“Not too bad,” George replies as he makes his way to the hostess stand. “I got a table ready for you if you’ll follow me.”
“Actually,” Mr. Mercer interrupts. “We heard you have a lovely new waitress working here. Might we sit at one of her tables?” Mr. Mercer’s eyes meet mine and he winks before turning his attention back to George.
“Uh . . . sure,” George agrees, grabbing two menus and two rolled-up silverwares. “You ready for a table, Charlotte?” George asks when he sees me.
“Of course.” I smile brightly. “I can seat them myself.” I hold my hands out to take the menus and silverware from him. When he hands them to me, his fingers skim the skin of my hand, sending tingles shooting through me. Our gazes lock for a moment until he jerks away. What the hell was that? Did he just feel that, too?
Snapping to it, I say, “Right this way, folks.”
As they follow me to my section, Mr. Mercer makes introductions. “Charlotte, this is my wife, Mrs. Mercer. She’s been looking forward to meeting you.” Mrs. Mercer is a petite lady with blonde hair, laced with gray streaks. Her dark eyes look tiny behind her glasses, which are perched halfway down the bridge of her nose.
“I’ve been looking forward to it as well,” I answer honestly as I indicate what booth I’d like them to sit in. As they slide in, I add, “You have no idea what your kindness means to me.”
“Well, Bill here came home and told me about you, and it just broke my heart. But when he mentioned the necklace you gave him to hold and showed it to me, I knew it was a sign. Do you believe in signs, Charlotte?” She stares up at me as I place their menus in front of them.
“I guess so,” I reply. “But how was my necklace a sign?”
“Our daughter, God rest her soul, left us almost ten years ago. She wore a necklace almost identical to yours every day of her life.” Mrs. Mercer’s eyes lower, appearing somewhat pensive, almost as if in reflection. “But she didn’t have it on the day she died and we’ve never been able to find it. You showing up with your necklace . . . it felt right to help you. We’d like to invite you to dinner as well.”
“I’d love that. And I will repay you for everything. I promise. You really have no idea how much your kindness means to me.”
“How about next Wednesday?” Mr. Mercer asks. I try not to look surprised at how soon that is.
“Why not? We’ll make sure you’re off for it, Charlotte,” George interjects as he approaches. I nearly jump out of my skin with his words. He snuck up on me.
“You should come, too, George,” Mr. Mercer adds.
“Actually, I have to work, but thank you for the invite.” George nods in appreciation. “Did Charlotte take your drink order yet?” he asks, and I can’t help rolling my eyes. He’s trying to make me look incompetent—or he’s just trying to piss me off.
“We’ve been chatting.” Mrs. Mercer pats my hand where it rests on the table.
“Wednesday sounds great, and what can I get you two to drink?”
“We’ll both have iced teas, and we’d like to split the chicken Philly with fries,” Mr. Mercer says.
“I’ll be right back with your teas.”
As I walk away, George says something I can’t hear to the Mercers before trailing behind me. When I reach the kitchen, I call out my order to Sniper as I grab two glasses and fill them with ice. As I fill the first glass from the tea urn, George enters and stops, watching me.
“I’m quite capable of taking drink orders, Mr. McDermott, but thanks for coming over and trying to make me look like an idiot.”
“You think I was trying to be a dick?” He snorts out a laugh.
“There was no trying there,” I add as I take the second glass and begin filling it, but can’t help the smile I’m fighting as I hear Sniper chuckle in the background.
“Hey, I was helping. They’d have talked your ear off if I hadn’t come over there.”
“So? Is it a problem if they like me and want to talk to me? Or would it interfere with your anti-Charlotte parade?”
“I’m not on an anti-Charlotte parade,” he laughs, and I’m taken aback by how incredibly handsome he looks when he smiles. Both Ike and George look alike, but their smiles are different. When Ike smiles, it feels real, like his happiness is his aura. It feels like a warm, sunny beach when you’ve seen nothing but snow and ice for months. When George smiles, it’s a gift. It’s like the way the sun peeks through storm clouds. It feels like hope.
“Look at that,” I say, dryly, jutting my chin to Sniper, whose elbows are resting on the top shelf that separates the front and back line, watching George and I quarrel with great amusement. “He actually laughs!”
George crosses his arms, the humor in his eyes fading fast. “I have no problems with you, Charlotte. Seriously.” He gets back to the point.
“Well, your girlfriend doesn’t care much for me.” I roll my eyes.
“My girlfriend?”
There’s no way I’m letting him off the hook. The whole town might, but I won’t. “Really? You’re going to play coy? Misty?”