Chapter 9 #2
The only other people in the dining room were Tommy and Chet, two of my regulars. Like Myra, they were probably in their seventies, and both were widowers who met up every single day for breakfast. Then they always lingered for two or three hours, playing backgammon and nursing cups of coffee.
I brewed a fresh pot and brought it to them with two slices of pie. As I refilled their mugs, I said, “I tweaked my cherry pie recipe. Will you try it for me and let me know what you think?”
This charade was a daily occurrence, and if they knew I was lying, they never called me on it.
Both of them were too proud to accept handouts, but they struggled to make ends meet, especially toward the end of the month.
They also both had a sweet tooth, so I always brought them something from our bakery case.
I also made sure Javier and Cami remembered to keep it going on the weekends, now that I wasn’t here every day.
Chet smiled at me before picking up his false teeth and clicking them in place. He kept them in a coffee saucer when he wasn’t eating, because he said they were uncomfortable. “Thanks, Manny,” he said. “I don’t know why you’re always fiddling with this recipe. It’s already perfect.”
“Don’t get me wrong, it’s a damn good pie,” Tommy said. “But I wouldn’t complain if you should happen to find yourself needing an opinion on your peach pie, sometime in the near future.”
I grinned and said, “Noted,” before returning the pot to the coffee maker.
“You’re too nice,” Myra muttered, not looking up from her magazine.
“What do you mean?”
“You know. You give away hundreds of dollars’ worth of free food every month.
It’s not just pie, either. You comp meals for a lot of our regulars.
And then you do those huge, free buffets on the holidays.
But I know you’ve barely gotten this place to turn a profit, even after your bigshot son-in-law invested in the business. ”
“We’ve talked about this, Myra.” She brought it up about twice a week.
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, as she turned a page in her magazine. “You’re just gonna say what you always do, leave the money stuff to you, and don’t worry because you’ve got it under control.”
“Exactly.”
I busied myself by wiping down the counter, even though it was perfectly clean.
Then I tidied up the bottles of condiments beneath the pass-through before grabbing the broom and sweeping the entire dining room.
When I finished, Myra asked, “Why are you so antsy? Did you get a tip-off that the health department is coming for an inspection or something?”
“No. They always give us an excellent score anyway, so I don’t need to do anything special to impress them.” I picked up a cloth and began polishing the chrome napkin dispensers along the counter.
“Then what lit a fire under your ass?”
“A friend of mine is coming by this afternoon. He’s never seen the diner in person, so I want it to look nice.”
I’d been nervous when Tory came to my frumpy little apartment for the first time, but this was worse. The diner was a part of me. It was my home, far more than that apartment. I wanted him to like it, and to understand why I thought it was so special.
She set aside the magazine and smirked at me. “A ‘friend.’ Uh huh. Would this ‘friend’ be the reason you started taking weekends off?”
“Maybe.”
“And it’s a man. That’s interesting. Not that I’m judging, obviously.
I think it’s fantastic that your midlife crisis has led to some same-sex experimentation.
Most people do that when they’re a lot younger.
But you, well, I guess you had no choice but to be a late bloomer, what with becoming a parent so young. ”
“This isn’t a mid-life crisis, and I’m not experimenting.”
“Okay. Whatever you say, Manny.” She smirked again and picked up her magazine, and I sighed as I grabbed the Windex. There was no point in trying to explain that I’d always been bisexual.
I cleaned the fingerprints off both sides of the glass door, and while I was outside, I took a few steps back to admire the building. It had a fresh coat of royal blue paint and refurbished chrome accents around the door and windows, and I’d recently had the neon sign repaired. It looked wonderful.
Three large planter boxes lined the front of the building, which I’d filled at the start of summer with a mix of pretty blue, white, and yellow flowers. I went through them and plucked a few dead leaves and spent blooms.
Then I decided I was getting completely carried away with making the diner look its best, so I went back to the paperwork waiting for me in my office.
Because our regulars were mostly retirees, dinner service got going early every afternoon.
At four p.m., our bus boy and dishwasher, a second cook, and two waitresses clocked in.
I left my office and began making and serving drinks, and helping the servers bring out the food as our cooks filled the orders.
