A tall but broad busboy in beat-up jeans had his back to Ali as he cleared a table. She’d just ask, to make sure it was okay.
“Excuse me, is it seat yourself?”
The busboy turned around, and it turned out to be more of a bus “man.” A man with salt and pepper hair, similarly hued scruff on his chin, and a fair amount of smile lines turned his friendly face in her direction.
“Well, the floorshow is over, so yes. You’re welcome to whatever table suits you. Though, there is a breeze; maybe one there on the corner to get a little shelter from the wind?”
Ali found herself smiling back. If this was what bussers looked like on Haven Beach, maybe she needed to rethink the length of her stay.
“I appreciate it, thank you.”
“I let some of my waitresses go early, so get settled and I’ll be out with a menu. How about our signature drink? You havea look of up north to you. Our job here is to help you shake that off.”
Ali hadn’t been thinking of cocktails when she wandered in, but then again, she also hadn't expected to be gob-smacked like a teenager by a middle-aged busboy. They made them handsome here in Haven Beach.
Though, wait, what did he say? He let his servers go. Maybe he’s the manager?
She found herself nodding in agreement, and he put an arm out toward the table he’d recommended.
Ali sat at the table and realized he was right; the breeze was a little chilly, but the side of the building blocked it a bit. She should have brought a sweater.
She looked out at the water. There were people enjoying beer, finishing baskets of fish, and just relaxing here at the Seashell Shack.
Relaxing. That was something she had a hard time with. Ali reminded herself this wasn’t a vacation; it was a fact-finding mission. She needed to figure out where this property was and how to unload it.
But plenty of time for that tomorrow.
Right now, food.
The salt and pepper manager returned. On top of his faded jeans, he wore a t-shirt with the same Seashell Shack logo she’d seen on the sign outside. He had a menu in one hand and a bright orange drink in the other. It looked fruity.
“This is the patented Seashell Shack Daq.”
“Daiquiri?”
“In that same neighborhood.” He handed her the menu, which was one sheet laminated and printed on both sides.
“Can you tell me what that wonderful smell is?”
“Ah, yes, that’s our Key Lime dessert. Normally, the fresh seafood draws our newbies, but that pie just came out of the oven.”
“I’d love that, but I suppose I should have a dinner. Diabetes isn’t the greatest choice for my visit.”
“Ah, well, how about this?” He pointed to crab cakes and coleslaw, and she nodded. “My menu is simple, not much to choose from, but what we do, we do really well.”
“Okay then, dinner it is. Hold off on the pie.”
“Come on, live a little, Mud Hen.”
Ali looked down at her t-shirt. Someone always said something when they saw that logo.
“I guess so. Pie, too.”
“My name’s Henry, by the way. I own the place. If you need anything, I’m your man. On that note, hang on?—”
Henry disappeared, and Ali looked around. She smiled. She was sort of surprised, as nice as the owner was and as great as the food smelled, that it really was deserted so early.
Henry returned and offered her something that was not on the menu. “Here, take this sweatshirt from our little gift shop. You really aren’t dressed right for the beach now that the floorshow is over.” He handed her a sweatshirt with the same logo as the t-shirt he wore.
