Chapter Seventeen
Sam
Quiche has the day off. I’m taking her place at the flattop, flipping trout fillets and grilling buttered bread, my thoughts to myself. Last night, while Uriah and I were shopping at Home Depot for new light-switch plates, he called me honey. Honey, I’m thinking aged bronze will look better than the polished brass.
Seriously? Honey? We’ve expressed our love for each other, yada yada, so why would I be thrilled when he called me honey? Because the word is comfortable, domestic, a sweet endearment that takes our relationship to the next plateau. Besides, aside from my dad, no man has ever addressed me using a word that sounds so sweet.
As we shopped for fixtures, I felt as if he were taking ownership in my home. But that’s not the case. Last week he gave notice to the Boggs School; he will be leaving after the school year, sometime in mid-June. Here’s what I dare not speak of to anyone, especially Addie: we’re fixing up my area of the home so she’ll have a better chance of renting it out. I won’t feel so guilty about leaving. I have no problem giving her my portion of the house. Although both our names are on the mortgage, Aunt Teresa’s money enabled us to buy it.
Uriah and I are fantasizing a life together outside Cleveland, Tennessee. Unlike Addie, who always speaks in past or future tense, I’ve never appreciated conversations about the future. This is foreign turf for me.
Uriah and I will purchase farmland and build a home. The land he’s been researching is fertile, rests in a valley, and is surrounded by mountains. He’ll be working on an educational model for Appalachian youth, which he’s developed at Boggs, and I’ll grow all of our food. Perhaps I’ll even raise sheep. I could sell the meat to upscale restaurants in Nashville. Uriah will take care of me, I’ll take care of him, and we’ll both be closer to his parents. He likes the idea of living off the land. I do, too. Farm life suits me. It’s familiar.
But the diner. More important—Addie. She’s been working long hours scrutinizing the books, brainstorming menus, and making to-do lists well after Welcome Home closes. It hurts watching her greet our guests, cranking up a smile, with her chin held so high. Heck, in addition to the house, I’d even give her my share of this business. Scot-free. She could make Braydon a partner. She wouldn’t owe me a dime. But I can’t share our plans yet, and Uriah supports me on this. Her love wounds are too fresh. Only a week has passed since Valentine’s Day.
But my heart feels heavy. With a spatula, I shimmy the fish onto a plate, and then the bread. With tongs, I place a side of lightly dressed microgreens beside the trout. I turn and hand it to Braydon, who places it in front of a hungry diner drumming the counter with her open fingers. I scan the room. Addie greets a regular who always dines alone. She seats him at his favorite spot at the counter, close to a stack of cookbooks he enjoys perusing.
Nothing says I have to make up my mind this minute whether to join Uriah or not. I’ll just enjoy the sun streaming through the windows. Uriah’s been speaking to Realtors and says daffodils are nosing their way up under a blue Cleveland sky about now. It’s still too cold to go outside in Detroit without a coat, but no matter; when the frigid air stings my cheeks, I’m in the moment, glad to be alive.
Danita enters, Quiche’s friend, clutching a bag of Hungry Boy Burgers in her hand. Last week she also brought fast food into the diner, but it was after hours. She sat in her usual roost at the counter, shooting the breeze. At a loss for words, we let it slide. But Addie and I traded glances as she devoured her burger and fries, slurping down her shake.
But now the diner’s open, packed with people, so she can’t be bringing in fast food for the rest of our patrons to see. Give me a break—no eating establishment would allow this. We get that most people don’t share our farm-to-table philosophy—cost beats organic, deals trump local—but Welcome Home is for those who do. We may understand that food made from authentic ingredients better serves our bodies, but that doesn’t mean we believe we’re superior to Danita. I’ll bet that’s exactly what she’ll think if confronted.
Of all days for Quiche to be off work. She’d know what to do. What do we say to Danita so she doesn’t take offense? Addie smiles at her, places her arm around her shoulders, and they venture to the far side of the floor. Addie’s head is bent, her mouth close to Danita’s ear, and the woman nods, exiting without fanfare. She even smiled at my cousin, squeezed her hand, as if agreeing with Addie, whatever it was she said.
Addie’s such a people person, with such a mindful, gentle way. She has an innate sensitivity, even when her personal life’s in shambles. She should run for mayor of The D. If it had been me at the door, it might have gone down a different road. What if I’d hurt Danita’s feelings? She’d tell her church congregation what a jerk I am. Or what if she told me I was discriminating against her food, not allowing her to sit at the counter? I shudder, recalling old wounds, imagining the possibilities.
I check the order bar—only a Vegetable Plate and another for the Bean and Barley Soup.
“I’ll finish this up,” Braydon says to me. “Check on Sylvia—she just finished making a carrot cake and wants your approval. I couldn’t believe how fast she whipped it up. When it comes to making sweets, that girl’s giving you a run for your money.”
His words please me. Sylvia can replace me when I—if I—follow Uriah to Tennessee. I retreat to the kitchen.
With a spatula, Sylvia is spreading frosting on her cake. She looks up with a smile. “I used a pound of grated carrots in the batter. Carrots make it healthy, right?”
“You betcha.” I walk toward the cake, cocking my head to the side. “What a beauty. My mother always made carrot cake for me on my birthday. Customers go crazy when we make treats that remind them of their childhood. Braydon tells me it took you only ten minutes to assemble.”
“Oh, sweet Braydon. That boy’s got my back, lemme tell ya. But it’s a cinch to throw together. I guess it took . . . fifteen? An extra five to make the frosting—it’s cream cheese.” With a cloth, she wipes a bit of frosting away from the pedestal.
