CHAPTER FOUR
JACK
“What day is it, Mark?” Sometimes being so far off in your own little world had its drawbacks – like forgetting the date.
Mark is my project manager based out of Denver, where the company's corporate offices are located. We have conference calls every few days, but if my phone doesn't remind me, I often forget about them. Today is no different.
“It's the twenty-fifth, Jack,” Mark laughs. “Wednesday. In case you forgot that too.”
I scratch my beard and look at the long, never-ending list of e-mails I need to reply to. E-mails I've been putting off, not wanting to deal with the mundane crap they undoubtedly contain.
“That's what I thought. Shit, I can't believe I forgot,” I say, muttering to myself.
“Forgot what?” Mark asks on the other end of the line.
“Nothing,” I mutter. “Listen, I have to get out of here. I have plans tonight.”
“Plans?”
“Yeah, surprising, I know,” I say. “But, believe it or not, I got plans. The rest of this shit will have to wait for a little bit.”
“It can't wait, Jack, it needs – ”
“It needs to wait until tomorrow,” I say.
My voice sounds harsher than I intend it to, but Mark and the rest of the guys at corporate need to remember who's in charge sometimes. I may not be in the office every single day, but I'm still the one calling the shots. It seems like sometimes, they forget that. “I have to go,” I say.
Mark sighs. “I'll tell Harry to hold off, but listen, they need the paperwork signed to move forward on the project. Can you at least do that?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Fine,” he sighs, irritation in his voice. “We'll reschedule this meeting for tomorrow then.”
I click off the call before Mark can continue arguing with me and throw on some clothes. Something a little more practical and acceptable to be seen wearing in public, at least. I'm not dressing to the nines though. I just throw on a t-shirt and some dark jeans. “Come on, Gunner,” I announce, saying his favorite words ever – words that get a full body wag and a goofy doggy smile out of him. “Wanna go for a car ride?”
Gunner is up and at the door in two seconds flat, not so patiently waiting for me. A blast of cold air hits us as we open the door, cold enough that it hurts to breathe. If Gunner is affected by it, it doesn't show. He rushes forward, running to my car with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, excitement radiating from his big, furry body. He beats me to the truck, and runs back to me, then back to the truck as if he's trying to hurry me along.
It's not until we were both in the car that it hits me. I probably shouldn't have brought him along. It's not like where I'm going is dog-friendly. I sigh. It's too late for that now. He's content in the back seat, staring out the window before I even start the truck and back out of the driveway.
It's okay, I tell myself. Not like I'll be long. I'll walk him around town a bit, let him stretch his legs. There's a leash in the glove compartment, but I don't need to go inside, I tell myself.
Yet I know it's a lie even as the thought crosses my mind.
I can't go inside with Gunner, so there's that. Maybe I brought him along intentionally, without even realizing it. Maybe trying to subconsciously sabotage myself or something.
We drive for some time down the long road, my music blaring. The roads are slick, but my truck can handle it, especially with the chains on the tires. This isn't my first winter in Colorado, I know what I'm doing. It takes about half an hour to get to the shopping district, which is just a square of local shops and restaurants – nothing too fancy. I pull into a spot on the street, shut off the engine and turn to Gunner, who's eager to get out of the car.
As I look at my furry buddy, I realize that I'm in a pickle. I can't leave him inside, it's too cold. I can't take him with me inside the cafe, they won't allow it. So, it's settled. I just won't go inside.
I attach the leash to his collar and we get out of the truck. He jumps down onto the snow-covered sidewalk, wriggling and dancing like he's the happiest dog on Earth. It's still light out, but it won't be for long. People are mingling outside the cafe, going in and out. Shops are mostly empty, though a few locals are running errands as if this snowfall is no big deal.
Hell, to most of us locals, it's not. A light dusting, nothing more.
“Come on,” I say, walking toward Miss Daisy's Cafe.
I'm hit by the aroma of fresh coffee beans and pie, and I know from experience that they have some of the best pie in Colorado. Just the smell wafting from Miss Daisy's makes my stomach growl and my mouth water. Normally, that's what I'd get. Pie. Tonight though, I just hang outside and savor the memories.
“You're so silly,” she said in that perpetually chipper, high-pitched voice of hers, as she tossed her straw wrapper at me.
The memory is still so powerful. Her voice, even still, rings through my head so loud and clear. Her smile was so bright and warm, it could melt the snow right off the mountains of Aspen. It's why I fell in love with her. She was so genuine, so kind – everything I wasn't. She tried so hard to make me see the best in myself, at all times, but her parents could see the real me. They saw me for who and what I really was.
A voice calls my name, pulling me out of my memories and back to the here and now. It's Miss Daisy herself, standing in the doorway, frowning at me. Miss Daisy, last name unknown, is an elderly woman. She's got gray hair that's curly and wild as if she couldn't care less what her hair does – or what people think about it. She's a little round around the edges, years of making the best pies in the state will do that to a person. Her smile, as always though, is friendly and warm.
“What are you waiting for, Jack? Come on inside,” she says.
I shrug, the leash in hand. “Can't,” I say. “I think Gunner constitutes a health hazard.”
“Pfft,” she scoffs. “I'll determine what is and isn't a health hazard in my own diner. Now, get your fanny inside.”
She motions for me, and I look down at Gunner who looks to me for the answer. Do we or don't we? Finally, with a heavy sigh, I follow Daisy inside and she points to a booth in the far corner, tucked well away from everyone else and off to the side.
There's plenty of room for Gunner to lay beneath the table, and with his dark fur and us being so far back, there's a chance no one will even see him. Not that it matters. If Daisy says it's okay, well, it's her restaurant. She makes the rules. Health Department be damned.
We sit down, and Gunner sits at my feet, just as I thought he would. He's a good dog. Daisy brings out a menu along with a bowl filled with water, which she sets on the ground for Gunner. She scratches his ears before standing back up.
“It's about time you made a friend,” Daisy says. “How long have you been coming here? And always alone?”
“Too long,” I laugh.
Ever since Sydney brought me here, years and years ago, actually. It's the only time I came to Daisy's and wasn't alone.
Daisy knows the drill by now. With a soft smile, she says, “The usual?”
“Yes, ma'am,” I say. “And if you have some bacon for Gunner – ”
“Of course. Anything for your friend,” she says with a playful wink.
I come here often, yes, but tonight is different. Some men might toast their exes with booze, but I prefer coffee – the same fresh ground, French roast she introduced me to years ago. I remember that we were sitting at the table across the way, I see it's occupied by a young married couple. Newly married too, from the way they snuggled close, focusing more on each other than on the food in front of them.
Daisy drops off my chicken fried steak, eggs and hash browns. It might be dinner time, but there's no way I'm passing up her chicken fried steak. Day or night, it's easily one of my top three favorite meals. It would probably be the last meal I'd request if I were ever on death row. That with a slice of pie for dessert, which I am very much looking forward to.
“You know, she's not stepped through these doors in years, Jack,” Daisy says. She refills my coffee cup as I continue staring at the front door. “Not since – ”
“I know,” I say. “That's not why I come anymore. I come for the food. And for your scintillating personality, Daisy.”
“Always the silver-tongued devil,” she says and laughs. “If only I were forty years younger.”
“Or I were forty years older,” I say.
It's true that I come for the food, but I also come for the memories. I keep that part to myself, though.