile that tweaked his lips was mischievous, but with a twist that was more devilish than boyish. “Didn’t your momma ever tell you never to give something unless you can get something in return?”
“That wasn’t how I was raised.”
“Then you were raised wrong. As for that tip . . .” He lowered his voice. “If you want to work here, I’d suggest you come back for breakfast tomorrow. Then maybe for coffee in the afternoon. Repeat as needed. I have a feeling that opportunity will knock.” A pointed look at Margie. “Sooner rather than later.”
“Thanks.”
• • •
I finished my job hunt in the Corner Diner, which looked like someone had transported it from the fifties. Red vinyl seats. Gleaming chrome. The smell of fresh coffee and apple pie. A cool air-conditioned breeze, just enough to lift the heat from the midday sun streaming through the windows.
There were plenty of windows. As the name proclaimed, the diner was on the corner, so glass wrapped around both sides, giving a street-side view to as many patrons as possible.
The worn linoleum floor squeaked under my shoes, and people glanced up at me. A few curious looks. A few smiles, not overly friendly but warm enough.
There were a couple of people eating a late lunch, but most seemed to be on a coffee break. Three tables of postretirement couples. Two of construction workers. Two more of shopkeepers, all of whom I’d met earlier in the day, and all of whom greeted me with a nod and a smile. And, finally, one table occupied by the obligatory “guy working on his novel.”
As I crossed the diner, the would-be novelist looked up from his laptop. He was in his early twenties, with a lean face, dark eyes, and darker hair tumbling over those eyes. I’d have thought he was seriously cute if I were five years younger. And if I went for the tortured artistic types. As it was, I smiled and continued to the counter.
“Margie?” called a rich tenor voice behind me. “I need a refill.”
I glanced back to see the novelist holding out his mug. The server—a wide-hipped woman in her early thirties—picked up the coffeepot . . . and headed for a patron on the other side of the restaurant. I walked to the counter, where a beefy man with prison tats frowned as he watched the server.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Is the manager in?”
“That’d be me.” He extended a thick hand. “Larry Knight. Owner, proprietor, and chief cook.”
“Only cook,” said a reedy male voice behind me.
“Which is just the way we like it,” a woman chimed in. “Best in the state.”
As Larry blushed, I turned to see the elderly couple that’d greeted me this morning when I’d gotten out of the taxi. We exchanged smiles.
I asked Larry if he was hiring.
“Mmm, no,” he said with what sounded like genuine regret. “This is a small operation, miss. Me at the grill, Margie and two other ladies sharing serving duty. Have you tried the—?”
One of the construction workers started coughing, his face screwed up as he spat on the floor. He lifted his coffee mug, peered in, and let out a roar.
“Margie! The cream’s turned. That’s the second time this week.”
“Count yourself lucky,” one of the shop owners said. “Three times for me, plus once with salt in the sugar container.”
Larry scrambled from behind the counter, cream carton in one hand, fresh coffee mug in the other, sputtering apologies.
“Not your fault, Larry,” the construction worker said. “We all know who’s responsible for condiments around here.” A glare at Margie, who squawked that she checked the creamers every day and those ones weren’t due for another week.
“Then you’d better check the fridge,” Larry said. “Make sure it’s working right.”
“Any chance on that refill?” called the writer. “I don’t even take cream.”
Larry apologized some more, took the pot from Margie, and hurried over. The old folks nearest me watched Margie disappear into the back, then one murmured, “Larry really has to let that gal go.”
“He’s too softhearted,” the other replied.
They both nodded, half approvingly, half not, then checked their tea before sipping it.
“Sorry ’bout that,” Larry said to me as he returned to his place behind the counter. “And sorry about the hiring situation. Can I get you something to eat? On the house? My way of saying welcome to Cainsville.”
I took him up on the freebie, but ordered the cheapest thing on the menu—a grilled cheese sandwich. “And I need to buy a cranberry orange scone for Grace over on Rowan, please.”
“We’re all out of—”
“Don’t even try it, Larry,” one of the old ladies cackled. “Not with Grace. You should know better by now.”
Larry sighed. “I’ll bake up a batch from the freezer.”
When he went into the kitchen, the elderly couple waved me over to squeeze into the booth with them. They introduced themselves as Ida and Walter. As I waited for my lunch, they gave me—unprompted—Larry’s life story, at least as it pertained to Cainsville. To them, that was the only part that mattered, despite the fact that he’d only been here a few years. Before that, all they’d say was that he’d spent some time traveling the wrong road, which I could have guessed by the prison tats.
“Got mixed up with a bad crowd,” Walter said.
“He’s too trusting. People take advantage. Like her.” A poisonous glower in Margie’s direction as she took an order.
My sandwich arrived, and as I ate Ida and Walter filled me in on the town’s inhabitants, an endless litany of names I’d never remember. When I finished, I got Grace’s scone from Larry. As I was heading out, the would-be writer was trying to get another refill from Margie and, again, being ignored. He glanced at me as I passed the coffee station, then lifted his mug and eyebrows simultaneously.
I looked at Margie. She was on her cell phone. Well, as long as I was trying to make a good impression . . .
I took the coffeepot over and refilled his mug. He thanked me and said, “Now I bet you expect a tip.”
“Um, no. I was just—”
“Being nice?” The smile that tweaked his lips was mischievous, but with a twist that was more devilish than boyish. “Didn’t your momma ever tell you never to give something unless you can get something in return?”
“That wasn’t how I was raised.”
“Then you were raised wrong. As for that tip . . .” He lowered his voice. “If you want to work here, I’d suggest you come back for breakfast tomorrow. Then maybe for coffee in the afternoon. Repeat as needed. I have a feeling that opportunity will knock.” A pointed look at Margie. “Sooner rather than later.”
“Thanks.”