“I’m glad you’re showing such a knack for baking. Takes some of the stress off my back. I’m always so stiff after lunch rush.” Massaging my shoulders with my fingertips, I rotate my head in slow circles.
“Making cakes reminds me of when I was a little girl cooking with Mama. Before Daddy was diagnosed,” she continues. “That sponge cake of hers—you’d like to die biting into it. It was made with Brazil nuts and had a meringue frosting. She said the flavors reminded her of cooking with her mom when she was a girl in Rio.”
“That sounds heavenly—I’ll add it to tomorrow’s prep list. I’m pretty sure that carrot cake will disappear as soon as it hits the floor. We don’t stock Brazil nuts. Would walnuts be an OK substitute?”
“They’ll work just fine.” She claps her hands, jumping up and down with glee. “I haven’t made that cake since I was eight years old. But I remember the recipe as if I were remembering my own name.”
Sylvia’s a natural. The act of baking—measuring flour, beating egg whites until they’re stiff, melting chocolate with butter—must nurture her, feed her soul.
“So, how’s it going for you, Sylvia? What’s happening in your life—besides ensuring our customers leave with their sweet tooth satisfied?”
“Not much,” she replies, patting walnut bits into the cream cheese frosting. She looks up from her task. “And not much is fine by me.”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed Kevin can’t take his eyes off of our girl,” Paul says, his metal spoon making a scraping sound as he digs deep, stirring into the corners of a cast-iron Dutch oven. He’s prepping Braised Rabbit with Bacon, Prunes, and Pearl Onions for tomorrow’s special. Sweet, rich smells of caramelized onions and bacon waft about the kitchen.
Sylvia ignores his remark. But her face reddens as she walks to the hand sink, removes her plastic gloves, and washes her hands under the running water. Then, she retreats to the prep board to study the list.
Since the holidays, Kevin’s been lingering at the counter every Thursday after dropping off the books. He orders a bite to eat, and then, like clockwork, Sylvia joins him, taking her lunch break. Picking at their food from time to time as an afterthought, they lean into each other, their foreheads almost touching in conversation.
Kevin’s long lost interest in me. His manner’s now relaxed, and his smiles come easy. If this was his demeanor last year, I might have fallen for him. He was so quiet and goofy when crushing on me.
“The weather report says we’re going to get dumped on,” Paul comments, looking at his phone. Sylvia hurries to the window and stares outside. The blue skies have been replaced with overhanging gray clouds, and she frowns, wringing her hands together, agitated.
“You’ve only a ten-minute walk to your place, Sylvia. Why so anxious? I’ve got a pair of snow boots you can borrow.”
“Paul. Come look,” she says, her eyes glued to the window. “It’s that same rusted-out van. And it’s parked in the same exact place as it was the day before yesterday.” She looks at him, her eyes narrowed with concern. “And two days before that.”
Paul and I approach Sylvia and stand by her side.
“What’s wrong with that?” I ask. “It’s not parked illegally. I’m sure it belongs to a neighbor.”
“I don’t think so. I’d recognize an old, beat-up van the color of collards. This makes the third time it’s shown up in the past week. It pulls up, but no one leaves the vehicle. And it parks in a place, so I can’t help but see it while I’m working.” She turns to me and grabs my forearms.
“I’ll bet it’s one of Bobby’s buddies. He found out where I work. He wants me to know that his goons will catch me—torture me.” She releases my arms and looks down at the floor.
“Shoot, Sylvia,” I say, taking her hands in mine and giving them a soft squeeze. “You’re just a wee bit paranoid. If anything, it’s probably some dude waiting to lay out a dope deal.”
“But he never leaves, and no one ever goes to the car.” She looks up at me, shaking her head.
“Maybe he works close by. He’s taking a break, napping in his van. If it’s any person that would be of concern to the diner, it would be the troll.”
She looks at me, bewildered. “What do you mean, all this talk about a troll?”
“You remember the person who wrote those awful things about us online? The person who pretended to be Babcia? Trolls are scaredy-cat Internet predators who intimidate people because they can get away with it.”
Paul places his hand on her shoulder. “No one can find out their real identity, because online they’re invisible. It’s as if I threw a rock at you while hiding behind my mother’s skirt. Trolls are bullies who get their jollies unleashing their unhappiness on innocent people. Or on entities, such as Welcome Home.”
Sylvia’s eyes are bright, her mouth soft and trembling. “Thank you, both, for trying to make me feel better. Pimp or troll, whoever or whatever is sitting in that driver’s seat, right this very minute, is giving me the heebie-jeebies.”
I look at her, shaking my head. “Erase the thought that someone is hunting you down. See how the car windows are tinted? Trolls like it dark. They’re too ugly and cowardly to let anyone see their faces. Bobby’s cohorts are not in that van. The man is locked away, and the inmates are torturing him just the way he tortured you.” I look at her, raising my brows. “Doesn’t that make you feel just a little bit happy?”
She regards me with a slight shake of her head. “Not really. I’m not interested in revenge on him. I’m scared of him. I want him to forget me.” She raises a brow. “On the other hand, that gravy train of nasty men, all those johns.” Her eyes narrow, and between clenched teeth, she grinds out her next words. “Imagining something awful happening to them . . . well, ma’am, that is a happy thought.”
Paul slides into his jacket. “I’m going out there. I’ll knock on the window.”
Before I’ve time to protest, he’s out the door. Through the panes, we watch him dart across the yard, but the van pulls away before he reaches it. As it disappears down the road, the snow begins to fall.