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MARK WALKED INTO The Last Stop, greeted by the familiar smell of seafood chowder. The scent had haunted his childhood, lingering on his mother’s clothes long after she washed them.
He glanced around the brightly lit open space. Pie filled the rotating rack by the register, and vinyl booths lined the walls. Nothing had changed—including many of the staff. Blanche, the owner, waved from her place behind the register. Mark headed over.
“Mark, welcome home! I saved you a stool right by me.” Blanche pointed to the first stool of the ten currently empty seats lining the counter. On the nights Mark hadn’t joined the Benton family for dinner, he had often eaten at the counter, reading or doing his homework while his mother waited tables. Nine times out of ten, Blanche had helped him with his schoolwork.
She picked up her order pad—no fancy computer systems for The Last Stop Diner—and looked at him. “Your usual?”
Mark wasn’t sure the term applied, given he hadn’t eaten here in a year and a half, but he nodded. “And something for Amy Benton to go. Whatever she usually gets.”
“That girl doesn’t come in here much anymore. But when she does, she eats like a bird,” Blanche said, shaking her head. “I’ll have them pack up a cheeseburger, fries and a slice of pie.”
She rose, tearing the ticket off her pad, and Mark nearly fell off his chair.
“You’ve lost weight.” And gained mobility.
Blanche beamed. “Zumba at the seniors center in town. You should try it sometime.”
“Maybe. Amy’s been keeping us busy out at her place getting ready for her grand opening.”
“It’s crazy what she is doing out there.” Blanche settled back onto her stool and picked up her knitting. “Raising those attack dogs by herself.”
Mark laughed. “Have you told her your thoughts on the matter?”
The lines on Blanche’s face drew together. “No. I doubt she wants to hear my opinion.”
“She does,” Mark said, knowing Amy would find Blanche’s words refreshing. “Trust me. But she’s a big girl and knows how to handle those dogs better than most men.”
“If you say so.” Blanche pursed her lips together, shaking her head. “But surrounding herself with those animals? How does she expect to find another husband?”
Mark gazed down at the clean white counter. “I don’t think she’s looking.”
“She can’t spend the rest of her life in mourning.”
“I don’t think she plans to do that, either,” he said slowly. But there was a long distance between hot kisses and forever. And replacing Darren? It didn’t get much better than a kindhearted, loyal-to-a-fault navy SEAL. Mark wanted her to move on, but couldn’t imagine there was a man out there worthy of spending the rest of his life with Amy.
A bell rang, indicating food had been placed in the open window.
“That was fast,” Mark said.
“Just your salad.” Blanche slid off her stool, setting her knitting aside, and went to retrieve it.
“Salad was never part of my usual.” Mark tried to recall if he’d ever eaten a vegetable here.
“If your mama was here, she’d want you to eat your greens,” Blanche insisted. “You need to look out for your health.”
Mark opened his mouth to tell Blanche that he spent most of his days flying into the fray of war, and The Last Stop’s iceberg lettuce covered in ranch dressing with one lonely tomato on the side wasn’t going to keep him from getting shot out of the sky. But he quickly thought better of it. Hell, it felt good to have someone give a damn.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, with a to-go bag in hand, Mark walked into the kitchen and found Amy sitting at the table with papers spread out in front of her.
“Last-minute details?” He set the food on the table.
“I’m writing my speech for tomorrow.”
He glanced at the sheets of paper. Many of them were balled up and ready for the trash. “Not going so well?”
“No.” Resting her elbows on the table, she propped her head in her hands.
