Sophie was so shocked that she couldn’t say a word, just sat there and stared at Al.
“I see that you’ve not been told the whole story.”
“I’m the one who wasn’t told any of the story,” Sophie said as she picked up the shot glass and held it out for Al to refill.
She downed the second shot, then listened as Al told her the same story Reede had, all about his good deed of taking over for Dr. Tristan. But when Reede had told it he’d left out how he’d frowned and snapped and made people so miserable that they’d rather be sick than go to him. “Old man Baldwin was having a heart attack and he made his son-in-law drive him to Norfolk rather than have to see Dr. Reede.”
“Yeah?” Sophie asked. The two shots of whiskey and Al’s story were relaxing her and taking away some of her misery. “But everyone helped him lie to me. If they dislike him why would they do that?”
“You made him smile.”
“I did a lot of things for him,” she mumbled.
Al was looking at her in a fatherly way. “So how much money do you have?”
Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t think of telling a stranger that, but whiskey on an empty stomach was loosening her usual reticence. “One hundred and twenty-seven dollars. I have another three hundred and twelve in a bank, but I can’t get to it because if I do they’ll find me and maybe put me in jail. How long do you think it takes a package to get to New Zealand and back again?”
Al had no idea what she was talking about, but his main thought was that there was no way on earth he was going to let this young woman leave town in this condition. A very bad joke had been played on her, and he planned to do what he could to make it up to her. “What kinds of jobs have you had?”
“I’ve done lots of things. Do you need a waitress?”
He almost said yes, but then he had an idea. “You wouldn’t like to help me out with a family dispute, would you?”
Sophie couldn’t help frowning. In her previous jobs she’d twice been asked to help with “family problems.” This had turned out to be a euphemism for “my wife doesn’t understand me, but you do.”
Al could almost read her mind and he couldn’t help being flattered. “Betsy said you can make soup.”
“Soup?”
Al patted his big belly. “You saw my wife. She eats two sticks of celery and thinks it’s a meal. She told me she wants me to eat more soup.”
Maybe it was the whiskey, but maybe it was the way Al said it all, but it almost made Sophie smile. “You want me to make you some soup?”
Al was thinking as fast as he could. What this young woman needed was a way to keep busy, something to get her mind off what the entire town had done to her. And as for that, Al knew that if he used the Edilean gossip wagon correctly he could make the oldies feel so bad that they’d do anything to help Sophie out. The question was, What could she/would she do?
“Yeah,” he said. “Make some soup and sell it—” He’d meant to say to sell it in his diner. But from what he’d been told, she made those artsy soups that Druid virgins would like. They didn’t really go with the theme of a 1950s diner. As for him, he thought little half-pound burgers were . . . What was that word he hated? Metrosexual.
Al looked around his office, searching for a solution to the problem. There were shelves of catalogs, some of them with their pages curling from age. Taped to the wall was a photo of a glass display case that he’d thought about buying but never did. That was when his wife had been nagging him to start selling grilled sandwiches. Something to do with goats and cheese.
“Do you know what a nanny sandwich is?”
“I have no idea,” she said.
“Cooked on a grill. Flat.”
Sophie blinked a few times. “Panini?”
“That’s it.” Al looked at her as though she were brilliant. “Can you make those things?”
“A monkey could be trained to make panini sandwiches. You just have to stick it between two hot plates.”
Al thought for a moment, then began rummaging through a stack of papers on his desk. “Here it is.” He pulled out a fairly clean page and handed it across to her.
Sophie took the paper. It was a printout of an e-mail that read: Why don’t you buy that shop from me and serve something that won’t kill you with every bite? It was signed Roan.
Sophie put the paper back on the desk. “Is this the Roan who was there the day I . . . ?” She didn’t finish. She knew he was one of the people who’d known she was working for the man she had dumped beer on. This man Roan had been at the tavern and later at the Halloween party and had seen that she was there with Reede.
“I see you know who he is,” Al said, his eyes twinkling. He was finding that he rather liked taking some of the oldies down to size. “Roan is a McTern.” When he could see that that meant nothing to Sophie, he continued. “He’s inherited a lot of property around here, and one of the things he owns is a little sandwich shop downtown. He’s been nagging me to buy it from him.”