The Welcome Home Diner: A Novel

by Peggy Lampman

  “OK, I won’t, I won’t,” she says, her eyes crinkling in amusement. “I’ll bet it’s fun to work here. And I’m a fast learner.”

  Despite my levity in describing the job, the risk of hiring this woman is real. But I must. The diner must. Detroit demands more from all of its residents—the diner’s no exception.

  “The job is yours, Sylvia. I’ll need Brenda to fill out these forms, but you can start training next Monday. If that’s convenient for your schedule.”

  She smiles broadly, stretching her lips to cover her teeth; her mouth a thin, pink line on the horizon.

  “Thank you so much. You’ll find I’m a quick learner and hard worker.”

  We stand and shake hands. The health care we provide our employees doesn’t include dental. But maybe there are clinics in the area that provide free services to those without resources. If not, I’ve had the same dentist since childhood, and she’s friends with Mom. An oral surgeon is also a regular at the diner. One way or another, I’ll help her with those teeth.

  Closing my eyes, I unleash a prayer to the universe: Please, let her work out.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sam

  The alarm on my phone rings its soft chime. Ugh. Six fifteen. Rise and shine. I untangle myself from the heat of Uriah’s arms and place a pillow over my head. I’m an eight-hour girl and had only five hours of sleep last night. Maybe I can grab a nap before tonight. We’re hosting a party here in the backyard after dusk. David’s building a bonfire.

  I sigh, toss the pillow toward the foot of the bed, and stretch. I could never get back to sleep, anyway. I’m not used to having a man in my bed. Lying on the floor, Hero is stretched out in the same direction as me. His head rests on his paws, a watchful eye, rimmed in pink, turned up to catch my gaze. Poor baby. He’s not used to a man, either. Leaning my torso off the edge of the mattress, I scratch him behind his ears, which perk at my touch.

  My movements and the tinkling chimes wake Uriah, who groans, pulling me back into his arms. He smells like lemon verbena, my favorite soap scent. I smile. We showered together after our lovemaking last night.

  I whisper into his ear. “I’m supposed to remind you that you’ve got to decorate your classroom for Halloween. You’re also bringing the kids to the diner after lunch. I made them cookies decorated as pumpkins.”

  “You have such a beautiful mouth,” he replies, tracing the contour of my lips. His touch is feathery as he pulls a few strands of hair from my mouth.

  I roll out of bed and stumble to the bureau to silence the alarm. I turn toward Uriah, scrolling through texts.

  He rubs his eye and then shifts to regard me, placing a couple of pillows under his head. Smiling, his eyes travel up and down my body. He clears his throat. “What’s the status of Welcome Home?” His Southern drawl is so pronounced first thing in the morning; sometimes I can’t understand what’s he’s saying.

  I fumble with my phone. “The last message from Braydon was written an hour ago. Let me see here. Yippee!” I exclaim, throwing my arms into the air. “We survived Devil’s Night without incident. Score one for the diner.”

  Last night the staff each took a three-hour shift from 6:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m., every light blazing. We made sandwiches and coffee throughout the evening for anyone who volunteered to assist the authorities. Uriah, Addie, David, and I hung out from six to nine, which was intentional. I want David and Uriah to get to know each other better.

  Thanks to our vigilance, a juvenile curfew, and heavy police and fire patrol, we’ve made it through the night. To be fair, it’s not like we’re a target, although with the enemies we’re collecting, we may as well be. October 30 in Detroit is Devil’s Night. The moniker is linked with widespread arson. With all of the abandoned homes in the area, there’s plenty of kindling. The fires have dwindled tenfold through the years, but they haven’t stopped. Everyone’s on guard.

  “I’ll make coffee.”

  He falls back into the comforter, stretching out his glorious body. “Aaaah. Your coffee’s an aphrodisiac.”

  “That, Uriah, is the last thing you need right now.” I laugh. “Save it for later.”

  I grab my robe and blow him a kiss before walking to the kitchen. Hero follows on my heels, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor. After replenishing his bowls with water and dog food, I make the coffee—a blend I’m always tweaking—listening to Uriah’s movements in my bedroom. I should feel exhausted, but his presence in my home make me feels like I’ve tapped into an electric current. He enters the kitchen, half-dressed in the same clothes he wore yesterday. After buttoning his woolen plaid shirt, he tucks it into his jeans.

