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Travis Sinclair was my husband’s nemesis at school, so it’s no wonder his wife hates my guts and their kid, Hunter, hates Wyatt. They’re a family of malcontents.
After wiping down a table in the corner, I call out, “Sissy, Travis, over here.” Then I slam down two waters and turn around to take another table’s order. Sissy makes sure to knock into me as she walks by.
When I turn around to take the Sinclairs’ order, Sissy is tapping her fingers on the tabletop like she’s been waiting for a month. “Finally,” she announces loudly.
“We’re doing grilled meatloaf sandwiches for our special today,” I say, ignoring her snide comment. “What can I get for you?” I’m careful not to make eye contact. Sissy is much like a wild bear in temperament. One false move, and her claws will rip me to shreds.
“I’ll have the meatloaf.” Travis eyes me up and down like Iamthe meatloaf.Gross, Travis. Never gonna happen.
Sissy’s gaze darts between us as though trying to solve an advanced calculus equation. “Are you …”—she turns to her husband before standing up and yelling—“banging this trollop?”
“What? No!” he hisses. “God, Sissy, just because a man wants meatloaf instead of tuna doesn’t mean he’s cheating on you. Quit making a scene.”
Her gaze travels around what has become a very quiet dining room. When she finally plops back down into her chair, she says, “I’ll have the tuna.”
A full body shiver overtakes me as I wonder if Everett and I would have turned out like these two.
I bustle around all morning. Things don’t start to settle down until after one, and by that time, I’m more than ready to get off my feet for a few minutes. “Lloyd, I’ll have a meatloaf sandwich,” I call through the window to the kitchen, as saliva starts to form in my mouth. I’ve been serving those things all day and it’s been all I could do not to take a bite out of each one before handing it off.
“No dice, boss lady. We sold out. How about a nice, juicy patty melt?”
“Fine,” I say with more than a hint of disappointment. Then I turn to Abigail. “I’m gonna be in the back corner in case Harper comes in.”
The wide-set, almost black eyes of my best server pop open like she’s been jabbed with a live cattle prod. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to Harper Kennedy living in Gamble. It’s plain surreal.”
I used to feel the same way until I got to know her. “Harper is nothing likePeoplemagazine would have you believe,” I tell Abigail.
“She was still voted the most gorgeous woman alive—twice! Gamble is not prepared for that kind of glamour.” She’s still shaking her head as she walks off to bus tables.
Too bad being the most gorgeous woman alive doesn’t afford you perks like having a faithful husband. Harper came to Alaska to hide from the press while her lying scumbag of a spouse carried on with their nanny in the most public way possible—he took her on vacation to Hawaii. Luckily, Brett Kennedy’s philandering didn’t put Harper off men. She and my wonderful—not to mention loyal—brother are perfect for each other.
Halfway through my patty melt, my soon-to-be sister-in-law walks through the front door. I know this even though my back is facing the entrance, as the hive of busy chatter takes on a whole new level of excitement.
Harper sits down across from me, looking nothing like her movie star roots would lead you to think she’d look. She’s wearing jean shorts, an old band T-shirt of my brother’s, and Jesus sandals. Her hair is in a ponytail and if I’m not mistaken, there are a fair number of twigs tangled in it.
“Rolling around in the woods before stopping by?” I ask jokingly.
Her hand immediately goes to her head. She starts to pull out leaves while explaining, “I was working on the garden up at our new house site. Turns out it’s a more daunting task than I thought it would be.”
“Why didn’t you just hire someone to do it?” I ask. Heck, if I were in her shoes, I’d hire practically everything out.
“No way. If I’m going to live in Gamble, I’m going to behave like a native.”
“You’re going to learn how to do taxidermy and let your leg hair grow out?” I point at the uneaten half of my patty melt in offering.
Pulling the plate across the table, Harper says, “You know it. I’m hoping it’ll be long enough to braid by winter.”
While she eats, I ask, “So what kind of cake are you thinking of?”
Tipping her head from side to side, she swallows. “My favorite is chocolate, but Digger likes carrot, and the kids want a white cake. It’s going to be hard to make everyone happy.”
“Not if we do a cupcake tower,” I tell her. “I know those things are probably out of style for the rest of the world, but luckily Gamble doesn’t care about trends. If we did, you wouldn’t see so many Members Only jackets around here.”
Harper laughs loudly. “That’s one of the best parts of living here.”
“The Members Only jackets?”
“The complete lack of caring about what's in fashion,” she tells me. “A person can feel free to be who she is and not who everyone expects her to be.”
