Setting the mug down so abruptly the beverage sloshed perilously close to the brim, he strained to fill in the details of the cheerless recollection. Any details. He felt as if he was getting a little closer—and then Serena spoke, bringing him suddenly back to the present.
“Sam? Is something wrong with your beer?”
He focused on her face. She looked concerned, making him wonder how long he’d been sitting there staring into his mug. “It’s fine. I’m not much of a beer drinker, I guess,” he said, pushing the mug aside.
“Neither am I. But I thought most men liked it.”
“That’s what you get for thinking,” he drawled as he pushed the now-distant semi-memory to the back of his mind. Maybe it would come back to him later if he didn’t push it. “You said you recommend the gumbo?”
“Definitely. The crawfish étouffée and po’boy sandwiches are good, too. Chuck moved here from Baton Rouge, and his Cajun recipes are authentic.”
He couldn’t remember if he’d ever had Cajun food, but it sounded good. “Why don’t you order for us, since you know the menu so well?”
While Serena gave their order to a teenager who bore a strong resemblance to the man behind the bar, Sam glanced at the other customers. It was a casual gathering, with jeans, T-shirts and shorts the attire of choice. Many of the men, and a few of the women, wore ball caps they hadn’t bothered to remove upon entering. He spotted several tattooed arms and a few other ink-injected body parts, but the crowd was generally well-behaved. Maybe because it was still early and the serious partying hadn’t begun yet, he thought as a noisy group of three women and two men entered and claimed a central table.
A man Sam recognized as a regular breakfast customer from the diner approached the table and slapped him on the shoulder. “Yo, Sam. Is Serena giving you a taste of the Edstown hot spots?”
“Hi, Bill. Sam asked me what there was to do here on a Saturday night,” Serena answered with a smile. “So I’m showing him.”
“This is pretty much it,” Bill said to Sam with a grin. “Unless you want to join the kids over at the pizza parlor watching wrestling.”
“I’ve heard there’s some action down at the lake on Saturday evenings.”
Bill laughed and thumped Sam’s shoulder again. “There’s that, too. I used to go down there with my girlfriends in high school. Can’t tell you how many times old Chief Ferrell tapped on steamy windows and made us move on.”
“That’s an Edstown tradition Sam’s just going to have to miss—at least tonight,” Serena said primly.
Her statement elicited a belly laugh from Bill, along with another punch on Sam’s shoulder. “Can’t blame a guy for trying, right, buddy? Especially when you’re out with a girl as pretty as Serena.”
Before Sam could answer, Serena said gruffly, “I think your wife is getting bored, Bill. Maybe you’d better get back to her—before you wedge your foot any deeper in your mouth.”
Cheerful as always, Bill nodded. “I get you, Serena. You want me to disappear and leave you two to your dinner. I’ll see you at the diner, Sam. Keep the coffee hot for me.”
“I’ll do that,” Sam replied, surreptitiously rubbing his shoulder. The older man ambled off, stopping to gossip at another table, leaving his wife alone for a while longer. “Nice guy, but he really packs a wallop.”
Serena gave him a sympathetic smile. “A few new bruises?”
“Very likely. But at least these were given in a spirit of friendship.”
Her smile faded. “Do you think the men who beat you up will ever be found?”
A twinge of familiar guilt made him avoid her eyes. “It doesn’t look likely.”
“You said you were traveling with them? Surely you know their names—something that might lead the authorities to them.”
“I wasn’t traveling with them. I’d simply accepted a ride from them. I don’t know anything useful about them.” He was really tired of the lie, especially with Serena, but this was neither the time nor the place to level with her.
He was relieved when the waiter set steaming bowls of gumbo in front of them, interrupting the conversation. The spicy soup was thick with seafood and vegetables, served over a bed of fluffy rice. He scooped up a spoonful of shrimp, okra and tomatoes. “Man, that’s good,” he murmured, savoring the taste.
Serena had watched him take the bite as if curious about his reaction. “You don’t think it’s too hot? Some people think Chuck’s gumbo is too spicy the first time they taste it.”
Swallowing a second spoonful, Sam grinned. “Hot? Lady, I’ve had chili that makes this stuff taste like…ice cream.” He stumbled over the last words, suddenly aware of how easily they had come to him. He could almost smell that mouth-scalding chili he’d alluded to—but he couldn’t for the life of him remember where he’d eaten it, or with whom.
Serena didn’t seem to notice his momentary hesitation. “You Texans are always bragging ab
out your chili.”
Texan. Serena seemed convinced that was his background. Maybe she was right. He certainly wasn’t going to argue with her. He spent the next few minutes concentrating on his gumbo, listening to the music and mentally chasing after that elusive glimmer of memory.