One Summer_...at Charlie's Diner

by Mary Jane Forbes

  Ty was startled when she flopped beside him, the menus clutched in her hand as she hugged him, then sat back. “Ty, you are an artist. Cartoons? Caricatures? How did you learn? You captured everyone perfectly. Not only do you look like Norman Rockwell, you are a direct descendent.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly go that far.” He looked up at Star sheepishly, a grin slowly spreading ear to ear. “But you can say it again … if you want to … if you really mean it. Do you really like them?”

  “I never asked your last name. Tyler Norman Rockwell … what?”

  Tyler rocked, clutching his knees. No one had ever been excited about his work, least of all a girl. Well, Star wasn’t any girl. She was a beautiful blue-eyed female … girl.

  Carefully folding the menus, Star handed them back to Ty, then scrunched on the sand, facing him knee to knee. “Spill, Ty.”

  “Silly, no, my name isn’t Norman Rockwell. It’s Tyler Randolph Jackman.” Again, the sheepish look through the black rimmed glasses. “Since I was a kid, my classmates laughed at me but, for some reason, I laughed back at them. Of course, I was terrible at sports. Baseball? No way. When I tried to bat I swung so hard that I ended up twirling in a circle. I thought it was funny and because I thought I was funny the kids thought I was funny.

  “Tommy Oliver laughed so hard he peed his pants. But, Star, something amazing happened, at least to a goofy kid, I thought it earth shattering—‘You should see yourself, Tyler. You’re a regular ballerina.’ Tommy said that. So, I sat on the bench, pulled my notebook from my book bag, and sketched my ballet move swinging the bat. I signed it Tyler Jackman and gave it to Tommy after practice. Tommy showed it to everyone, and honest to God, Star, they all laughed … not at me … at Tyler the cartoon. Tommy folded up the paper and said he was keeping it as a souvenir. It would be worth millions, that’s what he said, ‘millions’ when I created comic books featuring Tyler and Tommy, the sportsmen.”

  “And did you … create comic books … how old were you when this ballet move took place?”

  “Twelve. I can’t remember when I started drawing … way before. My parents thought it was cute, but cute doesn’t make a living, my mom would say. Mom and Dad wanted me to be an engineer like the rest of the men in the family.”

  “Okay, Ty, but why are you here, waiting tables? Where are your parents?”

  “My parents live here, twelve minutes away, in Ormond Beach. They wanted me to be an engineer so I went to Boston, took a couple of classes at MIT and then switched to art school—Massachusetts School of Art and Design. Mainly, I wanted to learn about proportions, angles, different styles. Anyway, one of my professors said I had talent. My older sister, she graduated from Stanford and is working for a high-tech company in Silicon Valley … she kept encouraging me. Since my sister gave my folks their engineer I felt free to pursue what I wanted. Sylvia, that’s my sister, conspired with me to take the art classes. She laughed at my cartoons, just like you, well almost like you. After all, she’s my sister. Sometimes a cartoon made her cry.”

  “Cry?”

  “Yeah, like a cartoon of a little guy with big tears rolling down his face, dropping on his shirt because of a gynormous bully. But, you are the first to really get what I was trying to say.”

  “So, why are you waiting tables in a diner? Don’t tell me you’re giving up your dream of creating comic books—Tyler and Tommy? You have to have top billing—Tyler before Tommy,” Star said peering at him.

  “No, I haven’t given up … but … don’t laugh. Promise?”

  “Promise.” Star nodded inching closer, knees now touching.

  “My dream is to draw character animations for Disney—”

  “That’s why you didn’t stay in Boston, returned to Florida to be closer to Orlando and Disney World?”

  “Kinda … Disney World is the park, all the animations for their films are produced in studios, like in Burbank. I live with my folks until I land a job in the animation world, the world of make believe. I’m putting together a presentation. I’ll store it on a flash drive, or CD … a disc would be easier to mail. Hmm. I’m compiling a list of companies to submit it to … maybe to Disney … maybe not. Definitely not. It would land in the slush pile. I’ll have a better chance if I can land a job, get some experience in the field first … don’t you think?”

  Star nodded. “I think.”

