32. Chapter 32
Adam
I spot Mr. Sullivan the moment he walks through the restaurant door, his thin frame stooped slightly as he navigates to his usual booth with careful, measured steps.
His weathered face brightens when he sees me, and I can’t help but smile back.
Mr. Sullivan is one of our regulars. He’s sweet as pie, and about as decisive as a weather vane in a tornado.
I grab a menu and make my way toward him, already mentally preparing for the marathon of indecision that lies ahead.
“Mr. Sullivan,” I greet him, setting down the menu. “Good to see you today. How are things?”
“Adam, my boy!” His voice carries across the half-empty dining room, drawing a few glances from the lunch crowd.
“Sit down, sit down. Just for a minute.” He gestures at the bench across from him, eyes twinkling behind wire-rimmed glasses.
“I saw a most remarkable bird this morning. Right in my backyard. Blue as the sky with a crest like a king’s crown.
Must have been passing through. I don’t think we get many of those around here. ”
I slide into the seat, knowing from experience that Mr. Sullivan’s stories are the price of admission before any actual ordering can begin. “A blue jay, maybe?”
“No, no.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Bigger than that. More majestic. Though maybe it was a jay. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be.” He taps his glasses. “Had these updated last month and still can’t see worth a darn.”
I nod sympathetically. “Can I get you something to drink while you look over the menu?”
“Coffee, black as midnight,” he says decisively, then immediately reconsiders. “No, wait. Is it too late for coffee? What time is it? Maybe just water. Or maybe an iced tea? My Ellie was particularly fond of iced tea.”
“We can get you an iced tea,” I confirm, making a note. “And it’s never too late for coffee if that’s what you’re in the mood for.”
“Let’s do both,” he decides with a firm nod. “Coffee and tea. I’ll see which strikes my fancy when they arrive.” He opens the menu, squinting at it through his glasses. “Now, what looks good today?”
I leave him to contemplate the menu, which I know he’ll read through completely at least three times, despite having ordered from it hundreds of times before.
It’s quiet right now; the lunch rush is mostly over, and the dinner crowd won’t start trickling in for another few hours.
I get Mr. Sullivan’s drinks and deliver them to his table, where he’s still frowning at the menu.
“Decided yet?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“I’m thinking the patty melt,” he says, then immediately shakes his head. “No, that’s too heavy for lunch. Maybe the club sandwich? Do you still make it with good turkey, not the processed stuff?”
“We do,” I confirm. “House-roasted turkey breast, just like always.”
“Good, good.” He nods, then takes a sip of his coffee, making a face.
“Bit strong today. Let me try that tea.” He sips the tea and smiles.
“That’s nice. My Ellie loved tea. Did I ever tell you about how we met?
It was at a dance hall in 1962. She was wearing a blue dress that matched her eyes, and I knew the moment I saw her that I’d marry that girl. ”
I’ve heard this story at least a dozen times, but I smile and nod as if it’s the first. “She sounds wonderful.”
“She was,” he agrees, a wistful smile crossing his face. “Best thing that ever happened to me. Forty-seven years we had together.” He looks down at the menu again. “I think I’ll have the soup and salad combo. What’s the soup of the day?”
“Barley beef,” I tell him.
His face falls. “Oh. Ellie never cared for barley. Said it reminded her of the porridge her grandmother used to make her eat. What else do you recommend?”
“The club sandwich is always good,” I remind him. “Or the BLT. You seemed to really enjoy it the last time you were in. And Charlene picked up some excellent tomatoes this morning.”
“BLT,” he repeats, brightening. “Now that sounds perfect. Light, but satisfying. I’ll have that with fries. No, wait. The salt isn’t good for my blood pressure. Maybe the side salad instead?”
“Side salad it is,” I say, jotting it down. “Dressing?”
He drums his fingers on the table, considering this as if it’s a life-altering decision. “What are my options again?”
“Ranch, poppyseed vinaigrette, red-wine vinaigrette, bleu cheese, or green goddess,” I recite.
“Red-wine vinaigrette,” he says with certainty. “No, wait. Ranch. No, the vinaigrette. That’s healthier, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I agree, managing to keep the amusement out of my voice.
