Gibson
Friday morning, I worked on a deck repair job at a cabin across town. It wrapped up by lunchtime, so I headed to Nickel's Diner on my way home. When I arrived, the parking lot was almost full with trucks, jeeps, and beat-up late model compact cars. A memory flashed of pulling the Lamborghini or the Ferrari, or maybe even the Jaguar, depending on my mood-into my reserved parking space at CB Resorts International headquarters. Then I'd take the private elevator to the thirty-fifth floor and plop my ass in an overstuffed chair in my corner office, overlooking the Atlanta skyline. On my agenda would be endless meetings and phone calls, maybe a lunch meeting in a swanky Buckhead restaurant.
I still recalled the last conversation I'd had with my father, the day before I left Atlanta for good.
It had been my job to scout locations to add to our portfolio, from identification through to acquisition. The best part was the time I spent away from the office, in the field. I loved making deals, but I'd always longed to handle one of the projects hands-on, designing and building a resort from the ground up. But Dad insisted we contract out any building or remodeling projects.
"We can't afford to lose momentum by having you off in some remote location, watching guys sling a hammer. Our investors expect quick results, and growing our portfolio is top priority. The less renovation, the better."
My answer was the same as always, though he never wanted to hear it. "Finding a turn-key resort means paying top dollar too. Even then, there's always something that needs improvement. That's what I'm good at. Finding the hidden gem among the crap."
It was true, and I no longer had much opportunity to use my talents to improve the properties we bought. I had studied architecture in college and spent many a summer in my youth building and remodeling homes for charity. But no amount of discussion had swayed Dad's opinion that I belonged right where I was, at his side.
Stepping from the truck, I shook my head to clear the memories away and took a deep breath of fresh mountain air. The scent of pine was bracing, edged with the first notes of decaying leaves. It was intoxicating and so was my freedom.
As I crossed the parking lot, the aroma of frying burgers took over. My stomach rumbled as I entered the diner, but no one heard as I made my way to my usual booth. It was the one with the long split in the red vinyl seat, covered with duct tape. Nickel's was in desperate need of renovation, yet no one seemed to care. The food was good, the service acceptable, and for many of the locals, it was a second home.
A server, a girl named Dahlia, was wiping down the table as I scooted onto the seat. She was pretty, with a round face and permanently pink cheeks. She was always the friendliest server at Nickel's. Well, at least she was with me.
"'Hey, Gib. I was hopin' you'd show."
"Where else would I eat lunch?"
"My place is much cozier than here. You should try it sometime. For breakfast."
I said nothing but gave her my most charming smile as she poured me some coffee. With a wink, she was off to tend to another table. I'd been tempted to take her up on her flirtatious offers a time or two, but never followed through. I hadn't so much as kissed a woman in the past year, not since before I arrived in Tilly. Despite the rumors to the contrary that seemed to surface about me now and again.
Hey, it was a small town.
I took a sip of the coffee, which was nothing special. There was a time when I commanded the best of everything-coffee, food, wine, and women. Not much had been out of my reach, and I'd taken it for granted. I watched the faces of the other patrons as they talked, ate, laughed. Each in their comfortable little world. Now this was my world too.
The tinkle of a bell on the door announced another customer had arrived, and the din of the crowd faded to silence. I looked to the door and stifled a groan.
It was Marvil Crouch, my landlord. He lived down the hill from me in his own cabin. His unofficial nickname was "Crouch the Grouch" and for good reason. He had no friends in town, having pissed off nearly every resident at one point or another over the thirty years he'd lived in Tilly. The man had no filter, no conscience, and didn't care who he insulted. He stood in the doorway, looking like an elderly ogre, with his broad shoulders, short neck and round, balding head.
"Dammit. No seats. Don't you all have someplace to be?"
Murmurs among the crowd were the only response, so I waved. When Marvil's squinted eyes rested on me, his frown eased into a smile for a moment. Then it was gone, replaced by his semi-permanent scowl.
He muttered under his breath as he sat opposite me in the booth. "Didn't hear your truck go by this morning. Must've been when I was in the john."
I sipped my coffee to avoid a smirk. "Hello to you, too."
