Nora-Mae shot him a look that could’ve curdled milk, but the corner of her mouth twitched.Got her.“Batcave, my foot. Just you wait until I talk to your mama. She’ll be all kinds of upset that you’re callin’ her home a cave.”
“Now, now, Nora-Mae, no need to be bringing my momma into this.” He reached for the menu wedged between the napkin dispenser and the sugar caddy, though he didn’t need it. “She might even cut their trip short and come back here just to whoop my behind.”
“Let’s not have her do that,” Nora-Mae agreed. “She done more than earned that trip, what with raising you and Gael, and then worrying about you both ‘til you were out of the Navy.”
He winked at her and turned his attention to the menu, but before he could even pretend to consider his options, Lila appeared beside him like she’d been conjured, her coffee pot already tilted toward his mug. Nora-Mae’s teenage daughter was a whirlwind in a diner uniform, dark hair pulled into a messy bun, a smudge of flour on her cheek.“The usual, Mr. Salieri?”
Rowan leaned back, letting the diner’s chaos wash over him. “Unless you’ve got a secret stash of something better hidden in the back?”
Lila poured without waiting for confirmation, the dark stream of coffee streaming into his chipped mug. “You only wish we had pop or something.”
“Lila.”
Someone called her before he could respond, and she moved off as Rowan wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into his palms. The coffee was black, bitter, and strong enough to strip paint—just how he liked it. He took a slow sip, letting his gaze wander.
There had been plenty of days over the years when he thought he’d never make it back here. There was something about being in here with the locals milling around that represented something he couldn’t quite name but knew he never wanted to be without.
At the booth by the window, two ranch hands were locked in what looked like a heated debate over cattle prices. Even though their voices were low, their gestures were sharp. One of them stabbed at the table with his fork for emphasis, while the other shook his head in stubborn disagreement.
“Samul, if you put a scratch on my table with that fork, you’ll sit there polishing it until it’s removed,” Nora-Mae called.
Then there was Marla, the postmistress, tucked into her corner booth with her crossword puzzle, her pencil tapping against her chin in a rhythm that might as well have been Morse code.
Another fixture.
Another constant.
One, his momma liked them to check in on them every now and again. He picked up his mug and headed in her direction.
Marla didn’t look up when he sat down, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t aware of him. “Heard you were out of town.” She kept her eyes fixed on the puzzle.
Of course, she knew. Marla knew almost everything. “News travels fast around here.”
Marla finally glanced at him over the rim of her glasses, her sharp gaze missing nothing. “Not fast enough, apparently. You missed all the excitement.” She leaned back, folding her arms over her chest. “Old man Jenkins tried to mail a live chicken last week. Claimed it was ‘urgent.’” She shook her head. “Took three of us to get that bird out of the sorting bin. Feathers went everywhere, and the post office smelled like a barnyard for days.”
Rowan choked back a laugh. “What was so urgent?”
Marla smirked. “Said it was a ‘gift.’ For his niece. Who lives in Boise.”
A gift for his niece?
A chicken?
Is he mad?
Lila returned before he could ask for details, sliding a plate in front of him filled with the ooey, gooey goodness he’d been waiting for. The cobbler was still warm, the crust golden and flaky. A generous scoop of vanilla ice cream was already melting into the peaches. The scent rising from the plate was rich and comforting, and for a moment, the weight of the life he’d lived, the things he’d done, and the horrors he’d seen lifted just a little.
Rowan picked up his fork, the metal warm from the dishwasher. “I’ve been dreaming of this.”
“You should find something better to dream of,” Marla gave advice sagely, “Maybe a wife and a passel of young’uns for your mama to love on.”
“Did momma tell you to say that?” He took the first bite, the flavors exploding against his tongue—sweet peaches, buttery crust, the cold creaminess of the ice cream.For a little while, at least, everything else could wait.
“No.” Marla went back to her crossword. “But I know she’s thinking it.”
The fork scraped against the chipped ceramic plate, the tines catching the last remnants of cobbler crust. Rowan dragged it through the melted ice cream, now a thin, milky syrup pooling around the edges. He licked his lips before wiping his mouth with a napkin from the holder in the center of the table.
The jukebox, tucked between the restrooms and the emergency exit, crackled to life with an old Patsy Cline tune. Someone laughed, a real, belly-deep sound, and for a second, Rowan let himself pretend he was just another tired man winding down after a long day, not a man who dreamed of the horrors of war.
