by Sara Arden
“Let’s go to the Corner Pharmacy for breakfast. I want a chocolate Italian soda and you can have a Green River.”
“I haven’t thought about that place in years. It’s still open?” He thought about the soda fountain specialty he hadn’t had in years—the carbonated lime drink that had always shocked and pleased his tongue in his youth.
“Of course. It’s an institution. Plus, breakfast is cheap. I’ll treat.”
“You certainly will not.” He was offended.
“You’re such a caveman.”
“And that’s bad because...”
Betsy grinned. “I have been stuffing you full of sweets. I guess it’s a fair trade.”
“Betsy, there will be no trading. I’m a simple man at heart, and while I believe you can do anything you set your mind to do, I still believe the guy should pay on a date.”
“Is this a date?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” She blushed.
“Sweetheart, I’ve seen parts of you that your doctor hasn’t seen and you’re blushing because I asked you out?”
“Sometimes I do things a little backward.” She looked down at her feet.
“Unless you don’t want it to be a date, then I guess it doesn’t have to be. This is what I should have done to start with. I should have asked you to dinner, rather than have you come to my house in the middle of the night like some booty call.”
“It wasn’t like that, Jack. I know that.”
“Caleb was right to call me out. You know that, right?”
“We will not discuss that right now. I’m mad at you both for that display of stupidity.”
“Brush your hair, woman. You look like you just tumbled out of my bed.”
“I did.”
“I know. You’re going to be right back in it with no breakfast if you don’t hurry up.”
A wistful expression crossed her face and she smiled. “Yes, sir.”
“Oh I like that.” He smirked.
“Don’t get used to it.” She pulled a brush out of her bag and started yanking it through the mass.
He closed his fingers around the hand that held the brush and guided her to sit on the couch with him, back turned. She’d taken care of him; he could do the same for her.
And he wanted to touch her hair.
With the whiskey out of his system, he wanted to see what it smelled like. Or if he’d lost the vanilla and sugar forever.
He leaned forward, gliding the brush gently through her tresses, and he was mollified to discover she still smelled so very sweet.
“Jack, you don’t have to do that,” she said, wiggling with a little shiver.
“I want to. I’ve always loved your hair.” Each stroke down through the mass soothed something in him that he didn’t know needed soothing.
“Does it smell like your shampoo and soap after last night?”
“No, it still smells like sugar.” He leaned against her and inhaled deeply. She shivered again, but settled back into him so that he could continue as he wished.
Jack drew the brush through her hair a few more times after it lay smooth and neat, just for the pleasure of touching it and being close to her. He liked the way it clung to his fingers, the way she leaned against him.
“You know, we don’t have to go out. We could stay in.” She shifted against him.
“We could.” Part of him wanted to. It would be easier to hide, easier to lose himself inside her, but India was right. He had to do this wholeheartedly. And that meant going out; it meant being seen and not being afraid to be on display.
It meant treating Betsy the way she deserved.
“But you can’t get an Italian chocolate soda at Chez Jack, so it’s off to the Pharmacy we go.”
“Jack, I know I shouldn’t look a gift horse—” she began.
“So don’t.” He used her own reasoning against her. She’d said the very thing when he told her he didn’t want to hurt her.
“You’re not funny.”
“Okay, fine.” He caved. “What?”
“You seem a million times different than last night. You can’t just flip a switch and fix everything.”
“I didn’t. Bets, I don’t even know if I can stop drinking on my own. I don’t know if I’m an alcoholic or if I’m just self-medicating. Especially with what happened to my father. I know I’m going to fall and stumble. I know it’s going to be hard, but India said something that really hit home for me, except I didn’t realize it until this morning. That’s all I’m ready to talk about, and I hope that can be good enough.”
She smiled and as always, it was like turning on the sun. “Yes. Of course.”
The short drive to the Corner Pharmacy was traveled in a contemplative silence. He found a place to park and really took in the scenery. He hadn’t paid attention to the details since he’d come home.
As much as things changed, they stayed the same. Some of the shops he’d grown up with were gone, making way for other things. New restaurants—he saw the bar his father used to go to all the time...part of him had hoped the last time the Missouri flooded its banks the water would have washed it away. He hated the sight of it.
That wasn’t the case for all of the quaint downtown. He had so many good memories from the Corner Pharmacy. Green Rivers were an institution. He had no idea what they put in them—they were almost like a mad scientist’s experiment—but he remembered many Saturday mornings spent drinking one and wandering around downtown with his friends looking for trouble.
It hadn’t been the thing to sit inside, unless you could get a seat at the lunch counter and swing around on the old-fashioned soda fountain stools. Only old people sat in the booths, which was why Betsy headed for the counter.
But Jack couldn’t sit with his back to the masses of people. He had to have something solid against him.
“Can we do a booth?” He hated asking.
