by Arlene James
Charlotte returned a few moments later with a smile on her face. “I don’t know why I thought he wouldn’t help himself to his own dinner,” she said, pulling the door closed behind her and stepping out of the way of the screen. “He is not, as he has reminded me, helpless.”
Tyler chuckled and nodded. “I take it that the domino game has adjourned.”
“Only so long as it takes them to eat dinner,” Charlotte said with a grin. “Justus is in there, helping himself to one of Ryan’s pot pies.”
“You really do always cook extra for your brothers, don’t you?” Tyler said. “Or is it really for them?” He nodded toward the lobby, indicating the inveterate domino players.
She shrugged. “Them or whoever.”
It occurred to him that he would have to find his own dinner tonight, and that fact made him feel lonely again. Staring off toward the highway, he pondered just why that might be since he often ate alone.
Before he reached any sort of conclusion, a vaguely familiar, dirty white pickup truck swung off the shoulder of the road and turned into the motel property. The driver did not pull into the drive-through as a motel patron would have done but came to a halt right beside them.
A tall, lean cowboy hung out the window, flipping them a wave. “Hey, sugar! You about ready there? My belly’s kissing my backbone.”
Tyler remembered now why that truck seemed familiar. He’d seen it there before, just last night in fact. Obviously this cowboy made a habit of stopping by to see Charlotte. Jealousy struck Tyler like a hammer blow. In the same instant he realized how ridiculous he was being.
Of course she would have a boyfriend. The wonder was that she hadn’t married already. He remembered something she’d said about the pickings being slim in a small town, but that didn’t mean the local male populace wouldn’t realize what a gem they had in their midst. They were probably in constant pursuit. If things were different, he might well be himself, not that he had the time and freedom for personal relationships, or the inclination to pursue them. Why bother when so few people could be trusted to look past his fortune? Besides, he had a very demanding job.
His life suddenly seemed rather shallow and truncated. Had distrust completely overtaken him? Why, even his father had found the time and fortitude to get married. Twice. Tyler found himself wondering just what it would take to win Charlotte away from the cowboy.
Belatedly Tyler realized that Charlotte was speaking.
“Knock off work a little earlier,” she said with a cheeky grin, addressing the driver of that truck.
Tyler had missed whatever had led up to that point, but he assumed that this was in reference to the cowboy being hungry.
“Look who’s talking,” the fellow drawled. “Don’t tell me you’ve been standing around here waiting for hours on end.”
“We were sitting, actually,” Tyler put in, quite without meaning to. “Well, most of the time.” Couldn’t hurt, he mused, to let the other man know that he might have a little competition.
Charlotte laughed and waved a hand at Tyler. “Holt, this is Tyler Aldrich. He’s been keeping me company, and I guess we did kind of let time get away from us. This is my brother Holt.”
Her brother. Tyler didn’t know whether he felt more relieved or embarrassed, which meant that he wound up being both, not that he let on. Putting out his hand, he stepped closer to the truck.
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Holt reached across himself to shake hands, but the gesture contained a certain wariness. Tyler sensed that the eyes hidden in the shadow of that hat brim keenly assessed him. The grip of that calloused hand held a hint of warning, too, as if its owner wanted him to know that force could be brought to bear should it prove necessary.
“Come on, sprite,” Holt called to Charlotte. “My dinner’s waiting.”
She skipped forward, brushing a hand against Tyler’s forearm. “Maybe you’d like to join us? I know you haven’t eaten, and the café closed at six.”
Tyler smiled to himself. That was one problem solved.
“But be warned,” she cautioned, “we’re headed to the catfish joint.”
“What’s wrong with catfish?” Holt wanted to know. “We eat catfish every Saturday night.”
“You eat catfish every Saturday night,” she corrected. By way of explanation, she added to Tyler, “Holt takes either me or Granddad to dinner every Saturday night.”
“Sometimes both of you,” Holt put in.
“But not often,” she clarified. “Someone usually has to stay here in case a guest drops in. It’s my turn to go out this week.”
“I see.”
“You might as well come,” she prodded. “It’s either the Watermelon Patch, the truck stop up in Waurika or driving an hour or so to find another restaurant.”
Tyler smiled, his decision made from the moment she’d issued the invitation. “I’d like to come along. Thank you.”
Beaming, she hurried around the front end of the truck to the passenger door, Tyler following on her heels.
“After all,” he said, reaching around to open the door for her, “I have to eat. Might as well do it in good company.”