"Eh." The single word was followed by a wave of his gnarled hand, followed by a shout to the restaurant in general. "Some coffee would be nice. Today, if possible."
Dahlia hurried over and filled a cup for the old man, then refilled mine. There was gratitude in her gaze. For some reason, I was the only one in Tilly who could handle the "cantankerous old fart" as Dahlia had described Marvil on numerous occasions.
But she never met my grandfather, John Colebank I, who made Marvil Crouch seem like a cuddly kitten.
He was still grumbling into his coffee cup when I lifted mine in salute. "So, Marvil. What's on your agenda for today? Besides terrorizing the general population of Tilly, I mean."
The tug at the corner of his wrinkled lips was the only indication of a sense of humor. His dark, beetle-like brows knit together, and his frown returned.
"I gotta go to the post office. Some kind of certified letter there for me."
We ate mostly in silence. I don't know why, but the old grouch was growing on me. Maybe it was the similarity to my grandfather. He was a challenge at times, but I often found Marvil to be amusing. Besides, the poor guy had no one else. His wife had died years earlier and they had no children.
I'd finished my burger and motioned Dahlia for the check. She gave a pointed look at Marvil, and I nodded. I didn't mind paying for his lunch. As a landlord, he'd been more than fair, despite the rumors he was hell to work with.
The door chimed again, and a young woman entered the diner. She was wearing a light blue pantsuit, like she'd just come out one of my endless meetings in Atlanta. She glanced around the room, as though she was casing the joint or looking to buy it. Then she walked to the cash register where Dahlia was ringing up my purchases. I strained to hear her over the din, curious as to what brought her to Tilly.
"Hi, I'm Sacha, with Queensmark Beverages. I know you don't sell alcohol here, but would you mind telling me what's the most popular bar or restaurant in town?"
Dahlia shut the register and reached into her apron pocket. She handed the woman a business card.
"The best restaurant is Charlie's Steak House. That's the one overlooking the river. But the best bar in town is the Frisky Beaver. They don't open until around three, though."
The woman looked at the card then smiled and held out her hand for Dahlia to shake. "Thanks, I'll check them out."
Dahlia shook her hand and pointed to the business card the woman now held in her other hand.
"My brother's band is playing at the Beaver tonight. You should go if you're staying in town. There's a stamp for a free drink on the back of the card."
"Thank you. I'll try to make it."
The woman slipped the card in the pocket of her pantsuit, brushing a lock of long brown hair from her shoulder. She turned to leave and caught me looking at her, green eyes flashing interest. I grinned and nodded, which she returned with a quick smile. Her demeanor was all business, but a woman with a wiggle in her walk like that had to have a wild side.
I stood, realizing maybe I'd been holed up in my cabin alone for far too long. Now I was fantasizing about random women, a visitor in town who I'd probably never see again.
"C'mon, Marvil. I'll walk you to your car."
"I can see myself out. I'm not feeble."
I ignored his comment and waved to Dahlia as we passed. She hurried over and pressed something into my hand.
"I meant to give that to you earlier, Gib. It's a ticket for a free drink at the Frisky Beaver. Why don't you go watch my brother's band play? You deserve it after buying lunch for that guy."
She cocked her head at Marvil's retreating figure, making me laugh. I turned the card over in my hand. "Thank you, Dahlia. That's sweet of you. Care to join me there?"
I had no idea why I asked her, but it seemed like the polite thing to do. Her face lit up, dimples and all.
"I will if I can find a sitter. I've got my son this weekend."
"Great."
I walked out, wondering what I would do if Dahlia actually showed. I hadn't seriously thought of going out with her before, but maybe some company would be nice.
What if one thing led to another, and we ended up in bed? I wasn't ready for that type of date, but it had been a long time. If an attractive woman came onto me, would I be able to resist?
My parts still worked extremely well, and I couldn't swear that I wouldn't respond.
My love for my late wife, Bianca, would never be diminished. Being intimate with another woman wouldn't change the way I felt. I'd only slept with one woman since being widowed, a wild weekend in Atlanta, which I tried to forget.
But right now, maybe some attractive female company wouldn't hurt. The local pharmacy was at the other end of town. It would be wise to have protection, just in case.