  “Should I change my name? Something funny, to catch attention? Garfunkel and Humperdinck are already taken,” he said laughing. “So, I came up with Kent, as in Clark Kent, A-K-A Superman. What do you think?”

  “I think you should keep your name, your family name. I can see the credits sliding up the screen … Tyler Jackman, Producer, Director, and Creator. By the way, that cartoon of me cooking—the scrambled eggs did not hit the wall.”

  “Did too,” Ty said grinning.

  “Did not.”

  “I saw them go splat when your chef’s hat slipped over your eyes, just before you flipped the French toast into the pot of boiling potatoes. By the way, no kidding, maybe instead of a chef’s hat you should try a ball cap—spongy sweat band and a hole in the back for your yellow hair, you know catch the sweat before it blinds you, keep the French toast from flying out the order window.”

  “I can see perfectly well, thank you,” she said punching his arm.

  “Yeah, a ball cap would be perfect. Your cerulean-blue eyes peer out from under the visor, see the kid stab a piece of toast with his fork as it flies by from the order window.”

  “Like I have time to watch toast fly,” Star said mocking his suggestion. “Cerulean-blue?”

  “Sky blue, azure. Definitely azure—a hint of purple. Seriously, I’m glad the diner’s not that busy. I need some time to create.”

  “Create?”

  “Oh, yeah. Catch you in the action. It’s hilarious watching you whip and flip and pinch spices.”

  Star giggled. “I think you’ll be a big, successful cartoonist, Tyler Jackman. You see humor everywhere.”

  “Good, just like I know you’ll be famous someday … Rachael Ray famous. Martha Stewart famous. No, no, Julia Child famous. She was a spy you know.”

  Chapter 4

  ────

  FLIP. FLIP. FLIP.

  Star chuckled thinking of Ty’s cartoons of her flipping pancakes lined up across the grill. The egg beater spewing yolks against the wall, specks of mashed potato flung from the whisk onto her nose, and grease—bacon, sausage, and burgers—dotting the front of her white bib apron.

  He had captured her blue eyes—wide, astonished at a pancake flying through the air. The white billowing chef’s hat, she insisted on wearing, giving the order window certain panache as it slipped to the side revealing springy blond curls.

  The cartoons were crazy-fun illustrations of her life. Taking Ty’s idea of a ball cap, she made it a point to stop by the T-shirt shop next door to the diner. After trying on a few, she picked up a visor with a dark red bill, a rainbow arching over a yellowish-orange sun. Checking her image in the makeshift mirror, the shiny chrome upright of the jewelry display case, she decided the visor would do nicely—moisture wicking sweatband anchoring her hair from falling in her eyes. Not a full-fledged baseball cap to pull her ponytail through, just the bill. Much lighter, letting her scalp breath. Heaven knows, she needed all the air she could get hunching over the hot grill.

  It was time to retire the chef’s hat, at least for the summer.

  Happy with the look, she purchased the visor wearing it out into the sunshine, hustling back to the diner. Sidling up to Ty, she struck a pose, batting her eyelashes. He was leaning against the coffee station, sketching on a paper tablet, pretending to be oblivious to her antics. Peeking around his arm, Star gave him a punch, giggling at his cartoon of an olive-skinned man, Ash, perched on what had become his seat at the end of the counter.

  “I see you missy. Here, take a look at this.” Ty flipped back a few pages, showing her a cartoon of Benny trying to fit hi
s wheelchair under the edge of his bistro table.

  With a smile at Ty, Star relieved Charlie behind the grill finishing the breakfast order for the Butterworth sisters in booth one. Tyler closed his pad, slipping it behind a stand of mustard and ketchup bottles, and picked up the plates of eggs, sausage, hash browns, with a side of six pancakes. Swinging a syrup pitcher from his little finger, he nodded at Star as she tilted her head in a salute, her fingers touching the bill of her new visor.

  “Yeah, nice hat, sorta hat. Are you always so cheerful?”

  “I’m pretending, sir. You see me scrambling eggs. I see me gently whipping cream to the perfect consistency for a delicate tiramisu.”

  “Hmm. Pretending?” Turning, he quickly took off for booth one.