Perhaps the food wouldn’t be particularly healthy, but no matter, and he didn’t care what the tall cowboy behind the steering wheel might have to say about it. Charlotte’s pleased smile gave him all the encouragement he needed, and then some.
Charlotte could not quite believe her own audacity. Imagine a man like Tyler Aldrich at a hole-in-the-wall like the Watermelon Patch. Then again, he’d rented a room in her motel and would apparently be staying a second night. She mentally shook her head. Slumming, perhaps? Or could he be as lonely as he seemed?
God knew that she wouldn’t be in his shoes for anything in this world. Money like Tyler seemed to possess could only be a burden. He’d said so himself. At least she knew that her friends and family loved her for herself. She looked over at Holt, her fingertips brushing his shoulders fondly. He seemed to take that as a cue, lifting his gaze to the rearview mirror and the man in the backseat.
“Aldrich, huh? Charlotte says you’re connected with the grocery stores. That so?”
She heard Tyler shift on the cloth seat. “Yeah, that’s right. It so happens I’m CEO of Aldrich & Associates.”
Holt let out a thin whistle, thin enough to let Tyler know that he wasn’t too impressed. She cut her eyes at her brother, tempted to pinch him. What was wrong with him? Holt never behaved rudely. Perhaps he didn’t trust as easily as Ryan and Granddad, but he could always be counted on to be friendly and fair, except…
She widened her eyes, remembering another time when Holt had been less than cordial, less than welcoming. He took his position as big brother to heart, and he’d never quite trusted her one serious boyfriend. To this day, Holt seemed to suspect that Jerry had broken her heart, rather than the other way around.
The implications shook her. Surely, Holt did not consider Tyler Aldrich to be a romantic prospect. The man lived in Dallas! He was passing through Eden, nothing more. Scoffing at the very idea, she fixed her big brother with a stern, wide-eyed stare.
He jerked his head at her, as if asking what he could possibly be indicted for, but she looked at him until he sighed and slumped in his seat. Smiling to herself, she turned her gaze out the window.
The rest of the drive passed in silence.
The Watermelon Patch restaurant proved to be something of a revelation for Tyler. For one thing, it sat smack dab in the middle of a real, honest-to-goodness watermelon field, though Tyler wouldn’t have known that if Charlotte hadn’t told him. In the dark, it looked pretty much like any empty field to him, but then he knew little about watermelons beyond when they were in season and the mark-up per unit. The building itself claimed most of his interest, though.
Cobbled together of sheet metal and weathered wood, mismatched windows, a variety of shingle types in several different colors and—amazingly—a sliding-gl
ass door that appeared to have been salvaged from a burned-out house, the structure would not have passed any legal standard anywhere in the United States of America.
Oily smoke chugged from a leaning stack pipe on one end of the building, smudging the night sky with dirty gray and blanketing the whole area with the aromas of frying foods, while specks of light and a virtual cacophony of voices spilled out of the chinks and cracks in the walls. The whole thing looked as if it might tumble down should an errant breeze come its way.
Despite the restaurant’s decrepit appearance, the joint seemed to literally jump with the movement of bodies packed inside. Automobiles of every description crowded the sandy parking area, but Holt didn’t let that deter him as he angled the tall, long truck into a narrow space between a tree at the edge of the road and a massive propane tank. The tree stood so close to the passenger side of the truck that both Tyler and Charlotte had to slide across the cab to exit on the driver’s side, Charlotte from the front seat, Tyler from the back.
He saw at once that he hadn’t underestimated Holt’s height. Tyler stood a solid six feet in his socks, but Holt had at least three inches on him, and that did not count the heels of his boots or the tall crown on that cowboy hat. Tyler doubted very much that had anything to do with why Holt removed the hat, revealing a handsome head of thick, sandy-brown hair and vibrant green eyes.
“Looks like another full house,” he said, placing the hat, brim up, on the truck seat before closing and locking the door.
“Come Saturday night, you can’t even find an empty chair to lay a hat on in there,” Charlotte explained to Tyler.
Looping a brotherly arm around Charlotte’s shoulders, Holt walked her toward the restaurant, leaving Tyler to trail along behind them. He did not think it unintentional. Wondering how long they’d have to wait before a table opened, he kept up.
In the restaurants that he normally frequented, Tyler didn’t do much waiting, but he didn’t mind the idea of cooling his heels a bit just now, provided he didn’t do it standing alone in some dingy corner while Holt chatted up Charlotte across the room. He wouldn’t put that little maneuver past Charlotte’s brother, which partly amused Tyler and partly irritated him. Usually, the family members of young women cultivated his interest rather than shunned it. Perhaps that accounted for his general lack of interest.
