It's a Wonderful Knife

by Christine Wenger

  They were together until Uncle Porky died a month ago.

  I sighed, thinking about the two of them. Porky and Stella always finished each other’s sentences and walked hand in hand. But now Stella was alone, just like I was alone, but I hoped to change that as soon as I met more people in the community. I remembered Sandy Harbor as being a friendly place, and that was just what I needed—friends.

  Actually, Aunt Stella wasn’t alone right now. A gaggle of her friends came for Porky’s funeral and stayed at the house. They helped her through the first month of losing her husband, and now she was en route to a senior community in Boca with them. They planned on living like the Golden Girls characters, but first they were going on a cruise around the world.

  Because she was busy entertaining her friends, packing to leave, and searching for her missing passport, Aunt Stella didn’t have much time to show me the entire operation.

  “The same people have been working here forever. They know what to do,” she’d told me several times.

  I pointed my boots toward a slushy path that led to my new house. Maybe I should unpack and get settled, but I was eager to get more acquainted with everyone and everything.

  I took a deep breath and let it out. All this was so overwhelming. Mostly because I, Beatrix Matkowski (formerly known as Beatrix Burnham), was starting over at age thirtysomething.

  I was freshly divorced from Deputy Doug Burnham after ten years of marital nonbliss. And, after ten years of trying to start a family and failing at it, Deputy Doug proved that it wasn’t his fault by getting Wendy, his twenty-one-year-old girlfriend, pregnant with twins.

  The day after I found out about Doug and Wendy, I was downsized from my job as a City of Philadelphia tourist information specialist, a position that meant I sat at a walk-in tourist information site and dispensed heaps of tourist information.

  How things had changed in a few months!

  They say that bad things always come in threes: Uncle Porky died before my divorce and the downsizing.

  After the cemetery, where we left Uncle Porky’s ashes in the Matkowski family crypt, everyone came back to the diner for food and remembering. My mother, who had rolled into town with my father in their motor home, cried and laughed with relatives and friends who she hadn’t seen in years. My father told humorous tales of Uncle Porky, his older brother.

  My mom, Aunt Stella, and Aunt Beatrix all got a little tipsy and giggly, and they fell asleep in one of the back booths of the diner.

  When my mom sobered up, she decided that since Stella was going around the world, she and my dad should go to Key West and take Aunt Beatrix with them. I didn’t get the parallel, but early the next morning they all took off, except for Aunt Beatrix, who was taking Amtrak back to NYC because she’d been to Key West “fifty years ago, and it’s probably the same.”

  It was over the Wednesday special at the diner, ironically a Philly steak sandwich and a small chef salad, that Aunt Stella discussed selling me “the point.” “The point” is local talk for the Silver Bullet, the cottages, and her Victorian house—everything that Stella and Porky owned.

  “I’ll make you an offer that you can’t refuse,” she’d said. “And we’ll figure out a payment plan.” She wrote down some dates and dollar amounts in columns on the back of a paper place mat that advertised local businesses.

  Aunt Stella was far too generous. She was practically just handing me the whole pierogi. Almost.

  So I went back home to think about it, and then my life fell apart with Doug.

  Then the pieces fell together again.

  Doug, acting very civilly, offered to buy out my share of the house, furniture, and whatever. Apparently Wendy liked my faux–Williamsburg colonial and the school district, and she had just come into a trust fund. She wanted Deputy Doug, my house, and its entire contents enough to buy me off handsomely, on the condition that I leave town.

  I shook hands with my husband of ten years and took a last look at my beautiful house just outside Philadelphia. I had a pang of regret at leaving all the lovely antiques that we’d accumulated throughout our marriage.

  But I wasn’t going to be an antique! I was going to start over—clean slate, fresh, new, reborn.

  I stuffed my personal belongings into my boring gray Ford Focus and drove from Philly to Sandy Harbor in one day.

  Suddenly, I had a nice chunk of money for a down payment—Wendy’s “kiss-off” check—that was burning a hole in my Walmart purse.

  Aunt Stella told me that the mayor of Sandy Harbor had made a purchase offer on “the point” but she’d turned him down. He wasn’t family, she’d said, and besides, “He owns half of Sandy Harbor already.”

  She’d also turned down another restaurateur who wanted to add another restaurant to his empire, because he wasn’t family either.

  Aunt Stella emphatically stated that the figures on the place mat were only a guideline . . . that I was her niece, and she knew that I’d take good care of what she and Uncle Porky had built.

  I’d told her that I absolutely would take care of everything and keep our family memories safe, from the smallest black-and-white picture of Porky hanging on the wall to the huge collection of recipes from family and friends.

  But the diner had me worried. As the flickering red neon sign on the top of the diner said, it was open twenty-four hours and had been since 1950. The Silver Bullet was an icon in these parts.