  “Will you have time to run back to your place and change before school?”

  He shakes his head. “I should have remembered to bring a change of clothes. But the kids don’t notice what I wear. Maybe I’ll throw a sheet over my shoulders. Pretend I’m a ghost.” I move toward him, my lips parted. He slides his hands down my torso. Hero, tail tucked between his legs, trots over and whines. Uriah glances down at the dog. “Poor fella. Competing for your affection must be hard on him.”

  He bends to scratch him around the ears. I chuckle. “Not at all. He’s trying to tell you that he’s the one who always plays the ghost. Maybe I should rethink the costume he’s wearing today.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “You’ll see. Hero and Bon Temps will both be suited up to fit the occasion.”

  He pulls me into him and kisses me. His hardness pushes against my thigh. I wish we had the day off. Mornings are luxurious when we don’t have to work. “Stay over after the party tonight,” I whisper. “And bring an extra set of clothing. I’ll keep it in my closet.”

  I dislike Uriah’s place. Aside from a few kids’ drawings that he’s tacked on the wall, and a framed picture of his parents on his dresser, the apartment feels as cold and temporary as a hotel room.

  He stares into my eyes. “I’ll be counting the minutes.” I hand him his coffee, and he walks to the door. Then he unbolts the locks, turns his head, and smiles. The door closes behind him in a soft thud. Hero gazes at the closed door, his tail now wagging, relieved the interloper has vanished. I laugh, bending to rub his neck. “Oh, Hero. You’re my main guy. No man could ever replace you.”

  The ping of a text. We just said good-bye, and now he’s texting me. Nice. The guy’s got it bad. I straighten and retrieve my phone. My shoulders sag. It’s only Addie, who wants to come down and have a quick cup before she gets ready for work. She must have heard his truck drive off.

  No problem, I text. My tummy’s still fluttering, and I’d rather savor the afterglow without her company. But whatever. At times like this, it would be nice to have my own place.

  She walks into the kitchen, wearing her favorite robe: a robin’s egg–blue silk kimono her mother brought her back from China. Her fluffy, whipped-cream bedroom slippers always remind me of toy poodles scuttling about the floor. I pour her a cup of coffee and place it on the counter.

  She hands Hero a biscuit, which he gobbles from her palm in a gulp. “Morning, Hero. Morning, Sam.” She slides onto a stool, and I take a seat beside her.

  I catch her eye. “What’s up, buttercup?” My cousin appears so delicate and vulnerable when she’s not wearing that lipstick and mascara.

  She takes a sip of coffee and smiles. “Mmmm. Cinnamon and chocolate, right?”

  “Yep. This time I’m combining imports from Mexico with a Kenyan bean. All fair trade, of course.” I glance at her. “Do you think the proportions are right?”

  “It’s heavenly.” She sniffs at the brew, takes another sip, and looks up, catching my eye. “It was nice getting to know Uriah a bit better. A math teacher. Interesting. He seems to be so passionate about his work.” She taps my side with her elbow and winks. “What a sexy drawl, right?”

  I lean into her, placing my hand on her knee. “Addie. He asked if we could be exclusive.” I grin. That threw water on any doubts I might have
harbored that he thought I was hookup material. He’s even seen me at my worst: fresh from work, exhausted, and smelling like trout.

  She stares into her coffee, tapping her fingernail against the handle. “Hmmm.” Her eyes flit toward me and then back to her coffee. “Don’t you think you’re falling into this relationship rather quickly?”

  “What? We’ve been seeing each other since summer.”

  “But he sleeps over all the time.”

  “No, he doesn’t. Just a couple of times a week.” I press my lips together. Really? Is this any of her business? God, I’d like to have my own place.

  “Before you know it, he’ll be moving in.” Twisting her ring, her eyes dart about the kitchen as she appears to be measuring her words. She straightens, then leans into me. “Remember your relationship with the barista? When I visited you in Manhattan, you two were living together. You told me you’d let him move in too soon in the relationship.” She grabs my forearm. “You said that yourself. And you remember how it all came down.”

