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The thin older woman behind the counter of the diner eyed Nash with suspicion. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten this look since arriving in Rosewood. It seemed to be the standard, actually. He wasn’t exactly sure what gave him away. He’d put on his best flannel shirt in an attempt to fit in.
Looking around the diner at the other patrons, it occurred to him that no one else was wearing flannel. Folks seemed to be dressed fairly normally. Jeans, khakis, T-shirts, blouses. The occasional ball cap. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just as well he’d passed on the overalls, then.
The waitress finally returned with a mug of black coffee. She plopped it onto the counter, her lips pursed as though she were daring him to talk.
Nash had taken the red-eye from LAX, getting into Birmingham around six in the morning. He’d picked up his rental car and driven straight to Rosewood. He’d found Ellen’s Diner after taking a few loops around town to get the lay of the land.
It was . . . quaint. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d ever used that word before. With its town square, public greens, and collection of tiny little shops lining the streets, Rosewood was the epitome of small-town charm.
He was going to be bored as hell.
“Can I get you something to eat, honey?”
Nash looked up. The waitress had returned, and despite the fact that she’d called him by a pet name, she still didn’t seem pleased. He might as well eat before she threw him out for looking at her wrong. “Yes.” He glanced down at the menu. “I’ll take the three eggs scrambled with bacon. Does that come with toast and hash browns?”
The woman, whose name tag said RUTH, knit her eyebrows together in confusion. “No, it comes with biscuits and grits.” She said it as though he’d asked the most ridiculous question ever.
Biscuits were fine, he supposed. “What are grits?”
Ruth’s eyes widened, and then narrowed at him with suspicion. “You’re kidding, right?”
Another man settled at the counter a few seats away from him. He was young with thick dark hair, wearing a Rosewood Fire Department T-shirt that looked like it might split in half, it was so tight on him. “Just eat them, you’ll like it,” he said.
“Okay.” Nash wouldn’t argue. He’d just have to look up grits on his phone while he waited.
Nash thought the younger guy might be a good person to talk to. He was around Ivy’s age, so he might be a useful source of information. Nash waited until the man finished ordering before he made eye contact and smiled at him. “Thanks for the help. I need a southern primer. Are you originally from here?” he asked.
The fireman nodded and took a sip of his coffee. “Born and raised. My whole family comes from this area. I’m probably kin with half the town. I know you’re not from around here. I’ve never seen you before. What brings you to Rosewood?”
Nash shrugged dismissively. “I’ve come to town to cover the tornado fund-raiser,” he said, not mentioning Ivy at all. “I thought it would be a nice public interest piece with everyone coming together to rebuild.”
“So you’re a reporter,” Grant said loud enough for his voice to carry through damn near the whole diner. A few eyes flickered over to him, then back to their meals. Damn. He’d been outed to every prospect in the restaurant. There’d be no casual conversation with any of them now.
“Guilty,” Nash said with a smile. Time to change the subject. “I’m Nash,” he said, holding his hand out to shake.
“I’m Grant. Grant Chamberlain,” the man added as he gave Nash a firm shake.
“Chamberlain, huh? Any relation to the Auburn football player?” He tried not to sound too obvious, but it was hard.
“I sure am. I told you I’m related to everybody ’round here. He’s my older brother.”
His brother? Nash had wanted a good source, but this one was too good. Too close to the subject matter. He didn’t react to the revelation, but just nodded. “Shame about his knee. Are you helping out with some of the festivities?”
“The fire department is driving the fire truck in the parade and I’ll be on it. And we’ll be on standby during the concert in case someone gets hurt or the pyrotechnics malfunction.”
“The concert, right. You guys got Ivy Hudson to perform, didn’t you? That’s quite the coup. Isn’t she from Alabama somewhere?”
“She’s from Rosewood, actually.” Grant waited for Nash’s reaction. Nash wasn’t about to give one, though.
“That explains it, then.”
Just then, Ruth came out with his food. She gave Grant the stink-eye. Nash got the feeling it was due to her displeasure with Grant speaking to the interloper.
“Where you staying, Nash?” Grant asked.
“I got a room at the bed-and-breakfast behind the park.”
“Ah, you’re staying with Miss Twila, then.”
