“Whites go with cheese,” Quincy says.
“Ah. Then your best bubbly.”
Tank makes a noise again.
I ignore him again.
A server rushes into the room with a tray of salads—dear god, even the salads are swimming in shredded cheese—and as each table is served, their attention drifts from me.
I tap my fingers and look out the window at the lake, where a few paddleboarders are still enjoying the last of the summer evening.
Has Bea been gone a long time?
Has she run out on me?
No, that would make little sense. Not that I’m currently capable of making sense, but there’s no sense in giving me the opportunity to commiserate with her ex-boyfriend about how terrible she is.
That would make him look good.
I peer across the table.
Her handbag is on her chair, and I can see her phone sticking out of it, so she’s not texting someone more diabolical plans from the loo.
Unless, of course, she has a secret second phone.
I look across the room at the two men again. “Excuse me, but could you tell me why you’re here supporting a man whom you claim is awful?”
Quincy smiles broadly. “For the gossip.”
“And to enjoy the food before the place folds,” his partner adds. “Chef’s good. I’ve had his food in Rochester before.”
“Wendell doesn’t think he’ll last two weeks,” Quincy whispers.
“I always wanted to see the inside of this house myself,” the woman at the table beside them says. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Jake’s a good guy,” the man at the last table says. “All of that stuff is just rumors. No substance to it.”
Jake rushes into the room again with a bottle of bubbly in hand. “Apologies for the delay.” He takes on a slight accent himself that wasn’t here his first go-round, much like his mother did when she cornered me at the chef’s table in Bea’s bus last weekend. “Chef had insisted no substitutions, so we weren’t prepared, but we’re getting cheese-less bread post-haste. It’s coming right up. The best hamburger you’ve ever had in your life too. Cheerio!”
He blinks at me.
I blink back.
“Where’s Bea?” he asks.
“Using the ladies’ room.”
His eye twitches. “If she vandalizes it?—”
“Bea wouldnever,” the woman behind Quincy says. “You should be kissing her feet for the attention you’ll get for her agreeing to go on a date here, and with Simon Luckwood? All for you to accuse her of a petty crime that she’s not committing? For shame, Jake Camille. For. Shame. I’m starting to wonder if you’re behind those rumors about people getting salmonella from her burger bus too.”
The man’s facial muscles will likely be sore tomorrow if the way they all keep twitching and bunching are any indication. “Sorry, Mrs. Cranford,” he mutters.
He lowers his voice and leans in to me as he untwists the wires holding the bubbly’s cork in. “Be careful. She’s crazy. She lit my underwear on fire before she moved out. I had to break up with her because I found her snooping in my bank records. I think she was going to try to rob me blind. And Ididhear people are getting food poisoning from her food truck.”
“She lit your underwear on fire?”
He nods ominously.