  My mouth falls open. “God, Addie. Andy is nothing like Uriah. Can’t you see he’s a very special man? You and David were chatting it up with him last night. You saw how he acts toward me, hanging on to every word I say.” My head begins to throb. “Gosh. His arm was over my shoulder the entire evening. Besides, you and David live together.”

  “We dated three years before taking the plunge.”

  “That’s because you worked in Ann Arbor, and he in Detroit.” I straighten, folding my arms across my chest. This is nuts. She’s worried about Kevin. Good lord. Why can’t I conduct my love life without all this interference?

  Searching my face, she flushes and pats my arm. “OK, Sam. No worries. We’ve got to get moving. I’ll be down in twenty minutes.” She finishes her coffee in a gulp and slides from the chair. “Let’s take the bus together.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” I don’t offer her a refill.

  At work, most of the staff, including the dogs, are costumed in full regalia. Bon Temps strolls the garden sporting a sequined tulle tutu. Hero wears a Batman outfit, complete with bat-ear headdress and a black cape. Sun Beam’s class, as well as Uriah’s, will be trick-or-treating after lunch. The dressed-up dogs will amuse the kids. We’re having a bonfire in the backyard of our house this evening.

  Sylvia has been working full-time for two weeks and is the only staff person, besides Braydon and me, not dressed for the occasion. She began as a waiter but had issues counting back change. This could be corrected with time and training, but her lips barely opened when she was waiting on tables. Obviously, the poor thing was trying to hide those devastating teeth, but the customers had to lean toward her to hear what she was saying.

  Prep work is a better fit for Sylvia. Her stiff back and pinched face relax in the kitchen. She makes herself useful backstage, scraping food off plates, washing dishes, and assisting with culinary tasks. She seems to have a knack for baking. It’s hard not to watch her as she flutters about the kitchen. The poplin chef bandanna she wears on her head is decorated in a tapestry of orange, green, and yellow flowers. I imagine her as a rare tropical bird with a bright, ruffled plume trailing along a broken wing.

  I’ve heard just the basics of her background. That her deceased father was American, and her Brazilian mother sold her after he died. A sharp pain seared through my gut when I heard this—she was just a kid. Sylvia’s petite; she must have been a fragile girl. As bait on the end of a line, how did she survive? This peculiar woman piques my interest.

  Braydon, Paul, and I have been training her, but most of her smiles are reserved for Braydon. I’m sure they identify with each other, having lost their families in their early teens. I pretend not to listen as I peel a bunch of onions, then chop them into a precise dice.

  Braydon is showing Sylvia how to make Heartbreakers. These supersize chocolate-chip-and-walnut cookies have turned out to be our calling card. The cookies are tender and gooey on the inside and are encased in a crispy-crunchy, sugary brown crust. A few weeks after opening, a customer, swooning, licked the crumbs and chocolate from her fingers and declared, That was so good, it breaks my heart. And the name was born.

  Sylvia retrieves containers filled with flour, sugar, baking soda, and baking powder from the dry-goods shelf and returns to the table and their conversation, paying no attention to my presence.

  “I hear you, Braydon. I grew up in Rosedale Park. You know the area?”

  “They’ve got some nice homes in that section of the city,” he says as he measures ingredients and puts them in a large glass bowl.

  Sylvia smiles. “I went to a regular school, and Dad worked as a mechanic in an auto shop.” She pauses, inhaling sharply. “He called me his angel.”

  She studies the recipe in front of her for a minute, her lips pinched together. Then she scoops cake flour into a measuring cup, taps it on the counter, and holds it up to the light. “Since we’re doubling the recipe, we’ll need two cups, right?” Braydon nods and she adds it to the bowl. Then she begins whisking the ingredients together as if her life depends on it. She stops and points to the smooth, sandy mound. “That about right?”

  “No lumps, Sylvia. It’s perfect. You’ve got the strength of Jehovah in your right arm.” She awards his comment with one of her rare smiles. I wonder if the two of them will find more than friendship with each other.

  Braydon hands her the butter. “It must be cold, but not too cold. Your finger should be able to make a slight groove in it.” She presses her forefinger into the pale yellow brick and then points to the indentation.