  Aunt Stella shook off my concern with a wave of her hand, telling me not to worry.

  Yeah, right, I had thought as I’d pushed a check for partial payment over to her and she’d dropped the keys into my hand.

  Aunt Stella had patted my cheek and said that Uncle Porky would’ve been very happy. They hadn’t had children of their own, and they had often wondered what they’d do with their property.

  Owning my own diner was heaven-sent. I just loved to cook. It had been my salvation on those lonely nights when Deputy Doug wasn’t home. I made comfort food, and heaven knew that I needed comfort. As a matter of fact, I comforted the whole neighborhood with stews, pierogi, mac and cheese, pot roasts, chili, and hip-enlarging desserts.

  Perfect diner food.

  I decided to savor my first trip to the Silver Bullet as its owner and save it for last on my list of places to visit and observe.

  Or maybe I was procrastinating. I could cook; I knew that. I grew up in the Silver Bullet kitchen and waitressed there when I was in college, but I didn’t know if I could handle the business aspect of it all. I’d learn, however. My first step would probably be ordering food and supplies and how to do payroll.

  I headed to the bait shop on the other side of the boat launch. It didn’t belong to me, but there was someone there who I needed to visit. It’d been a long time since I’d seen Mr. Farnsworth.

  Opening the front door of the bait shop, I walked in. Smiling down at me from a high ladder was Mr. Farnsworth. He hadn’t changed a bit since I was a kid . . . well, maybe a bit. His hair was as white as the snow falling outside, and I noticed a few more lines on his face, but he was as slim and as friendly as ever.

  “If it isn’t little Trixie Matkowski!” He slowly climbed down the ladder and pulled me into a bear hug against his red flannel shirt. “Stella told me that she sold to you. Wanted to keep it in the family, she said.”

  “Well, Mr. Farnsworth, I’m not so little anymore, but, yes, I’m the new owner.”

  He dropped his hands and stepped away. “You’re the spitting image of your aunt Beatrix. She’s a looker, that gal.”

  Aunt Beatrix is my dad’s older sister and like my fairy godmother. I could never predict when she’d surface from her penthouse on Fifth Avenue in New York City and appear, but she always seemed to know when I needed her the most.

  So, Aunt Beatrix (and don’t call her Trixie!) should be arriving any time now.

  I wa
lked over to look at the cement tubs that usually contained minnows and the like. They were empty, and the familiar gurgling of the water pumps was absent.

  Way back when, my sister, brother, and I, along with a bunch of friends, would hit the bait shop at least once a day to watch the bait swim around.

  It was almost better than TV.

  “Mr. Farnsworth, are you getting ready for trout season? Getting worms?” I expected a big fishing season when the lake defrosted. The more fishermen, the more business I’d have.

  “Sure. I’ve ordered worms for those who use natural bait, but I’ve also ordered poppers, spoons, plugs, and jigs. And for the fancy fishermen types, I’ve ordered buzzes, blades, cranks, tubes, and vibrators.”

  Vibrators?

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Not a thing, Trixie. I’ll be fully loaded and ready for trout season.”

  “Good. Thanks, Mr. Farnsworth. I’ll help you stock the shelves if you’d like.”

  He shook his head and grinned. “No way. It’s my favorite part of my job.”

  I half expected him to hand me a lollipop and send me on my way, as he’d done when I was a kid. Mr. Farnsworth always had an ample supply of them. Then I noticed a fishbowl on the counter by the register. It was full of colorful lollipops.

  As if he’d read my mind, he walked to the bowl, pulled out a grape one—my favorite—and handed it to me with a slight bow.

  It had been years since I’d had a grape lollipop. I tore open the plastic wrapper and popped it into my mouth.

  I pulled out the lollipop. “You remembered?” I asked, stunned.

  He shrugged his thin shoulders. “Of course.”

  I heard a thumping noise from the side of the shop. From what I could recall, the stairs led to a storage area above. The noise got closer, then stopped.

  Then at the bottom of the steps, by a display of army green waders, was a . . . cowboy?

  He tweaked the brim of his hat to me. “Howdy, ma’am.”

  This guy seemed like a bona fide, real cowboy. Museum quality. Now, he was something you didn’t see every day in little old Sandy Harbor.

  His black cowboy hat and boots made him seem about six foot four. He had on a pair of dark jeans that he was born to wear. A crisp-looking white shirt was tucked in, and a brown leather belt with silver conchos surrounded his waist. A belt buckle the size of one of the Silver Bullet’s platters sat on his flat stomach. His boots were spit shined—maybe snakeskin—and he wore a brown suede bomber jacket.

  I managed to pull the grape sucker from my mouth.

  “Hi.”

