Hotter than Helen (The Bobby's Diner Series)

by Wingate, Susan

  Outside, a grackle trilled out a call to its mate and a mourning dove hooted a sad falling lilt. After sprucing up the room she needed to remember to refill the bird feeders. That would make the doves happy again.

  She loved Bobby’s office and had forgotten how much time she and her late husband had spent together in his room. She always did this, this remembering thing—about the room, about Bobby, about a time so long ago but a time that only seemed like yesterday.

  Moments like this always stopped her, this feeling in the pit of her stomach, nearly knocking her into a sitting position. Tears for Bobby weren’t used up, far from it. It was only that now she knew how to control her emotions. Emotions were simply something she had finally learned to deal with.

  She still missed him so much. She missed Vanessa too. She chuckled, thinking how the three of them—Bobby, his ex-wife and she—could’ve ever been friends, but they were, the best of friends. Now, all that remained was their wonderful daughter, Roberta.

  Roberta amazed Georgette everyday by calling her, sending her emails, friending her on Facebook, even following her Bobby’s Diner Fan Page, something Roberta had talked Georgette into. She was Georgette’s confidante, almost a daughter—almost. Once she’d even told her, “Okay, you’re close but you’re still not my mother, Georgie.” She guessed that’s where they existed today—close but with reservations.

  “Reservations.” She giggled, thinking about the diner and Roberta all at the same time. It made her laugh out loud as she looked out the open window into the field where the deer canvassed. They were back now that the flowers were in bloom.

  The cat jumped onto the naked bed. She stroked his long calico fur. His claws dug in and out, deep into the mattress’ ticking.

  “Okay, Gangster. How about you and me get this room ready for Helen?”

  4

  “Please remind me why I decided to work here on my days off, will you, Georgie.”

  “Now, hon, it’s not all that bad. Vanessa would be so proud. You can still buy her half, you know. I’ll cut you a screamin’ deal.” She kidded Roberta, knowing the only reason she worked there was so she could hold on to something left of her mother’s. “Keep working that dough. It helps with stress.”

  The day started out with someone calling in sick, then someone else would be late and the special for this evening had to be changed because the market didn’t have prime rib today, Wednesday (their usual prime rib day), again, for the third week in a row.

  “We’re gonna have to call it Wait Until Next Wednesday instead of Prime Rib Wednesday if this keeps up.”

  “Well, if it ever reaches emergency levels, we can always send up a flare!” She giggled, thinking how that might look to the townsfolk in Sunnydale. Then she looked over at Roberta rolling and pushing on the pie dough. Her arms flexed, reminding Georgette of how Vanessa used to look.

  “Gosh, honey. You look so much like your mom.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You always get nostalgic in the springtime.” She grabbed a rolling pin without looking up. “Did you know that? That you get that way every spring?”

  “Do I? I didn’t, I guess.” She cut into an onion. Fumes wafted up, hitting her in the nose. She sniffled. The fumes continued to bombard her senses, making her eyes water. While still holding the chef ’s knife, she bent up her right wrist and blotted the corner of her eye.

  “Oh good lord, I didn’t mean to make you cry.” Roberta teased.

  “You didn’t!”

  She didn’t get Roberta’s joke which amused her. “Cry baby.”

  “You didn’t make me cry! It’s these damn onions.” Roberta knew how easy it was to get Georgette riled.

  “Cry baby.”

  Looking up at her, she finally understood Roberta had been teasing her. “Oh, you little fart.” And then threw a towel at her.

  “So how’s Helen handling it back here?”

  “She was tired from the bus ride, dumped a ton of luggage into her room and even a shoebox full of letters or something in the cupboard out in the garage.” The onions made her wipe her eyes again. “But she started looking for work yesterday.”

  “What kind of work is she looking for?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Probably something where she can write. She said she needed some time to think. I think she might go over to the Sunnydale Weekly and apply.”

  “Hmm.” Roberta put her hands on her waist, then wiped them over her apron.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Think about what? I mean, I guess, why didn’t she ask you for a job? Or me? She could find something in my office. For God’s sake, I’m the mayor. I have a little pull.”

