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“Five eggs?” My mouth hangs open. “Who eats five eggs for breakfast?”
She points across the dining room to a guy that bears more than a passing resemblance to Grizzly Adams. “He does.”
“Yeah, well, he looks like he probably has a very physical job. You know, like picking up houses with his bare hands.”
She lets out a startled laugh. “He’s a fisherman. But, yeah, it’s definitely a physically demanding job.” She glances down at her pad before looking back at me. “How do you feel about hash browns and bacon?”
“I like them both, but if I eat all that, I don’t think I’ll be able to move.”
“Movement is overrated.” As she turns around, she adds, “Sit tight, and I’ll be right back with your food.”
Moira Bishop is something of a conundrum. On the surface she looks like a go-getting live wire, but beneath that façade she appears to be experiencing her own struggles. Being a parent has never been a driving force in my life, so I don’t spend much time imagining what it’s like. Yet I can certainly see that being a single parent to three boys is an exhausting endeavor. Add her job at the diner, and she probably doesn’t have a minute for herself.
Moira goes over to a youngish couple sitting at a table on the other side of the dining room. The woman openly scowls at her before demanding a coffee refill. I wonder if they had some sort of argument before I got here. Or maybe the hostile customer is just a horrible person. She has a hard look about her. I pull my phone out of my pocket and open the notes tab—I might be staring at the villain in my novel. I hurry and type out a description of her.
A few minutes later, Moira sets my meal in front of me. “I brought hash browns and bacon to help fuel your day. But only three eggs, so you won’t get weighed down.” Her eyes sparkle with humor.
“You realize the amount of food on this plate could feed a family of six in Beverly Hills for a month.”
She giggles loudly. “I doubt most families in Beverly Hills would eat much of what we serve here.”
“Priorities are definitely a bit skewed there. So are portion sizes.”
“Remind me never to move to Beverly Hills,” she says sardonically.
“You can see why it was imperative I got away,” I tell her. “I’ve been slowly starving for years.”
As she walks back to the counter, I look down at my plate and dig in with gusto. While I stuff my face, I watch as Moira zips around refilling cups and dropping off bills. By the time I’ve eaten every bite, I’m so full I wish I’d ordered a bowl of Special K.
Moira returns to my table. Staring at my empty plate, she says, “Oh, dear, what would the good folks from Beverly Hills say?”
“They’d either get busy planning an intervention or they’d pool their resources and find me a surgeon to perform an emergency gastric bypass.” I look around the now-empty diner before indicating the seat across from me. “Care to join me?”
“Sure.” She sits down on the banquette across from me and groans. “Oh, that’s nice.” Her trainer-clad feet suddenly appear on the bench next to me. “It’s still early, but my dogs are already barking. What’s up?”
I stare at her for a second, trying to decide if I should say anything or not, but my desire to flesh out the villain in my book nudges me onward. “I know it’s none of my business, but I couldn’t help but notice some tension between you and that woman with the red hair,” I say. “She seemed like a real … delight.”
Moira nods her head slowly. “You know that saying ‘the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?’”
“I’ve heard.”
Her cheeks turn pink as she matter-of-factly intones, “It seems a lot of women in town believe that. They see me as a threat.”
“Shouldn’t they be threatened by Lloyd then?” I ask her.
She chuckles. “Surprisingly, they’re not as worried about him.”
Even though she’s trying to act like it doesn’t bother her, I can see in her eyes that it does. “Well, I think I might be falling in love with Lloyd. Don’t tell him yet, because I want to make sure before I propose.”
She performs a comical double take as though trying to ascertain my sexual preference. “I was just kidding,” I tell her. “I’m a devout heterosexual.”
“Good thing,” she snorts. “I wouldn’t want you to come to blows with Lloyd’s wife. She’s pretty fond of him, and no offense, but I think she could take you.”
“Ouch.”
“Helena is six feet and she’s better built than Lloyd.” She raises her eyebrows to add emphasis to her statement.
“Note to self, do not make Helena mad.” Getting back to the topic at hand, I tell her, “I’m sorry there are petty women in this town who take out their shortcomings on you. It doesn’t seem fair.”
