Chapter 1
Frankie
Cal Holloway is the human version of a Japanese bullet train. Fast. Predictable. Systematic. And drop-dead gorgeous with his sleek cheekbones and defined jawline.
Never knew I had a thing for trains until he walked in here six months ago. I’ve grown even fonder of him with his daily “how are ya’s” followed by a wink. No question he knows who I really am—all the locals do—but when he winks, I feel like we’re the only two in on the secret, and he’s determined to keep it.
So, when the door opens, my eyes dart from the plastic flamingo in a hula skirt swaying on top of the cash register to the bright pink lobby of the diner. But, instead of Cal, a group of women in matching track suits—five in pink and one in white with a fake bridal veil pinned to her head—stroll in. On instinct, I drop my head and check my wig is still in place, but not before catching the time on the flamingo-faced clock.
Five after eight.
Cal’slate.
His daily routine is even more fixed than mine. Drops his kid at the school down the street at seven-fifty-six. Comes in here for breakfast at eight am. Coffee—black. Eggs—scrambled. Toast—dry. Conversation—a bit flirty, always interesting, and most importantly, pleasant without prying—my favorite kind. He’s always out by eight-thirty on the nose.
Somehow though, that half an hour every morning, five days a week, for six months straight has added up to the closest thing I’ve had to a real relationship in years. I let more of the real me slip out with him than with anyone else.
But for the first morning since he moved back to Serenity Cove, Cal’s not coming into Flamingo’s. I don’t have any business being disappointed about that, considering I spent the weekend in LA and already want to go back. First time in three years I’d been there. I didn't realize how much I missed it.
Doesn’t mean my eyes aren’t flicking to the door every thirty seconds, chasing that morning hit of dopamine I get the second he shows up. His siren call is even stronger than Hollywood’s, which is a problem I’m doing my best to ignore.
I hand Harriet her change. “Tell the girls at the salon I said g’day, yeah?”
“Of course, dear.” Harriet drops her coins in a coin purse then tucks that safely inside her bright, quilted handbag.
“See you soon!” Flo—short for Flamingo…really—calls from the kitchen side of the order window.
As Harriet exits, the group of track suit women—clearly LA Ladies Who Brunch—wait at the host station to be seated. Pearl glances at me from a few feet away. I look over my shoulder at Flo who looks at Pearl and raises an eyebrow that almost reaches her bleached-blonde, tight-curled, 50’s-pin-up girl bangs.
“Refill here, Fran?” Larry holds up hiscoffee cup, and I rush to grab the pot behind the counter, even though Pearl is closer.
Pearl sends me a withering look from behind her cat-eye glasses then heads to the host station. She grabs six menus and tells the LA Ladies to follow her as she leads them toward a booth furthest from the counter and me.
I keep my head down and push my own cat-eyes to the bridge of my nose.
The top two things Pearl hates most—and the list is long—are making multiple trips from the kitchen to the far booth and waiting on tourists. She’ll do both to save me from the risk of being recognized, but she’ll be cranky about it.
Before I can pour Larry’s coffee, one of the ladies stops and points at the empty booth under the pink neon Flamingo’s sign in the front window. “We want this one!”
The six ladies slide into the booth before Pearl can stop them. The last woman—a blonde with a slicked-back ponytail as naturally platinum as my wig—hands Pearl her mobile as she follows her friends. “Can you take a pic for us?”
Pearl’s cheesed off sigh rumbles over clinking coffee cups and scraping forks. No one else notices it, including the LA Ladies, but I feel it to my core.
Pearl holds up the mobile and while the ladies are smoothing their hair and turning their faces to find the best light, takes one pic, then sets the mobile on the table and pulls her order pad from her pocket. “Coffees all around?”
“Did you get the Flamingo’s sign?” Ponytail reaches for her mobile, then scowls at it. “Can you take another one with the sign in the background?”
But Pearl’s already shuffling back to the counter. When our eyes meet, she rolls hers and follows it up with an exasperated head shake directed at the LA Ladies. I nod in solidarity, relieved Pearl and I are on the same page for once.
I refill Larry’s cup, then Barry’s and Geraldo’s (aka Gerry) too. The Oatmeal Mafia, as they’ve crowned themselves, is even more regular than Cal. Not in the digestive sense—I know way too much about the Mafia’s daily “fiber needs”—but in the showing up sense. They haven’t missed breakfast at Flamingo’s since I started working here three years ago.
Pearl’s orthopedic runners squeak across the linoleum floor behind me. “You owe me, kid,” she says under her breath when she passes me again, carrying a pot of coffee.
I blow a breath. I owe everyone in this diner—maybe the whole town—for pretending not to know who I really am. I keep waiting for them to collect on my debt, but they just keep treating me…dunno…like Ibelonghere?
I don’t. I’ll pay for what I’ve done to Serenity Cove. Not sure how or when, but Karma’s breathing down my neck. As much as I want to call this place home, I don’t get too comfortable. I work the early morning shift. Off at two. Long drive in the afternoon. Dinner alone. Read. Maybe some TV. Bed—also alone.
Even a town as small as Serenity Cove has DoorDash and grocery delivery. Ironic, isn’t it? The same internet that forced me to flee to Serenity Cove allows me to keep to myself here.
