I arch a brow. “Thanks for the offer, but that’s quite all right. I’m not exactly hurting for a meal.”
She smiles at that, but then her lips flatten. “I get it. You have better places to go.” She pauses, before adding with conviction, “We make a pretty decent stack of pancakes.”
“Pancakes?” I echo, as it’s starting to become clear this woman doesn’t ever give up on anything easily. First it was all about her son. Now it’s about her pancakes. She sure is tenacious. “Is that right?”
“They won the blue ribbon in five counties.”
I let myself smile at her now. I’ve finally figured her out. She’s not taking no for an answer. “Well,” I say, “I can’t say no to pancakes. I might try to get over there.”
I wait for her to come back with something else she needs me to do for her, but she’s quiet, and we stand still for a moment.
“Thank you again.” She nods once before she turns and strides back the way she came. With the early morning sunlight casting on her rosy cheeks, the day suddenly feels warmer than it did before. My eyes lock on her as she finds her spot back on the other side of the rink. When I finally focus back on Noah, I’m not wondering when he’s going to wipe out again.
Instead, I wonder if pancakes sound good for dinner.
six
Ruth
A forecasted snowstorm is making the diner eerily quiet. Lately it seems like no matter what I do, I can’t get ahead. Business overall is slow. I’m pinching every penny I can to keep this placeprofitable. I’m lucky to have a slew of regulars who come in the mornings, but my nights have died off. Except for two regulars, who are night-shift nurses drinking their coffee before their shift starts, the place is empty. Hating to sit because it makes me tired, I stay busy wiping syrup and ketchup off the menus, but my eyes flick to the clock on the wall every few minutes.
I’m not a big caffeine-in-the-afternoon person, but this might be one of those rare nights I make an exception to get through this shift. I turn toward the coffee maker, grab a cup, and fill it with the fresh coffee as the bell on the door jingles.
The hairs on the back of my neck alert, and I feel his presence in the air. Bill Baker saunters in, wearing the same blue windbreaker he wore at the park. He’s got an easy stride as he glances around the place, and I find myself smoothing my apron. “You came,” I say, trying to sound calm and not wildly out of my comfort zone.
Sure, I invited him.
I didn’t exactly expect a billionaire to show up at my humble table.
He bends his lips into a full smile. It’s genuine but does little to put me at ease. “You didn’t think I would?”
I force myself to match his smile, but my heart is somewhere between my throat and my stomach, bouncing around like it has no idea where it belongs. Noah got done with his practice, and they dismissed him, but neither the coach nor Bill gave him any feedback. They simply said thanks for trying out. It was an odd exchange. Of course, Noah looked disappointed. Since I had to close tonight, I couldn’t stay home to find out more. I’m still grateful Bill allowed him that chance. I figured since he wasn’t asked to return, Bill wouldn’t bother with my pancakes.
I shrug, my lips twitching. “I thought you might be too busy.”
“I am busy,” he says, “But I still have to eat, and someone promised me the best pancakes. And honestly, that kind of boldness demands a follow-through.”
I sputter out a laugh before I stop myself. My nerves unravel a bit more as I start to understand his sense of humor. I find a real smile. “Well, you are in luck. The griddle is warm, and no one else is in line. You can take any seat you want.”
He picks a stool at the counter, sliding on it with the kind of ease that my regulars do.
I hand him one of the clean menus I just wiped off. “Do you drink coffee?”
“Not usually, but if you think I need one, I’ll try one.”
“I see how you are.” I pour him a cup and slide it over. He doesn’t hesitate to lift it to his lips and take a sip.
He pushes the menu back at me without looking at it. “You said I must try the pancakes, so that’s what I will have. And if you’ve got real maple syrup, I might have to make that a double stack.”
“Of course I do.” I write his order on a ticket and push it through the window for Margie to grab. Then I turn back, he’s staring at the photo wall next to him. When my mom ran this diner, she used to collect photos of the locals and hang them up. That was many years ago. Most of them are black-and-white Polaroids of everything from the 4th of July parade to the Little League teams we’ve sponsored over the years. If I had to bet, the majority of the people in those photos are long since passed, as my mom herself has. That was her community, and I never had the heart to remove the photos. They remind me of my mom and her love of the community. Aside from our pancakes, this diner is also a well-known for our photo wall.
“Is that Brad Wilson?” Bill points to a photo of a young boy, maybe sixteen years old. He’s skinny as a pole and standing in front of a busted-up pickup.
I step forward, even though I’ve looked at this photo so many times I’ve memorized it. “Yeah, he used to come in here with his mom, who was friends with my mom. He was a few years older than me in school, but I didn’t know him. Did you know him?”
“Yeah, I knew him and still do. He hunts with my cousin,” Bill says, squinting. “He has that deep purple scar on his neck. Look, you can even see it in this photo”
“I see it.” I nod. “Interesting that you know him. What a small world.”
