1
A woman enters the Toast & Tide, bringing with her a brisk late-afternoon breeze that smells like saltwater and sun.
This diner is popular with the townsfolk of Crescent Cove. They like the warm earth tones of the place, the rustic tables, the mismatched chairs, and the wall of ceramic dishes and mugs, each piece crafted by a local potter. They like the shelves that run all the way around the room near the ceiling, holding art pieces made from sea-glass, shells, driftwood, and other found objects.
Everything about my uncle’s diner, from the casual vibe to the oldies playing over the radio, to the smell of coffee and bacon, says, “Come in and stay awhile.” I planto keep the place just like this. Change isn’t something anyone can prevent, but some things should stay the same.
The woman who just came in hesitates. She strode through the door with the confidence of a regular, but now she’s acting like she’s lost.
I look her over the same way I do everyone else, grabbing a few key identifying features. I’m trying to learn my new clientele by heart. This customer has glossy, wavy black hair almost to her waist, with bluish-green streaks in it. Her plaid shirt is unbuttoned far enough to show off some very nice cleavage. She wears worn jeans and boots that are for work, not fashion. Her eyes are a startling aqua. Unusual color. Matches the highlights in her hair.
She looks at me like she’s surprised and disappointed by my existence. Then she scans the bar, a huge, polished piece of driftwood worn smooth by years of use, covered in cup rings.
She comes closer, her eyes dancing from me to the chalkboard menu to the kitchen door.
“Help you?” I ask.
She raises an eyebrow. “That’s it? I don’t even deserve a full sentence?”
I clear my throat and speak slowly, firmly. “May I help you?”
“You say that like it’s a warning, not a welcome.”
“Maybe I’m not the welcoming type.”
“Then you’re in the wrong line of work,” she says. “This is a diner. People are supposed to feel welcome.”
“People are supposed to order food and then eat it. How can I help you, ma’am?”
She seems even more irritated by thema’am. Somehow I knew she would be.
“Where’s Lou?” she demands. “You’re not Lou. I need Lou.”
“Lou passed away.”
“What? When?”
“About two and a half weeks ago.”
“You’re kidding.”
NowI’mstarting to get irritated. “He was my uncle, and I actually liked him. So no, I’m not joking about his death.”
“See, this is what happens when I take a trip literally anywhere. Things fall apart.” She plops onto a bar stool. I can’t tell if the look on her face is because she’s sad about Lou or because his absence inconveniences her personally.
I tend to decide pretty quick if I like someone or not. She’s moving deeper into the “do not like” category. But I’m new to this town. I need this diner, these people. I have to get along and fit in. Historically that’s been an issue for me. Gotta play nice, even with self-absorbed guests like this one.
“You were traveling?” I pick up a rag and wipe some droplets off the bar.
“I was picking up a couple new horses. Rescues. I own a riding stable.”
“The place up near the lighthouse? Spyglass Stables?”
“That’s the one. I’ve been gone for three weeks. My assistants have been running things for me.”
“Three weeks to pick up a couple horses?”
She bristles again. “These are abused horses. It takes time to work with them, let them get comfortable aroundme, and help them heal enough for travel. They’ve got behavioral issues due to mistreatment. So yeah, it took three weeks. For three weeks I’ve been looking forward to a specific drink that Lou used to make for me, and now I get back and he’s gone, and it’s not even on the menu anymore.”