“Then vinaigrette it is.” He closes the menu with a satisfied nod, handing it back to me. “And Adam, could you ask Peter to make sure the bacon is extra crispy? I like it when it shatters like glass when you bite it.”
“I’ll let him know,” I promise, turning to head toward the kitchen when Mr. Sullivan’s voice stops me.
“Actually, I’ve changed my mind,” he calls. “The soup and salad does sound good after all. Is there any other soup besides the barley?”
I turn back, reminding myself that patience is a virtue. “We always have chicken noodle.”
His face lights up. “Perfect! Chicken noodle soup and a side salad with vinaigrette.” He hesitates, then asks, “The salad comes with croutons, yes?”
“It does,” I confirm.
“Could I get it without? They’re hard on my teeth.
” He taps his jaw. “Had some dental work done last month. Didn’t I tell you about that?
Went in for a cleaning and came out minus two molars.
Dentist said they were beyond saving. I told him, ‘Doc, if you’re going to start pulling teeth, maybe warn a fellow first.’ Caught me completely by surprise. ”
I make a sympathetic noise, scratching out the BLT and writing in the new order. “Soup and salad, no croutons.”
“That’s right,” he confirms, then takes another sip of tea. His brow furrows. “You know, on second thought, I’m a bit hungrier than I realized. Maybe I should get something more substantial.”
I resist the urge to sigh. This is why most of the other servers try to avoid Mr. Sullivan’s table. But I’ve developed a system for dealing with his indecision: wait him out, let him talk himself in circles, and eventually he’ll land on something.
“The special today is chicken pot pie,” I suggest. “It’s hearty but not too heavy.”
His eyes light up. “Chicken pot pie! Now that’s proper comfort food. Ellie used to make the best pot pie you’ve ever tasted. Crust so light it would float away if you didn’t catch it with your fork.” He nods decisively. “Yes, I’ll have that. And a side salad with vinaigrette, no croutons.”
“Excellent choice,” I say, quickly writing it down before he can change his mind again. “I’ll get this right in for you.”
As I turn away, he calls after me once more. “And maybe a cup of that chicken noodle soup to start?”
I give him a thumbs up, not daring to turn around lest he spot an opening for further revisions. I head straight to the kitchen, where Peter is prepping vegetables for the dinner service.
“Mr. Sullivan’s here,” I announce, clipping the order to the rotating wheel. “Chicken pot pie, side salad with vinaigrette, no croutons, and a cup of chicken noodle.”
Peter glances up, a knowing look crossing his face. “That his first choice or his fifth?”
“Third,” I admit with a small laugh. “But I think we’ve finally landed on a winner.”
“Don’t count on it,” Peter warns, but there’s no heat in it. Everyone at Louise’s Table has a soft spot for Mr. Sullivan, despite, or maybe because of, his indecisiveness. He’s been coming here since the restaurant first opened.
The bell above the door chimes, and I glance over to see Daniel walking in. My stomach tightens involuntarily. I still don’t know exactly what’s going on between him and Caitlin, and the uncertainty gnaws at me every time I see them together. They’re clearly close, but how close?
Daniel slides into a booth in my section, and I take a moment to compose myself before heading over. Whatever is or isn’t happening between him and Caitlin, I need to be professional. I grab a menu and cross the dining room.
“Hey,” I greet him, setting the menu down. “Welcome to Louise’s Table.”
“Thanks,” he says, grinning. “Though I think we’re past the formal welcomes at this point, don’t you?”
I manage a smile, though it feels stiff on my face. “Force of habit. What can I get you?”
“Just coffee and a club sandwich,” he says. “I can’t stay long. I’ve got a surgery scheduled this afternoon.”
I nod and head to get his coffee and put his order in, trying to ignore the stab of jealousy that comes whenever I see Daniel.
It’s not just that he might be dating Caitlin; it’s how effortlessly he fits into her world.
He knows everyone in Cedar City, has roots here, history.
I’m still an outsider, despite my efforts.
It strikes me that this is probably very close to how Caitlin felt about Millie.