This particular dinner rush was even busier than usual, because we happened to get two large parties. So when Tory arrived a little before five, the diner was hopping. I paused with a coffee pot in each hand and kissed his cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I said.
“Me, too. This place is fantastic!”
I beamed with pride and told him, “Take a seat at the counter, and I’ll bring you something to drink. What would you like?”
“Surprise me.”
When he sat down, I put a glass of water in front of Tory and said, “This isn’t the surprise.” Then I went down the line, chatting with my customers as I refilled their water glasses.
When I reached the far end of the counter, I whipped up a strawberry milkshake, poured it into a tall glass, and garnished it with whipped cream and a fresh strawberry. I presented it to Tory with a flourish and said, “I hope you like this. I truly believe we have the best shakes in town.”
He tasted it and told me, “That’s truly delicious,” which made me happy.
Over the next few hours, I kept bringing him things to try that I was particularly proud of, including a basket of golden French fries, another of our panko-breaded onion rings, my extremely popular macaroni and cheese, and cups of each of the three soups of the day.
Dessert was my made-from-scratch strawberry shortcake.
In between, I kept moving around the dining room, chatting with customers, working the cash register, refilling drinks, and helping out wherever I was needed. I also introduced Tory to my employees and some of my regulars, who instantly treated him like family.
Every time I glanced at him, he was watching me with the sweetest expression on his face. It felt wonderful to have him here, in this place that meant so much to me.
At eight all my employees, except for the cook working the late shift, clocked out and took off. I poured myself a cup of coffee and refilled Tory’s mug as he said, “You’re still open for another two hours, right?”
“Yup.”
“But most of your staff went home. What if a busload of customers suddenly pulls up?”
I shrugged and said, “Then I’ll handle it. But chances are, that won’t happen.”
He smiled at me. “I can see why you love this place. It’s almost perfect.”
“Almost?”
“It needs a jukebox.”
“I know! I’d hoped to get one when I did the remodel, but I want something vintage as opposed to a reproduction, and they’re really expensive. If we start to turn more of a profit, it’s at the top of my wish list.”
“That would be really cool.”
I took a sip of coffee before asking, “Can I bring you anything else to eat? You haven’t even seen the menu yet, because I wanted you to try some of my favorite dishes.”
“I’m very full, and everything was delicious. Thank you.”
He pulled a money clip from his pocket, and I asked, “What are you doing? You’re my guest, and if you think I’m going to let you pay for anything, you’re nuts.”
He placed a pair of hundred-dollar bills on the counter and grinned at me. “This is a tip for my extremely hot waiter.”
I sighed and pocketed the money. “I’m only taking this because I know it’s impossible to talk you out of anything, but I’m going to use it to buy you a nice dinner this weekend. Have you decided what we’re doing?”
Since he enjoyed planning elaborate dates for us, I left it in his hands and let him surprise me. But I also tried to do things for him in return—as much as I possibly could, despite the difference in our financial situations.
“Not yet, but I have a couple of ideas.”
A few minutes later, the last of the diners paid their bills and left. After I bussed the tables, I told Tory, “If you want, I can give you the grand tour now.”
“I’d love that.”
When I showed him the kitchen, he went straight to the back corner and murmured, “Oh, wow.” Over two decades ago, I’d painted the words “Kit’s Corner” on the wall, along with a childish-looking landscape of hills, trees, flowers, and a blue sky.
Beneath it was a small wooden table, which was covered in layers of ink, paint, glue, and stickers.
“Kit and I lived with my mother the first few years of his life, but she died when he was seven. I couldn’t afford childcare, and there was no one else to watch him after she passed.
So Frank, the diner’s last owner, let Kit come here and hang out every day after school.
My son literally grew up here.” I thought about it and said, “I guess we both did.”
“I don’t think I fully understood what this place meant to you until I saw this.” He traced the blocky lettering on the wall. “It makes more sense now—the long hours, your total dedication to this place. It’s home.”
“It is. That’s why I had to buy it when Frank told me he was retiring. It was a real stretch financially, even though he sold it to me far below market value. But there was no way I could let it shut down.”