He took another drink, which made me think that he was struggling with the answer. “I got a phone call today. The army wants me to come back as an instructor to the new guys who are training for Special Forces. I was tempted to pack my bags, but I couldn’t do it. I promised my dad a year. What kind of man doesn’t keep his word?”
“But you wanted to, right? Just like I would love to get into a good game of poker.”
“I did,” he admitted. “However, I’ve chosen this path, and I have to finish it to the end, or I couldn’t live with myself.”
“I understand,” I said with a nod. “Every day this past week, I’ve counted my tip money and added my paycheck amount to it. There’s not even enough to get me into a small game, much less the high-stakes kind I’m used to playing in. Patience is not my best virtue, but Ada Lou keeps trying to convince me that I’m where I am supposed to be.”
“She seems to be quite a character,” he said.
“Oh, yeah, but don’t ever call her Louise. She got all riled up when Nancy did. Do real friends argue a lot?”
“I will remember to always use Ada Lou,” he said, and covered a yawn with the back of his hand. “And yes, honest friends argue when they have a difference of opinion, or when they are just bickering for the sake of joking.”
I turned up my beer and finished it. “I’ll file that away. Right now, you are tired and still have work to do, so why don’t you drive me back to the RV park.”
“Will you come back another day and meet Henry?”
“I’d be glad to,” I answered. “He might even get added to my list of friends and drop you down to number four.”
Jackson chuckled as he stood up and extended his hand to help me. I took it and felt a rush of hot desire that I couldn’t blame on the weather.
Chemistry. Either you got it, or you don’t. And, honey, you’ve got it.The voice in my head sounded a lot like Ada Lou this time.
Chapter Nine
The calendar on the kitchen wall beside the coatrack told me that it was Friday—one week and one day since I’d arrived at the Tumbleweed. Not a month or a year like it sometimes felt like, but only eight days. As usual, Rosalie led the way from the trailer to the café with Scarlett right beside her.
Clouds covered the moon and stars like a heavy fog of smoke over a poker table. In my life as a gambler, I saw sunsets but seldom ever caught a glimpse of a sunrise. The games didn’t end until the early hours of the morning, and then I had to unwind before going to sleep. So my internal clock was having a horrible time trying to adjust to this new schedule. Had someone told me two weeks ago that I would be getting up before daylight, I would have wondered what they had been smoking.
“Hey, I have a question,” I said when we were inside the storage room.
Scarlett pulled a string with a wooden thread spool on the end and lit up the room. She kept on walking into the kitchen, where Rosalie had already switched on the lights. I was beginning to think that she hadn’t even heard me.
“Ask whatever you want, but you might not get an answer if it’s something personal,” she finally said.
Rosalie had already turned on the grill and the oven and, like she had done in previous mornings, had slung a bibbed apron over herT-shirt and loose-fitting jeans. That day she wore a yellow bonnet with butterflies printed on it.
“What’s your question?” she asked.
“What’s the difference between a diner and a café? And which one is the Tumbleweed? The sign saysTumbleweed Bus Stop and Diner, but Ada Lou calls it a café.”
“I remember asking Matilda that same question,” Rosalie answered. “She said that in the beginning, this place was considered a diner since it only served breakfast until about eleven o’clock. And after that, only sandwiches and food that folks on the buses could grab and go. When she began to get business from travelers other than those catching a bus or stopping for a break, she began to fix one hot meal a day and called it the lunch special. It grew from that to the menu we have today.”
“Short answer,” Scarlett said, “is that the words are now interchangeable.”
“Another question.” I pressed my luck. “Why doesn’t your boyfriend—Gary—ever come into the café?”
Scarlett stopped just short of the swinging doors and turned around. “It’s Grady, not Gary—and except for Sunday, he is working when we are open.”
I followed her and started putting chairs on the floor while she got the condiment trays ready. “Has Rosalie met him?”
“Of course,” she answered. “We’ve been dating for more than a year.”
“Y’all don’t dilly-daddle around,” Rosalie called out. “Biscuits will be ready in twenty minutes. What do y’all want to go with them?”
“My regular,” Scarlett said.
“Sausage gravy and hash browns,” I yelled and then focused on Scarlett. “A whole year with one guy?” Not in my wildest imagination could I fathom staying in a relationship that long. Sometimes a weekend was twelve hours too long, and I couldn’t wait to tell the guy goodbye at the hotel door.