When I return with his coffee, Daniel is checking something on his phone. He looks up as I set the mug down. “Thanks. Hey, I wanted to ask you something.”
My guard immediately goes up. “What’s that?”
“A bunch of us get together every couple of weeks for a guys’ night. Poker, beer, terrible snacks — the whole stereotype.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “We’re meeting tomorrow at my place. Thought you might want to join.”
I blink, surprised by the invitation. “Me?”
“No, the other new guy in town who works here,” he says dryly. “Yes, you.”
“I, uh…” I fumble for words, suspicion warring with the desire to be included. “Who else will be there?”
“The usual suspects. Craig from the hardware store, Jason who runs the microbrewery downtown, my colleague Mike from the vet clinic.”
I stand there, coffee pot still in hand, trying to figure out Daniel’s angle. Is this a genuine invitation or some kind of test? Or worse, is he trying to establish some kind of dominance, showing me he’s the one with the connections, the one who belongs here?
Daniel studies my face, amusement slowly spreading across his features. “You’re really overthinking this, aren’t you?”
“No,” I lie, then immediately backtrack. “Maybe a little. It’s just…” I hesitate, then decide to just ask the question that’s been eating at me. “Look, are you and Caitlin…?” I let the question hang unfinished.
Daniel’s eyebrows shoot up, and then he laughs, not unkindly, but with genuine surprise. “Caitlin and me? No, not at all.” He shakes his head. “We’re friends. Good friends, but that’s it.”
The relief I feel is so intense it’s almost embarrassing. “Oh.”
“Is that why you’ve been giving me the death glare every time I come in here?” Daniel asks, still looking amused. “Because you thought Caitlin and I were a thing?”
“I haven’t been giving you death glares,” I protest, though I suspect that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.
“Please.” Daniel rolls his eyes. “Every time I stop by to see Caitlin, you look at me like you’re mentally measuring me for a coffin. I told Caitlin that I’ve been waiting for you to challenge me to a duel or something.”
Despite myself, I laugh. “I’m not the dueling type.”
“That’s what she said.” He laughs as he sips his coffee.
“So,” Daniel continues, “guys’ night. You in? If you’re going to be part of this community, you should get to know some people besides the Hughes family and your customers.”
He has a point. I’ve been in Cedar City for months now, and my entire social circle consists of people from work and Caitlin’s family. And most of those relationships are still fragile, built on tentative forgiveness and cautious second chances.
“I should probably check with Caitlin first,” I say hesitantly. “Make sure she’s comfortable with it.”
Daniel raises an eyebrow. “Already did. She’s fine with it. Actually, she thought it was a good idea.”
“She did?” This surprises me more than the invitation itself.
“She did,” Daniel confirms.
“So you’ll come?” Daniel pulls out his phone. “I can text you the address and details.”
I hesitate for one final moment, then nod. “Yeah, I’ll come. Thanks for the invitation.”
We exchange numbers, and Daniel taps out a quick text with his address and the time. My phone buzzes in my pocket as it arrives.
“Fair warning,” Daniel says, finishing his coffee. “Jason cheats at poker, but he’s terrible at it. Craig brings the good beer but talks nonstop about his ex-wife. And Mike will try to show you pictures of every animal he’s treated that week, including the gross ones.”
“Sounds like a fun crowd,” I say, and I’m surprised to find I mean it. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a normal guys’ night.
“See you tomorrow, then?” Daniel asks.
“I’ll be there,” I confirm.
As I head back towards the kitchen, I notice Mr. Sullivan waving at me from his booth. I brace myself for another menu revision, but when I approach, he’s beaming.
“This pot pie is delicious,” he says. “Although not as good as my Ellie’s, though don’t tell Peter I said that.
Her crust was a touch flakier.” He takes another bite, then asks, “Was that Daniel Wright I saw you talking to? Nice young man. Saved my Reggie when he got into the chocolate last Christmas. Did I ever tell you about Reggie? Best beagle a man could ask for.”
Mr. Sullivan launches into the tale of his beloved dog’s chocolate misadventure, and I think about tomorrow night. A normal social gathering, with normal guys, talking about normal things. I can’t wait.