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Unrolling the window, I call out, “They’re just finishing breakfast.”
She gives me a thumbs up. “I’m going to teach them how to play blackjack today.”
I would much rather the kids work on their math skills than learn to gamble, but you’ve got to choose your battles. As summer vacation just started, math will have to wait. “Have fun!”
“Oh, I will,” she yells with a twinkle in her eye. “The only wagers we’re going to place are on who does what chores.”
Driving to the diner, I wonder what my life would have been like had I left Gamble for greener pastures after high school. I could have gone to college or culinary school. I might have married someone who didn’t die on me. I might even own my own upscale restaurant featured inFood & Wine—I know magazines are the dinosaurs of the publishing world, but I still subscribe to a couple. I can take them into the bath with me and dream until my skin resembles a prune.
Yet if I’d followed the yellow brick road to Oz, I wouldn’t have my boys. And as much as they make me crazy, I wouldn’t trade them for the world.
I’m beyond grateful that summer has returned to the Northern Hemisphere, bringing with it much-anticipated sunshine. I’m starting to think I have seasonal affective disorder. In the winter months, I act like a bear preparing for hibernation. As in, I love to eat, and have no interest in going for a jog in the dark to burn off the extra calories. In the summer, I can’t seem to stop moving.
Spotting my diner, aptly named The Diner, makes my heart rate pick up speed. I’m lucky to have my own business, and while I dream of re-covering the fabric on the booths and updating the counter stools, it’s still all mine—an accomplishment I’m very proud of.
The door is unlocked, and the lights are on, so Lloyd must already be in the kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee and the muffled strains of the Violent Femmes confirms my suspicion. Lloyd is a fifty-year-old Gamble native who I lucked into hiring six years ago when I opened shop. Not only has he never called in sick, but he’s often willing to work late when someone else is out with whatever ailment is running through town.
“Lloyd!” I call out. “I’m here!”
The music instantly lowers as my right hand pushes open the door from the kitchen. “Hey, boss lady, what’s shaking?”
Lloyd is well over six feet tall and looks more like a lumberjack than a cook. I long ago gave him the choice of shaving his beard or wearing a hairnet on his face—you only let a customer complain of finding a red curly hair in their eggs once. He chose to shave.
Pulling a recipe out of my purse, I hand it to him. “Grandma Adele’s homestyle meatloaf. I thought we’d do grilled meatloaf sandwiches on sourdough with caramelized onions and Swiss cheese for today’s special.”
“Yum!” He grabs the card and I leave the kitchen to stock the coffee cups and refill the sugar containers. I’m so in the zone topping off salt and pepper shakers and marrying the ketchups, I almost ignore my phone when it rings. A vision of a burning shed changes my mind.
“Hello.”
“Hey, little sister,” Digger says. “Harper was wondering if you wanted us to pick up the kids early and keep them overnight so you can have a free evening. You know, hit the pub, maybe meet yourself a nice guy.”
“Yes to the kids, and no to the nice guy,” I grumble. I’m fairly certain every man in Gamble—nice or not— is already married with a wife who would, at the very least, ram me with her cart in the supermarket if she ever caught me making eyes at her husband.
“I thought we’d made ourselves a little bet last year.” He pauses like I might actually help him dig my own grave. When I don’t, he prompts, “You know, something along the lines of you giving love another shot if I did? May I remind you that my wedding is only a few months away?”
“Yeah, but at the time, I had no idea Harper Kennedy would run from the paparazzi and hide out in Gamble, Alaska.” I sound irritated but I’m not. Harper and her kids are the best thing that’s ever happened to my grisly, perpetual-bachelor brother. Also, having a movie star living up at the lodge has done wonders for business.
“What does that have to do with it?”
“There’s got to be some sort of clause when it comes to events as unlikely as getting struck by lightning in a snowstorm.”
“There were no conditions to our deal,” Digger reminds me. “You said if I got married, you’d put yourself out there again. It’s time to pay up.”
“Fine, pick up the kids whenever you want, and I’ll go man shopping tonight.” I’ll do no such thing, but if it will get my brother off my back and get me a night alone, I have no problem lying to him.
“I may have to stop in to see that you’re holding up your end of the bargain,” he threatens.
“It’s your time to waste,” I tell him.
“Hmmm.”
Before he can comment further, I say, “Remind Harper that she’s coming by today to discuss wedding cakes.” I’m making their wedding cake as my gift.
“She can’t wait,” he assures me. “I love you, Moira, and I know you’re lying about going out tonight. But just so you know, I’m not giving up on you finding your own happily-ever-after.”
“Which does not in any way require me getting married,” I tell him. It could, however, involve a cleaning lady, and an occasional vacation. Before he can protest, I hurriedly add, “I have to go.”
Hanging up, I wonder at the magic that has turned my brother from a commitment-phobe into a full-on fan of matrimony. I silently offer a prayer to the heavens, “God save me from well-meaning family members.”