  “Honey. Don’t take offense. I intended on broaching the subject of her coming to work with us here, anyway. Maybe she didn’t want to be a burden by asking.”

  “We’re her friends, Georgie. We are supposed to burden each other. It’s what friends do to each other.”

  “You mean like what you’re doing to me right now, asking me why someone else did something that I can’t answer?”

  “Kind of like that, yeah.” She looked up at Georgette. “It was five years ago last week.”

  Georgette let out a deep breath. “I know.”

  “I miss him.”

  “Me too, hon. More than you’ll ever …”

  “Is it weird. I mean is it strange that you’ve met someone else? I mean… you’re getting married.”

  “He’s amazing, Roberta. I loved your father so much. It’s different with Hawthorne. I mean, I love him. Don’t get me wrong. I trust him completely. He asked me if I wanted a prenuptial. I told him, ‘Only if you do.’ When he said he didn’t, I knew I was safe with him.” She set both hands down on the cutting table, still holding the knife. “Oh, I was hoping we could talk about this. It seems like a good time.”

  Georgette put down her knife and walked over to Roberta. Leaning against the counter where she made her pies, Georgette continued. “It is weird. In a way. Some days all I can do is think about your dad. Wish he was still alive.” She paused and seemed to sink into the words. “He would want us to be happy, Roberta. Your dad was the most generous, sweetest guy in the world. He would want us to live.” She waited and looked at Roberta, who hadn’t yet looked into her eyes. “The problem is, he could never know how hard that might be for you and me.” She patted Roberta on the arm and went back to prepping vegetables.

  “The old fart.” Roberta turned and walked into the bathroom.

  After the door was closed, Georgette mumbled to herself. “The old fart, indeed.”

  5

  The sun was cresting over the Mohave, giving the desert long, cool morning shadows striped with crystalline rays the color of blood. The sky seemed to go on forever, not touching land for hundreds of miles off, shining iodine red and molten gold.

  Hawthorne Biggs breathed in, smelling the light, sweet fragrance emanating from the Prickly Pear cactus blossoms, cacti that sat in thorny clumps around each tee box. He stretched once with his golf club high over his head, gripping it in both hands and bending back ever so slightly, feeling the tug of muscle fighting him. Nothing was ever easy. Getting old. Earning a living. Golfing. Nothing.

  Diving his hand in, feeling the cool rectangular metal plate, he skipped over it and instead pulled out a long, shiny pine golf tee out of his khaki pants pocket with a gloved hand that matched his tan and black oxford golf shoes. He looked good today. He knew it. Every article of clothing new and matching and with the latest set of Macgregor clubs, Hawthorne looked “country club.”

  Holding his driver in the pit of his right arm, he bent down and pressed the tee into the earth. Doing so always reminded him of shoving an ice pick into muscle, a piece of meat. Even the earth suffered when punctured. He looked up toward the sun, still in a squat and smiled.

  “It’s gonna be a good day, Tanner.” He stood tall, all six-four of him, all two-twenty, like a wall he stood, dwarfing the club and shooting
Martin Tanner a knowing grin. “I’m gonna give you a butt-whoopin’ today, old buddy.”

  “What makes you think that, Biggs? You couldn’t do beans to win in college. What makes you think you can beat me now?”

  “Well if I don’t, I’m gonna wrap this club around your head, that’s what makes me think so.” His eyes smiled, but had a serious hint behind them. He chortled to take the edge off his comment.

  “Just tee off, for Chissakes, Biggs.”

  He pulled out a golf ball and gently balanced it on top of the tee. Standing up, he set his feet to address the ball. “Hello, ball.” He chuckled deep in his throat.

  “Jeez. Hit the dang thing.”

  He knew his set up drove other golfers crazy and Tanner was no different.

  “Hit it! You’re driving me nuts.” Tanner grumbled.

  Bigg’s favorite straight line finally spoken, he turned to Tanner. “That’s not a drive, buddy. That’s a short putt.”

  “Screw you.” Tanner grabbed the club like a baseball bat acting as if he wanted to club his friend and Hawthorne acted like he was scared putting his arms in front of his face.

