Inside the walk-in I allowed myself ten seconds of teenage cute-boy-freak-out, getting caught in a fist pump when my mother poked her head inside to see if I was okay.
“If you’re done in here, there’s a bunch of snap peas on the floor that aren’t going to clean themselves up,” she said with a knowing grin.
Face flaming, I left the walk-in.
But spending the summer back home just got a little more interesting.
Chapter 4
After the lunch rush was over, I sat in the corner booth to take a break. Leo. Who was named Leo these days? And why was he carrying all those nuts?
“He brings me nuts every week, dear. I’m on his route.”
“Pardon me?” I asked, swiveling in my seat.
“You asked why he was carrying all those nuts. I assume you mean Leo, the young man you wrestled to the floor this morning.”
“I said that out loud?”
“You did. It’s either sleep deprivation from the drive, or your trip to the floor knocked something loose, but you’re out here talking to the vinyl seats.”
She came to sit with me, now that the doors were locked and the staff sent home. Monday through Thursday the diner closed after lunch; it was only open for dinner Friday through Sunday. Afternoons at the diner were one of my favorite memories from childhood. It was quiet and peaceful, I could build towns out of the napkin dispensers while my mom worked on her orders and invoices, and I’d get to eat as much pie as I could sneak.
We had this quiet time together almost every day when I was young—my elementary school was just a few blocks up the road and it was a quick walk after the bell. Me and my homework, her and her workwork, and an afternoon in the late-day sunshine. Somewhere between 4:30 and 5:30 we’d pack up and head for home, since whichever “uncle” my mother was currently dating would be arriving home soon, hungry for dinner. So in the evenings, I’d lose her a bit. In the same way any child has to share her mother with a dad or other kids or PTA or whatever else take up her time.
She dated nice guys, cool guys, so there’s no need for the Afterschool Special music. But they never stuck around for very long. She’d loved my father, I knew. His picture was on the mantle as long as I could remember, no matter what uncle happened to be circling at the time. He died when I wasn’t even a year old, and she was forever chasing that heartbreak with another one.
Anyways, though, afternoons in the diner had always been nice.
Apparently now they involved me talking out loud to myself. Not even back in town one day, and I was losing my mind.
“You’re not losing your mind, dear,” my mother offered, and I looked at her with wide eyes.
“Did I say that out loud too?” I asked, shrinking down into my seat. “What the hell did you put in this coffee?”
“You didn’t, but I know my daughter. You’re thinking this small town is already making you crazy, right?”
“Possibly,” I allowed. After a moment of inspecting the flecked linoleum top of the table, I nonchalantly asked, “So, what route?”
“Hmm?”
“You said route.”
“When did I say route?”
“A minute ago.”
“I don’t think I did.”
“Mother.”
“Oh, you mean Leo’s route?”
“That’d be the one you mentioned,” I said, nodding. Her memory was fine, by the way. Her sense of humor, however, was twisted. “So, the guy with the route . . .”
“Yes, dear?” she asked innocently.
“That’s it, I’m going home.” I started to pull myself out of the booth.
“Oh, relax. Stay and drink your coffee; I’m just teasing,” she said, waving me back down. “So, what do you want to know about the guy with the route? Although I like to think of him as the guy with the eyes—did you see his eyes?”
“His eyes are an interesting shade of green, I’ll give you that,” I admitted, knowing that until I did, I’d get nowhere. “Who is he?”
“He’s from the Maxwell Farm; he sells produce to all the local restaurants. Every week, he brings something special by. This week it was walnuts.”
“The Maxwell Farm?”
“The very one.”