  The Butterworth sisters were regulars, every Wednesday morning like clockwork chattering enthusiastically, arriving for breakfast and almost always wearing a new T-shirt proclaiming their latest adventure.

  Mattie and Hattie sitting across from Anne, the eldest sister and their leader, beamed at Ty as he positioned their breakfast plates in front of them. Mattie and Hattie giggled, elbowing each other, gray mops of curls around apple cheeks, their T-shirts stretched over their ample bodies—Happy Dieter.

  The Happy Dieters carefully dissected the sausage, buttered the pancakes, and kept their forks performing the quick step between plate and mouth as they exchanged opinions on the wafer-thin instructor of their new line-dancing class. A class guaranteed to get you in shape for the beach wearing a new teeny-weeny bikini. Mattie said she enjoyed the new dance steps, especially the country music. But Hattie thought the bikini thingy wasn’t going to happen in her lifetime. Taking a stab at a piece of sausage, Anne waved at Tyler to get his attention.

  “Miss Butterworth, what can I get for you?”

  “Tyler dear, can you ask Star to come over when she has a minute? We have a question for her.”

  Her sisters energetically nodded in agreement.

  “Of course, and I’ll top off that coffee.”

  Stepping lively, Ty whispered to Star, stopped to pick up the pot of coffee and followed Star to the sisters.

  Anne’s face intensely earnest looked up at Star. “Star dear, my sisters and I detect a certain new taste in the pancakes this morning. Something different.”

  “Is it different good or different bad?” Star asked, finger to her cheek in feigned concern.

  “Definitely good. Good, wouldn’t you say, Mattie?”

  “Yes, definitely good,” Mattie and Hattie chirped.

  Leaning in, a conspiratorial look on her face, Star whispered, “Just a dash, mind you.”

  “What, what?”

  “Nutmeg!”

  Nodding, Ty quickly retrieved his tablet from the ketchup and mustard, capturing the sisters as they polished off the last of the nutmeg pancakes before leaving for their line-dance class.

  Chapter 5

  ────

  YANKING HER BICYCLE out of her apartment, Star closed and locked the door behind her. The only door, unless she considered the slider to a small patio a door. She adjusted the basket on the handlebars and the one strapped to the back of the bike’s seat.

  Pedaling off she felt the advent of summer’s sun on her bare legs and arms. It was good to be away from the heat of the grill. Her white shorts and blue tank top were light as opposed to the bib apron’s heavy cotton. Raising her chin to the soft ocean breeze, inhaling the salty air, she pedaled faster.

  Adjusting her visor, which had now become the last thing she tugged in place whenever she went out, she headed for the T-shirt store to buy seven more, one for each day of the week and one extra when the others hit the washing machine. She dubbed the sweatband one of the greatest inventions, keeping the sweat from running into her eyes as she darted around the tiny space behind the grill that Wanda called a kitchen.

  It was Star’s day off and she had errands to run—a list of spices to pick up for the diner and a few for her own so-called pantry.

  Her empty backpack didn’t move as she cruised down Atlantic Avenue. Squinting from the sun unless she kept her head down, she swung up to the bicycle rack by the door to the shop almost running into Ash standing on the sidewalk to the side of the entrance. He was bent over writing something on a yellow notepad propped against his knee. Hearing a bicycle, he jumped back in the nick of time.

  “Hey, Ash, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. You’re out early. Whatcha doing?” she said chaining her bike to the stand then lighting up a smile for him.

  He nodded to her. “You, too. What’s the hurry?”

  “My day off and I have a ton of things to do. I’m running in here for some more of these visors. If you have time, how about grabbing a coffee at the 7-Eleven? We can scoot down to the beach for a few minutes. I’d like to hear how your job hunting is going.”

  “Well … yeah, okay. You get your visors, and I’ll go pick up your coffee. Put anything in it?”

  “Black, high test. I’ll meet you out front.”

  Picking up two foam cups of coffee, Ash met up with Star outside the T-shirt shop. Her new visors tucked neatly in her backpack, she nodded for him to follow. Guiding her bike through the path to the beach, she leaned it against the bench attached to the old boards of the boardwalk facing the ocean, the brilliant rays of the sun sparking off the white caps.