  Then they both laughed it off and Hawthorne turned back to the ball and paused briefly this time, taking a long hard look at the green where the flag wagged soft in a morning breeze, the fairway dog-legging to the right, some four hundred yards off. “Yes, sir. A good day.”

  After turning his attention from his target, he addressed the ball, concentrating for a few seconds. Then he pulled the club back fast, cranking the club high behind him and swinging through in a swift, choppy motion down at the ground where the ball sat perched on its tee. He barely noticed lifting his eyes up before striking it. The club connected with a crack, sending the ball skewing off to the right, cutting off the dog-leg, screaming straight for the pin and high over the barren desert floor that contrasted so starkly with the brilliant green fairways.

  “Heavens to Betsy!” Hawthorne slammed his club head into the earth, denting the ground where it landed. The ball soared over saguaros, prickly pears, chollas and a few barrel cactus that lived in the light sandy brown earth. As the ball spun through its route, both men noticed it pass over the desert and take a lucky bounce about fifty yards off the green and onto the fairway. He accidentally sliced the ball and it turned out perfect for Hawthorne, like most things.

  Hawthorne turned to Tanner. “Never lay up! That’s my motto!” He bellowed out a hard, round laugh that echoed over the rolling landscape of the golf course, pissing off Martin Tanner.

  “I can’t believe it!” Tanner was angry but still smiling.

  “Believe it, son. And, nimrod? What did I say about your language?” He tugged off his golf cap revealing a curly bush of salt and pepper hair across his tanned, almost red forehead. He scratched a spot near his hairline. “I told you it’d be a good day!”

  “You lucky son of bitch.”

  Hawthorne walked over smartly to the back of their golf cart and shoved the driver back into his bag like the killing thrust of a swordsman in a duel. “Take that!”

  “How ‘bout here. You’ll never forget this hole.”

  “Yea, here’s good.” He patted his right pocket and after again tracing the edge of metal between his fingers, he pulled out the VIN plaque. He held it up for Tanner to see, his last piece of evidence tying him to the truck.

  “Off the edge of the tee box next to the gold tee-markers, we won’t forget that.”

  “Very symbolic, Tanner. Nice touch.”

  The two men smiled at each other, proudly.

  Tanner backed off the flat short grass into the thicker fringe of the teeing area and toed the ground. “How ‘bout right here? He said ‘hide it’ right? This seems like a good place to hide something… in the wide open.”

  Biggs looked around in a three-hundred-sixty-degree turn. “Perfect.”

  Bending down near Tanner’s foot he set the thin galvanized steel upright, sliding it back and forth, cutting with the edge of the metal through the grass until hitting dirt. Then, he jammed hard like a knife. The metal stopped halfway. He stood, placed his foot on the plate, pressed his full weight on it and shoved it all the way into the ground.

  “So, it’s been drilled off the engine block?” Hawthorned asked.

  Tanner nodded fast.

  “Drilled out of the wheel wells?”

  Tanner continued to nod as Biggs continued to question.

  “And, we replaced the window shield and the trunk, did you check the trunk for the number anywhere in there.”

  “Yep. All gone. The truck is clean.”

  “Well, then, this should do ‘er.”

  “That should do ‘er, boss.”

  “Let’s finish this game, shall we?”

  And, like Alvin of The Chipmunks fame, Tanner responded, “Let’s shall!”

  6

  The thick planking of the rugged raw pine table where they all sat shrunk in comparison to Hawthorne Biggs. A low growl of thunder bumped over the roof, causing the chandelier to jingle. Blinking tapers danced in the dim room, reflecting in each of their eyes, adding a hypnotic element to the evening.

  Hawthorne daubed his mouth like a ranch hand. His big paw looked odd holding the gold-rimmed beetle motif napkin. The fabric played opposite his craggy, thick fingers that held the thing. He set it down with flair.

  “My goodness, woman,” he bellowed. “You are the finest chef this side of the Salt River. And that’s a mighty large expanse.” Hawthorne laid his fork seductively onto his tongue and licked it clean.

  His ample shoulders jiggled when he laughed. Hawthorne’s physique challenged the size of the tree he was named after.