  “Like that?”

  “Perfect,” Braydon responds, handing her a knife. “Now cut the butter into one-inch pieces and put it, along with both sugars, into the KitchenAid.” She slices and then places the chunks, one by one, into the shining silver bowl. With the edge of a rubber spatula, she scrapes the sugars into the mixer, as well.

  “Next, Sylvia, we beat them together until they’re well combined. To turn on the machine, you push the lever forward, like this.” He demonstrates the process and, after several seconds, turns it off. “See? Now it’s one sticky mass.”

  She cranes her neck over the bowl. “Got it.”

  Picking up the recipe, she speaks aloud, her words directed to the sheet in front of her face. “Family life changed when Daddy’s cancer began eating him alive. We had government assistance from his working in the military, but it wasn’t enough. The disease sucked away our every last dime.”

  Braydon nods, smiling gently. Then he touches her wrist as if she were a wounded bird and points at a step in the recipe. “Beat four eggs into the mixture and then slowly add the flour blend.”

  She picks up an egg and, with a swift stroke, cracks it against the stainless rim. The yolk, a dazzling sunflower orange, oozes into the bowl. Smiling, she adds the remaining eggs to the batch. “I still can’t get over the difference in color between a fresh-laid egg and one you’d buy in the grocery store.” She tosses the shells into the compost, rubs her fingers on a dishcloth, and turns on the mixer to incorporate the eggs into the buttery mass. After turning it off, she pours a portion of the dry ingredients into the bowl and pushes the switch. She stares mesmerized at the churning machine, and in the whir and clatter of metal on metal, I can’t follow their conversation. Braydon pulls the lever toward him, silencing the machine, and once again I hear their words.

  “My parents died in a car accident when I was a kid,” he says. “My aunt and uncle took me in, otherwise I’d have been an orphan. Didn’t your grandparents help out? What about aunts or uncles?”

  “Nope. Daddy’s family was God-fearing Baptists, the Bible-thumping kind. I wouldn’t recognize ’em if they walked right into this kitchen. They hated my mom and wrote us off. Said he’d lowered himself to marry a Latina.” She turns to Braydon. “I’m so sorry you lost your parents. That must have been horrible. But you’re lucky you had some relatives. How’d you learn to cook?”

  “My parent
s taught me the basics when I was a kid, but we never used a recipe. Cooking must be programmed into our DNA. We were born knowing how to make food taste good. Especially barbecue. Man! My dad’s pork had the smoke, bite, and sweet that made you glad to be alive. He converted an oil drum into a grill and smoked ribs over the same greasy asphalt every year during the Woodward Dream Cruise.” He turns to regard me, a question in his eyes. “Can I do that at the diner, Sam? During the classic car parade?”

  “Braydon, every idea you’ve brought to the table has helped improve Welcome Home. If you want to turn an oil drum into a barbecue pit, have at it.” He appraises me with a half nod, a half smile, and turns to Sylvia.

  “Welcome Home brings back the happy times when I was a boy and made supper with my folks. What about you? What brings you to this kitchen?”

  Good, I think to myself. I’m curious to learn more about Sylvia’s past. I try making myself invisible, a grease mark on the wall. I rummage through our vast collection of recipes, intent on the pages, forearms pressed into the cool stainless table.

  “Mama was depressed enough when Daddy had cancer, but his death broke her for good,” the woman continues. “We lost our house and had to move to a place that was a dump. To get electricity, we ran a line to our neighbor’s. Our yard was littered with bald tires and rusted motor parts. But Mama said it was a palace compared to her home in Rio. I suppose it was all she could think to say to cheer me up. The only time she smiled was when she was plastered. Soon enough, school for me was just a memory.” Picking up the recipe, she squints to study it. “Oh, goodie. The fun part’s next. We get to work the dough with our hands.” She places the recipe next to the knife rack.

  “There was this one woman in a suit with eyebrows plucked thin and penciled in black. She stopped by our house from time to time, claimin’ she was on her way to the office. Sometimes she gave a twenty to Mama. Said it was for food. But we all knew it would go to the bottle.” She pours chocolate chips and toasted walnuts into measuring cups.