“Sure.” She didn’t balk, or tease him. Just accepted it as something that he needed.
They sat down and he looked at the menu.
“Hey, Betsy-boo.” One of the waitresses came over. “How are you, sugar? Haven’t seen you in here in a while.”
“I know, Connie. I’ve just been busy with the shop and my mom. I’ve got some help now on the weekends, so it’s been a little easier. You remember Jack?”
The old waitress smiled. “I do. Have you been to see Scott?”
Connie Meyer, he remembered her now, and her son, Scott. “No, ma’am. Bets has been keeping me busy.”
“As well she should. Let’s see if I can remember. Our Betsy will have a chocolate soda, but you used to drink Green Rivers, right?”
Jack found himself smiling. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Anything else this morning? Eggs, bacon, toast?”
“All of it times two,” Jack said.
“I’ll get that started for you.” She scribbled on the pad.
“Wait, that was just for me.” Jack grinned at her.
“One of everything for me, too. And a couple of coffees. Thanks, Connie.”
“You got it, kid.” Connie winked at her and went back behind the counter.
“I forgot how much I used to love this place.” He glanced up at the decorative tin tiles on the vaulted ceiling.
He’d been worried that the noise would bother him, but the nostalgia seemed to block it out—the din was part of the atmosphere.
“When I came back from New York, I was in here every morning. Even though it’s nothing like the hustle and bustle of the city, it was still comforting. People gathering around food. I’ve discovered I really enjoy people-watching over coffee. I’d just sit in this booth, actually, so I could watch everyone, and I’d make up stories about their lives. At least for the people I
didn’t know.”
“It could be fun to make them up about those we do know.”
“Like who?”
“Connie.”
“You better be nice.”
“It’s not mean. She knows everyone. What if she’s actually a spy? What better way to find out what’s going on in a community than the local diner?”
“Oh tell me more.”
Jack eyed her for a minute and something sparked in his imagination. “Glory is crawling with military and government employees. There’s the base and all of the Department of Defense independent contractors. These people are bound to make friends, to frequent local establishments. A kindly, motherly old waitress would be the perfect cover to plant bugs. A pat on the back, a brush of her hand.” Jack shrugged. “Haven’t you ever wondered about some of these companies? These little storefronts that have some inane, generic name like ‘consultants’ or ‘Branwell Solutions.’ What the hell is that? Acme Security? It doesn’t get any more generic than that.”
“Assassins.” Betsy nodded sagely.
“In some cases, that’s true. It has to be. These guys contract out to the CIA, H.S. and all the other little initialed agencies.”
Betsy grinned and shifted in her seat as if digging in for something really good. “What if her name is really Katrina and she was a plant here in the Cold War? She had a son and decided to Americanize him so no one would ever know. He was part of her cover.”
“Exactly.”
Connie brought their coffee to the table with a smile. “You sure are cheerful on this dreary morning. What’s so funny?”
“We decided that your name is Katrina.”
“Ekatarina, actually.” She winked at them. “Cream?” She set the tiny carafe down on the table.
Betsy’s eyes widened and they laughed again. “See, that was much more fun than someone you don’t know.”
“You should write this stuff down, Jack.”
“And then what?”
“Get published, of course,” Connie said. “You two can write spying cookbooks together. It’ll be a big hit.”
“Spying cookbooks?” Betsy arched a perfect eyebrow.
“Yeah. She’s a chef and he’s a spy and...and wait. This is my book.”
“You write?” Jack asked.
“Yeah, for VS Books. Really, write that story you were talking about and I’ll give you the name of my agent.”
“Why are you still waitressing if you’re a writer?” Betsy asked her.
“Insurance and people-watching. You learn a lot about people by serving their food. One of these days, Scottie is going to make me a granny, and when he does, I’ll probably quit to devote myself to spoiling that baby full-time.” She smiled. “Let me go check on your order.”
“Jack, you might have been pretty close to the mark.”
“You think Connie is a spy for the former Soviet Union?”
“No, but the way you gave her this history and then to find out all of these things we never would’ve guessed. There is a lot hiding beneath the small-town veneer. You have to write this book.”
“I’ve never written anything longer than a term paper.”
“Writing could be for you what baking is for me. With your imagination, you could lose yourself in it, if you had to. Or maybe just whenever you want to.”
“So you want to write spying cookbooks?” Jack tried to turn the subject away from him and writing. Betsy was stuck on it and now he knew whether it was something he wanted to do or not, she’d wring a book out of him.
“No. I want more of these stories. Let’s do another one.”
“Okay, but it’s your turn.”
“Me?” Betsy looked around and studied the crowd before indicating to a large, balding man who’d just shoveled himself into one of the half booths. “Mr. Boetcher. Dread of gym students everywhere.”
“He looks like he ate a class of students. What happened to him?”