  Opening the spout of the cup, she sampled a small sip of the hot coffee. “Umm. I needed this. How much do I owe you?”

  “My treat.”

  “Thanks. So, Ash, did you find a job? I’ve seen you sitting at the counter around lunchtime but I couldn’t get away from the grill,” she said experiencing a slight hitch in her breathing. It was the first time they sat side by side. Her arm grazed his as she leaned over to brush sand from the top of her sneakers.

  “I think so … yes, yes, I did. At the News Journal as a reporter, a cub reporter I think the Human Resource person labeled it.”

  Hmm. He seems to be a little nervous around me. Could I be making him nervous? Or, label that wishful thinking. “That’s wonderful. I didn’t know you were interested in being a reporter.”

  “Neither did I, I mean I did but, well. See, I’m finishing up at Stetson University in Deland. You’ve probably heard of it.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s a wonderful school. You’re finishing? I thought you said you had finished.”

  “Yes, I meant I will g- g-graduate in a couple of months. I have one last paper to submit.”

  I am making him nervous. “You’ll receive your degree in what?”

  “My major is Communications, finishing up a Master’s in Media Services.”

  “… so … a job as a reporter is perfect. Congratulations. What, now? You’re still looking for a job, or are you independently wealthy? Your parents—”

  “No help from my parents. In fact, they are not pleased. But my grandmother believes in me. She lives in London. I wish you could meet her. I’m kind of a wayward child in my family.”

  His grandmother. As soon as he mentioned her he seemed to relax. “Well, I can understand that. Talking about my parents flusters me more than I like to admit.”

  “Tell me about it. I’m practically disowned. My family is in Hoboken. Dad is now head of the family business—financial management. I was supposed to be an accountant before I ran down here, literally ran away. My grandmother also believes in me. I came down to Daytona Beach with her taffy recipe. I was going to take the beach concessions by storm, then the world, with her taffy.” Star sighed, looking out at the water. “The world … and now I’m a short-order cook but … some day.”

  Star glanced sideways at him, peeking out from under the bill of her visor. His eyes were a beautiful shade of brown, large, friendly when he looked at her. But she saw them turn black when looking in another direction, at others, like he was sizing them up. They sat quietly watching the surf, the sunbathers, children building sandcastles. Comfortable in their own thoughts. Star kept glancing at him o
ut of the corner of her eye as she sipped her coffee.

  There was a ruggedness about him accentuated with a heavy shadow of a beard, a scar from his ear to his jaw on the left side. She hadn’t noticed it before. She had never seen him clean shaven at the diner, always with a shadow around his chin, upper lip. His body always seemed tense, ready to spring. He never wore shorts like other men, the tourists in shorts or cutoffs. Ash wore leather shoes or sneakers. No flip-flops.

  Did she pick up on an accent when he spoke? There was something about his speech pattern. However, there was nothing wrong with his smile when he looked at her. It was soft, warm. Did he feel something, too?

  “What, what? Did you say something?” She turned responding to his voice.

  His lips parted, a slight grin crossing his face. “I asked if you ever sold any of your grandmother’s taffy—the shops behind us?”

  “I tried for a week or two. One of the booths was vacated and the manager of the space, I had met him before, gave him my phone number if anything opened it … anyway, he called. It was horrible. I had to man the booth for twelve hours, make the taffy at night, up the next morning to hurry down here to the booth. I couldn’t do it. Sure was a lesson in how not to run a business.”

  Ash leaned back, crossed his legs, laying his hands on his thighs the sun warming his face.

  Star looked at his hands. They were smooth, no construction for this man. She wanted to touch one, but something in his manner said not to. Whatever he did before going to school at Stetson had made his body rock hard. “What do your parents do?” She assumed they lived in England along with his grandmother.

  “My mother stayed at home. My father is in the army.”

  “Hmm. Did you move around? The military?”

  “No.”

  Sensing he didn’t want to talk about his parents, Star asked how he liked being a reporter. He relaxed, and at the same time seemed excited chatting about his assignments, submitting them for print. No byline—yet. For the most part the assignments had been fun—a gator in a community pond, a bear cub up a tree.