“I came in twice more and your mom said I had just missed you,” he told me. “She was frantically running around. That’s your mother, right? She looks like you.”
My mom had the same dark hair that I did and the same light eyes, which some people called gray and others said were light blue. I didn’t want to think of us resembling each other, though. She looked tired, disappointed, and sad. Did I?
“Once, a different guy was working.” Then he went on to describe Max very accurately, from his height (six-one) to his sallow skin (yes, he was a smoker who needed to get more sleep). “He also looks like you so I figured him as your brother, although he doesn’t work the same.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re always moving, always doing something. I saw him leave three times while I was eating and once, he sat down at a table to check his phone.”
“That’s my brother,” I agreed. “My older brother, Max. I have an older sister, too. Do you have siblings?”
He did, including an older sister who was still in Arkansas. “She lives next door to my parents. And you live with yours?”
“Did I say that?”
“No, but when I suggested that I could pick you up, you told me that it would be easier to get away if you drove. It made methink that someone would be making you stay. Maybe they’d be wanting you to work.”
“It’s afamilybusiness,” I said, quoting my mom. “My brother is going in today and sister is supposed to work sometimes, too.”
“She doesn’t do her share?” Shane suggested.
“Why do you think so?” I glanced over again and saw him shrug.
“You sounded annoyed just then.”
“I am annoyed at both of them,” I admitted. “My brother is usually off doing God-knows-what, and my sister is just…I don’t know what she’s doing. Somebody has to help my parents.”
“They could hire someone.”
“No, it’s afamilybusiness,” I told him again, emphasizing the word “family” just like my mom always did. “My great-grandpa started it and all of us have always worked there. Most of us,” I amended. “My uncle took off and moved to Chicago and we never see him, and I have cousins and other relatives who don’t want to touch it.”
“I don’t know much about restaurants.”
“I wish I didn’t, either,” I said. “Did you always want to be a football coach?”
“I’m a scout,” he reminded me. “I may end up as a Woodsmen coach. Maybe.”
He didn’t sound very confident or enthusiastic. “Is that your goal?” I pressed.
“No. Maybe,” he repeated. “Before, I thought I’d play professional football for a few years and then I’d have a career outside of the game.” He waved one hand in a circle, like he was stirring the air. “It was all a little nebulous. It was going to be a great job that I enjoyed, working with fun people, and I’d be a big success.”
“That sounds perfect,” I approved, and he nodded.
“If you know of a career like that, pass it on.”
“I’m trying to figure out what I can do myself,” I said.
“You’re not going to take over the restaurant?”
“We’ll see,” I responded, also nebulous. “Do you know if the Woodsmen are hiring?”
“No, sorry.” He looked out the window. “Are you taking us to the lighthouse?” He didn’t seem to have objections to that.
“Can you cancel your snowshoe rental?”
He worked on it and I worked on coming up with another way to bring the Woodsmen back into our conversation and lock down a meeting with them. One thing that had always worked on my brother, if I had the strength to force myself, was flattery. If you flattered Max, you could get him to do anything. Adulation was key.
“You must have been pretty good at football if you thought you could go pro,” I mentioned. “Really good, I should say.”
