Chapter 10
Tank
I realize my mistake the moment I step into the diner.
Because at the precise second my boot lands on the tile floor, I feel something in the air shift.
Heads swivel toward the door, which isn’t all that unusual given that it’s a small town.
Everyone’s nosy and always glances up to see who’s coming in.
Them’s the rules. I’m here several times a week if not daily, so I’m aware of the way people glance up, smile, wave, and then go back to their fried eggs or fajitas.
But normally, I’m walking in alone. Not trailing behind Rose, my hand on her lower back, after holding open the diner door for her. And the shift in the room’s atmosphere hits me like the blast of frigid air when you open the freezer door.
I have never come here with a woman. At least, one who isn’t my daughter or daughter-in-law, usually as part of a group. And if it wasn’t clear just by the fact Rose and I are together, the way I’m touching her speaks volumes.
Which means this is a huge deal and the entire diner knows it.
Now that we’ve been seen, the impact is unavoidable.
Dramatic. Within moments, it will be the talk of the town.
Someone will post on Neighborly within seconds, probably with photographic evidence.
In fact, I actually think I see one of the Bobs lifting his ancient flip phone like he’s taking a picture.
I didn’t even know phones that old had cameras.
A very primal, biological instinct urges me to turn and run. But I’m smart enough to know how foolish that would be. Though I do briefly consider tugging Rose back out the door and telling her to go and not to look back.
But it’s too late. We’ve walked into the proverbial lion’s den, and now the best thing to do is not look like prey.
I play it cool. I drop my hand from Rose’s back after an appropriate amount of time.
I smile as normally as I can. Nod to people I know, ignoring their shocked expressions.
Continue walking with a casualness that I hope doesn’t look as forced as it feels.
I think about muttering a warning to Rose but decide that would only make things look worse.
And what would I even say in warning?
Sorry, Rose, but by choosing to bring you to this diner, I’ve tossed you directly into the gossip mill of a town full of busybodies. Just act natural and maybe we’ll make it out alive.
I should have thought this through before choosing the diner. But I got knocked off my game—assuming I have any game at all—by hunger mixed with a nervous excitement about asking Rose on a date.
Maybe I also wanted to show off the town a little bit by choosing a place within walking distance.
Downtown Sheet Cake has taken big strides in the year since I’ve taken over.
I’m proud of what I’ve managed to facilitate.
Not too long ago, it was a ghost town filled with vacant buildings and pothole-laced streets.
Now, there’s a newfound charm. Strings of lights draped over Main Street add to the ambiance, and the gazebo has been refurbished and is draped with bright pink bougainvillea. And there’s only a few potholes left rather than a few dozen.
Progress!
Plus, Rose says she likes walking, though that was more for exercise, I think.
Walks are romantic. Or they were back in my dating days.
Which were, admittedly, decades ago. Practically a different millennium.
Anyway, walking through downtown to the diner, which has amazing food, seemed like an excellent idea.
If only you remove all the people in the diner.
I can’t have my children finding out about this date secondhand, so with great reluctance, I pull out my phone and tap out a message to the family group chat: I’m on a date with Rose.
Please save all texts and any questions for later.
Then I silence my phone and slip it back in my pocket, ignoring the immediate vibrations as my family actively ignores my wishes.
“Tank!” Big Mo emerges from the kitchen and greets me with a hug and back slap, then gives Rose a shy smile and nod. “Lovely to see you as always, Miss Rose. There’s a booth open back here.” Eyeing me with sympathy, he lowers his voice. “It’s a little less front and center.”
“Thank you,” I say, with a look letting him know I owe him not just one but several.
Nan drops off our menus, looking like she is just barely biting back whatever comment she wants to make. The white-haired woman who took over the front of house could never replace Mari, the diner’s original owner, but she has a similar bright cheer that warms the whole room.
“Only water?” Nan asks, as though we’re at a bar, not a diner.
“Do you suddenly have drink specials on the menu now, Nan?”
She laughs. “Not unless you count burnt coffee. I think that pot’s been sitting there for a few hours.”
“Tempting,” Rose says with a smile. “But the caffeine might keep me up.”
Nan disappears into the kitchen and Rose glances around, like she’s just now realizing that our arrival has been something of an event.
“I guess this is what it’s like being you all the time.
