Did I want him to find me? Or did I want to test him, see if he'd bother? Or test him another way, see if he'd respect my privacy and my ability to take care of myself?
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 h
is 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--"