  His tall sturdy frame made him look like a man in charge. His chameleon eyes danced when he spoke, sliding from silver blue to teal in a matter of seconds depending on his mood. Teal meant he was happy. They shined daringly teal tonight.

  But what most attracted Georgette to Hawthorne was his huge laugh. His laugh turned her head that first day they met at Bobby’s Diner.

  “Hawthorne. You exaggerate.”

  He shook his head fast, denying the accusation. “Now, wait one second, young lady. I’m not the only guest here tonight. What do you think of her cooking, Helen? Fabulous, right?”

  Helen pulled back a misbehaving strand of hair behind her ear and nodded. “He’s right, Georgette. This is wonderful.” Her ears were her giveaway. They flushed pink when she felt uneasy. Georgette noticed how her ears always seemed to be trimmed in pink since her return. Something she hadn’t remembered noticing before, when Helen was married to Harold Pyle.

  “You two.” Georgette’s emerald eyes glimmered in the candlelight.

  “Pretty too, wouldn’t you say, Helen.”

  “Now, Hawthorne. I’m only going so far with my compliments. It sounds like someone’s smitten.”

  “Have you seen her ring?”

  “Yes, Hawthorne. I’ve seen her ring.” Helen rolled her eyes and she and Georgette smiled at each other like sorority sisters.

  “He just likes my food. He always tells me I’m pretty when I feed him.”

  “That’s not true. I tell you you’re pretty other times too.”

  “Yes, well, let’s not go into that, now, okay?” Her eyes opened wide for fear he’d let out some intimate detail.

  “Oh, come on, honey. Let’s talk dirty.” He snickered and shoveled in a heaping piece of salmon between his wide smiling lips.

  “You’re awful.” Georgette giggled.

  “You both are awful.” Helen shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Did Georgette tell you, Hawthorne?” Helen looked at Georgette wide-eyed. “About the diner?” Nudging her, she saw Georgette remembered.

  “That’s right! I’ve been so busy I almost forgot.” Georgette set her glass down. “Hawthorne. It’s wonderful news, really. Helen thinks she may want to buy into the diner.” She smiled at Helen and then looked at Hawthorne for approval.

  “You don’t say.” Hi
s eyes lightened.

  “We do say. Plus, I’ve given Roberta every opportunity but I think she’s too busy at the mayor’s office.”

  “Well, isn’t that something. Don’t you think we should’ve discussed it first?”

  The women glanced at each other for the briefest second, then Helen dropped her eyes to her plate and Georgette’s eyes went to Hawthorne.

  “Why, Hawthorne? You always said you would leave decisions about the diner up to me.” Her arm rested on top of the table and she leaned in on it toward him. “I think this is a fabulous idea.”

  Helen placed one hand onto her stomach and rubbed. “I’m stuffed.” She acted like she wanted to leave and slid her chair out a few inches.

  Hawthorne stopped her.

  “No. You’re right. Of course it’s fabulous. Couldn’t be anything but.”

  Helen shifted her eyes down from the two of them to her glass when Hawthorne looked her way. She had just taken the last sip of her chardonnay when Hawthorne lifted the half empty bottle from its chilly bucket and refilled her glass.

  “Let’s toast.”

  “Hawthorne, you’re going to get me drunk.”

  “Now wouldn’t that be fun.”

  He flashed a bright smile at Helen. His smile caused Helen to relax. She smiled back.

  Georgette looked up. Both of their teeth grinning that way at each other put an exclamation point on his words. He flirted terribly with her and other women, even men sometimes. She knew that about him. It hadn’t ever irked her until now.

  “I’d like another glass too, Hawthorne.”

  “Of course, darling. We’re toasting.”

  Helen looked back down to her dish. She poked food onto her fork and kept eating.

  “Helen. Aren’t you just the little wonder.” He spoke as he filled Georgette’s glass. “Georgette was surprised to hear you were coming back to Sunnydale. Happy but surprised. And now, this.” They all exchanged a few restless glances and sips of wine. “I mean. You were in Seattle for a long time. Right? Why did you decide to come back here?”