  I noticed that his sky blue eyes traveled down the length of my body, taking in my red, puffy knee-length parka, my shin-high hiking boots, and the purple scarf draped around my head and neck like a mummy. I wondered if he noticed how my purple mittens and purple scarf matched my grape sucker.

  Mr. Farnsworth walked to the cowboy’s side. “Trixie, this is Mr. Tyler Brisco. He’s all the way from Houston, Texas, and he’s renting the apartment above my shop. Ty, Trixie is the new owner of the Silver Bullet.”

  The cowboy held out his hand. “I guess that makes you my neighbor, Mrs. Matkowski.”

  His voice was low and gravelly and incredibly sexy with a hint of a drawl, not that I’d noticed. I moved my grape sucker to my left hand and held out my right.

  We shook hands, my purple-mittened hand in his. I hoped that it wasn’t sticky.

  “Just call me Trixie. And I’m not a Mrs. anymore. Just Trixie. Trixie Matkowski. I took my maiden name back after my divorce.” Why on earth did I find it necessary to tell everyone about my divorce? I changed the subject. “I didn’t know that there was an apartment up there.”

  Mr. Farnsworth nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, your uncle Porky helped me renovate it a while back.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the Texas cowboy. “How long have you lived in Sandy Harbor, Mr. Brisco?”

  “Call me Ty.” With his drawl, those three simple words lasted forever. His smile was warm and infectious. “I moved in just after the first of the year.”

  His voice was so mesmerizing, I’d listen to him read the Silver Bullet’s dinner menu. I jerked back to reality, and my reality was to concentrate on my new business ventures, not a Texas cowboy.

  “So we’re both new to Sandy Harbor. What brings you here, Ty?”

  I told myself that I was just making conversation, that I really didn’t care what he was doing here.

  “I’d had enough of big-city crime,” he said. “You know, I’m just going over for lunch at the Silver Bullet. Join me and we’ll talk?”

  His eyes twinkled, and I wondered if he knew how sexy he actually was. Of course he did. A guy as good-looking as Ty had women stacked up like cordwood.

  I wasn’t going to be one of them. No, thanks.

  But I was headed over to the diner anyway, wasn’t I?

  “Uh . . . I’d love to join you, but I’m a bit busy right now,” I finally answered.

  Mr. Farnsworth butted in. “Trixie, go and keep Ty company. There’s nothing that can’t wait. We take things a little slow here in Sandy Harbor.”

  Oh great. I was trapped into having lunch with the cowboy.

  I pulled out my notebook and a pen from the recesses of my coat. I’d take the opportunity to jot down some ideas I had for making the diner my own.

  “What do you say, Trixie?” the cowboy drawled again, and my knees turned to mashed potatoes. My two-syllable name took on a life of its own.

  Reluctantly I nodded. At another point in my life, maybe fifty years from now, I wouldn’t mind spending time with the cowboy. He might be interesting to get to know, but right now, all I could think of was that he was a man, and I was in a world of hurt, courtesy of Deputy Doug.

  “I eat all my meals at the Silver Bullet.” Ty patted his flat stomach. “I think I’ve gained sixty pounds since I moved here.”

  Yeah, right, cowboy.

  I pulled out a crumpled tissue from the pocket of my coat and wrapped it around what was left of my sucker. I probably had purple teeth and tongue, but I didn’t care.

  We went outside, walked around the boat launch between the diner and the bait shop, and cut through the launch’s empty parking lot to the back door of my diner.

  “Let’s cut through the kitchen this time, Ty. I want to check on the cook.”

  “Juanita?”

  The man even knew the name of the morning cook. “You do come here often, don’t you?”

  I smiled and waved to Juanita, whom I’d met briefly when she came to the Victorian to say good-bye to Aunt Stella.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  Juanita gave me a quick nod, and we hurried to the front of the diner to get out of her way.

  I just loved the kitchen. Everything was aluminum or chrome and just shone. The smell of bacon frying permeated the air as did bread taking a ride on the toaster. Aunt Stella always called the revolving toaster a Ferris wheel for bread. I could just picture Uncle Porky at the cast-iron stove, working several orders at a time.

  A good crowd was already gathered at the diner, but there were at least two booths available.

  “Over there?” I pointed to the booth toward the back.

  “Lead the way, darlin’.”

  “I’m not your darlin’,” I mumbled. Doug used to call me darling. It rang hollow even then.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I said, ‘I love this diner.’”

  A hush fell over the patrons, forks stopped moving, and it seemed like every pair of eyes looked in my direction. Several customers—mostly women—smiled and waved.

  Happy to be recognized after all these years, I did the same back.

  Then I realized they weren’t greeting me. It was all for Ty Brisco.

&nb
sp; Glancing back at him, I saw that he was waving and tweaking his hat. The women were swooning.

  Good grief.

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