“He says it’s an adrenal thing, but I think it’s because he eats here three meals and three snacks a day and comes to Sweet Thing for coffee and a second dessert.”
“Are we playing still or does he really do that?” Jack raised an eyebrow.
She laughed. He loved the sound. It was musical and light, like silver bells. “He really does that. He was a prima ballerina until a car accident shattered his knee and his dreams. All the steroids she was on turned she into a he and he started lifting weights to deal with her anger issues. As a way to make money on the side, he became a gym teacher.”
“That would explain why he was so angry all the time and why he told us constantly that football was an angry dance.”
Betsy snorted and brought her napkin up to face, eyes watering, as she tried not to cackle and honk like goose. “Oh my God, Jack. He did not.”
“I will swear on a stack of Bibles that he did. Ask Caleb.”
Coach Boetcher looked their way and nodded. Jack nodded back with a curt wave.
“You’re so much better at this than me. One more? Do Mindy Kreskin.”
“Who?”
“Over there, I— Damn,” Betsy swore.
Suddenly a woman in skintight leggings, leopard heels and a low-cut blouse bent over the table. “Why, Jack McConnell. That is you.” She pushed her way into the booth next to them and if Jack hadn’t scooted over for her, the woman would’ve been in his lap.
“So, what are you two darlings talking about?”
It didn’t seem right to share this with her, and he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember her name.
“Just conversation,” Jack answered.
“I could’ve sworn I heard her say ‘do Mindy Kreskin,’ so I came over to volunteer.” She flashed a syrupy smile.
Realization dawned bright and sharp. He had, in fact, already done Mindy Kreskin. He’d taken her to homecoming and they’d had sex in the back of his car. Not one of his finer moments.
“Kind of you,” he acknowledged.
“How long are you back?”
“I don’t have any solid plans at the moment. It’s been nice to see everyone, but Betsy and I have a lot of catching up to do.” He hoped she’d take that as a dismissal, but instead she took it as an invitation. Her hand rested on his thigh.
“So do we. You should come by. It’ll be like the old days.”
For as much as nostalgia had comforted him, Jack didn’t want the old days. They were over and gone. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “My injury prevents anything from being like it was in the old days.”
“Oh you poor baby.” She wasn’t fazed.
“Mindy, two of your kids are climbing the counter. You better come mind them,” Connie called.
Mindy slid out of the seat and stomped, in her platforms, over to the counter.
“So, Mindy Kreskin.” Jack nodded. “Head cheerleader, who was not so good at giving head, got knocked up end of senior year. She doesn’t have a job, but keeps getting pregnant to get a man to stay. Currently doesn’t have one.”
“That one was right on the money. She just had baby number four.”
Jack shuddered.
“And just think that could have been your life.”
“I’d hang myself.”
“She told me the night of homecoming—”
“Wait, how did you see her the night of homecoming?”
“I snuck out, of course,” Betsy said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Anyway, she came outside and found me seething in the bushes.”
“Why were you seething?”
“Why do you think? Will you let me finish my story?”
“Sorry, go on.” His mouth turned up into a grin.
“She told me that I should hurry up and get you out of
my system because she was going to marry you.” Betsy pursed her lips as if the memory still knotted her panties.
“Whoa. That’s crazy.” He thought women like that were only caricatures on bad sitcoms and teen movies.
“Jack, for being a smart guy, sometimes you’re not so bright. Her mom was the head cheerleader and married the quarterback. That’s what she was taught to aspire to.”
“That’s just sad.”
“Why?” Betsy cocked her head to the side.
“What do you mean, why? Weren’t we just talking about how sad and pathetic she is?”
“Yes, she is, but not because she had dreams of getting married and having a family.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh it was. You can’t imagine having never left here, never tried to see the world.” She said this like an accusation.
“That is foreign to me, but I came back, didn’t I?”
“Only for me. You never would’ve given this place a second thought if I wasn’t here.”
“Is that so bad?” Didn’t she want to be the reason he came back? What else was here for him?
“Maybe not. Do you still want to be out in the big world, Jack?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”
“You should.” She said this decisively, like a primary-school teacher assigning homework.
Their food arrived and when he took the first sip of his Green River, he was disheartened that he couldn’t taste it.
Or the toast, with its real sweet cream butter.
Or the eggs that looked fried to perfection and just a bit peppery.
The bacon, however, was an experience in decadence. He tasted salt.
It was sharp and stark on is tongue, but he liked it. It reminded him of a plethora of salty things that were all tied to memory. Blood, sweat and tears. They were all salt.
But so was sex.
Betsy and bacon. The best flavors in the world. He might have decided he liked the salt better than the sugar.
CHAPTER TWELVE
JACK WASN’T READY to say goodbye to Betsy on Saturday, but she had things she had to do for Sweet Thing, her mother and the life she had that didn’t consist of playing nursemaid to him.