” She laughs, taking the seat with her back to the room.
“The famous Tank Graham, former football star, current town owner.”
“That’s me,” I say with a weak smile.
I don’t tell Rose that this isn’t a typical greeting for me.
Or that it’s not why the entire diner is watching us like their favorite show is on.
Yes, I’m somewhat of a celebrity. But these folks have grown used to me by now.
All of this attention is more about her. Or, I guess, me and her, together.
I don’t know her well—yet—but I suspect if Rose realizes the real reason the room’s radar is attuned toward this booth, she might dart right out the back door, which is conveniently located at the end of the restroom hallway right near our table. And if she goes, I go.
But I refuse to have this date ruined by nosy townsfolk. Even if it’s my own fault for walking us right into it.
“What do you usually order here?” Rose asks, looking up and down the menu through her reading glasses, which keeps her from noticing the way a nearby table of older ladies is frantically typing on their phones.
Updating Neighborly, I’m sure. “Everything looks good. Which might be the hunger speaking.”
“Everything is good,” I tell her. “Have you not been here yet?”
Rose keeps her gaze on the menu. “I don’t eat out a lot.”
Though I want to ask more, I save my curiosity for another day.
Some people don’t enjoy eating out alone.
She might have dietary restrictions, which I didn’t think to ask about.
Or perhaps it could be about finances. Eating out adds up, and I know that for someone starting a business, this could be the case.
“Well, that means you didn’t get to meet Mari. Or maybe you moved here after she left for Costa Rica.”
“I’ve heard of her. Isn’t she Val’s mom?”
“She’s Val’s aunt. And this is—or was—her place. But Big Mo, whom it seems like you’ve met, took over after Mari left as head chef.”
She takes off her reading glasses and folds them on the table. I decide not to tell her that she looks cute in glasses. Too much, too soon.
“He comes in several times a week for cookies,” Rose says, smiling. “Says it’s his weakness.”
I glance back toward the kitchen, suddenly wondering if Big Mo might be like me: visiting the bakery under the pretense of sweets. Like me and the hummingbird cake.
Do I have some competition when it comes to Rose? I have a sudden moment of panic.
Like me, Big Mo is a widower. Only, he also lost his daughter in the same wreck that took his wife. I wouldn’t have thrown my hat in the ring if I knew he tossed his in first or had staked some kind of claim.
But just then, Big Mo walks by the table and gives me a discreet thumbs-up and a grin. I relax. The man must just like cookies.
“I guess I didn’t realize he was a chef,” Rose says, nodding toward his retreating back.
“Yep. I think over the years, he and Mari developed many of the recipes for the entrees, and now, it’s hard to tell where her mark ends and his begins. He’s also the baker. It’s probably why he comes in for cookies—he’s got a sweet tooth.”
Rose looks startled. “He bakes?”
“Yup. Pies and cakes, mostly. He even made a birthday cake for James that incorporated beer in the frosting. I never would have thought that would taste good, but it was delicious. Maybe the second best cake I’ve ever had.”
Rose is staring off toward the kitchen and seems to have missed the implied compliment. She looks slightly dazed. I tap her menu with mine, drawing her attention back to me.
“Your hummingbird cake is my favorite,” I tell her. “In case that wasn’t obvious.”
She smiles and she seems to relax a bit.
“Thank you. I’m really glad you like it.
And now I definitely want to try Big Mo’s desserts.
But first, I need to know what real food to order.
I’m so famished, I think I could gnaw off my own leg,” Rose says.
Then she pauses and fans her face with the plastic menu.
Her cheeks have turned pink. “Sorry. That’s not exactly an appetizing comment. ”
“You’d have to do a lot worse than that to bother me. I’ve lived through my fair share of questionable dinner topics and activities. Haven’t you met my sons?”
This makes her laugh. Which in turn makes the whole diner lean forward with anticipation. Ms. Fleming even has a plastic water cup held up to her ear like some kind of auditory support. Someone really should tell her that the cup thing only works when you’re pressing it up against a wall.
I jolt when Rose reaches across the table with both hands, gently tugging at my fingers.
I don’t realize until I glance down that I’m gripping the menu like my goal is to tear it in two.
I relax, loosening my grip until the menu falls to the tabletop.
She gives my hands a quick squeeze as she leans forward.