To Tyler’s surprise, they did not wait at all. Instead, a plump, fortyish, ponytailed, bleach-blond, gap-toothed waitress led them through a rabbit’s warren of tables and chairs, across uneven floors, to a short bench against the back wall. Charlotte and Holt took seats on the bench. The waitress—Joanie, Tyler thought he heard her called—then shoved a narrow plank table in front of them, jostling several other patrons in the process. Next she plunked down sets of flatware tightly wrapped in paper napkins. Finally, she dragged over a chair for Tyler, its wooden legs bound up with wire to keep them from spreading.
He’d barely lowered himself onto the scarred seat when Joanie produced a pencil and pad, asking, “So what’ll you folks have this evening?”
Tyler glanced around. “I, um, seem to have missed the menu.”
“Oh, there’s no menu, sugar,” Joanie told him, cracking the chewing gum tucked into her cheek. “There’s just catfish, taters, beans and slaw. All I need to know is how many pieces you want.”
“Pieces?” He looked to Charlotte for clarification.
“Of fish.”
“I’ll have four,” Holt announced decisively.
“Two,” Charlotte said when Joanie looked to her.
The waitress turned her heavily lined eyes on Tyler. He picked a number for sheer symmetry’s sake.
“Put me in between with three, I guess.”
“How do you want those potatoes?”
“Fried,” Holt answered.
“Baked,” Tyler said at the same time.
They looked at each other, then away.
“None for me, thanks,” Charlotte said.
“You want that spud loaded?” Joanie asked.
“Sour cream only. Fat-free, if you’ve got it.” She gave him a bland look over the top of her pad. “Never mind.”
“I’ll bring y’all’s tea and cornbread in a minute.” She danced off, twisting and turning and smacking her gum.
Other diners shifted around in their chairs to greet the Jeffords, reaching across one another to shake hands with Tyler as Holt gave them his name. Conversation engulfed them.
“You find a buyer for that old rig yet, Holt?”
“Not looking.”
“I hear Sharp’s lease has expired.”
Holt just shook his head at that.
“Hap keeping Ryan in line tonight, I guess.”
“He’s got some school deal tonight,” Charlotte answered.
“More like the other way around, anyhow,” Holt put in, and laughter followed.
“Did you hear that Jenny Tumm’s old mother passed?” someone asked from across the room. “Died in her sleep, they say.”
“She must’ve been a hundred,” someone else observed.
“Ninety-seven,” another voice contended. “I’ll tell you how I know.”
A recitation of names, dates and weather patterns followed, devolving quickly into various reminiscences about droughts and deluges survived, tornadoes succumbed to and a horribly late frost that had prodded the proprietor to hedge his bets with a restaurant in case his melons failed to make it again. Weather, it turned out, held a prominent place in the local, agriculture-based psyche.
Tyler listened unabashedly, caught up in the feel of community that must be particular to small-town life. Like a large family dinner, everyone talked over one another while they ate, but no one shouted in anger as often happened on those rare occasions when the Aldrich brood sat down together.
Charlotte’s eye would catch his from time to time, and a small, knowing smile would curve her lovely lips, as if she saw how fascinating and foreign he found all this. He didn’t try to hide his interest, only to retain a polite dignity, and to let her know that he enjoyed himself. He couldn’t, in fact, recall an occasion when he’d enjoyed himself more.
Joanie returned to plunk down plastic baskets of steaming cornbread squares and tall jars of iced tea, accompanied by a bowl of sugar, another of lemon wedges and a third piled high with butter spooned out of a tub. With the possibility of bread plates dim at best, Tyler followed Holt’s lead and reached for a square of that high, light, mouth-watering cornbread, his belly suddenly growling.
The bread burned his hand, but the aroma wouldn’t let him put it down. Breaking off pieces with his fingertips, he poked them into his mouth, and closed his eyes as they seemed to melt on his tongue. Holt, meanwhile, slathered his piece with enough butter to guarantee a heart attack in a less fit man and scarfed it down in a single bite. He then proceeded to stir half a cup of sugar into his already sweet tea and suck the glass dry, while Charlotte looked on. Tyler held off as long as he could on a second piece of cornbread, straining his vaunted control.
Ever since his seemingly healthy father had been diagnosed with cancer, Tyler had tried to live with an eye to his own body’s well-being. He’d developed an exercise routine, with the help of a private trainer, and consulted a dietitian on food choice and preparation. He’d hired a chef trained to produce whole-grain, low-fat, well-balanced dishes on a Mediterranean model with Asian influences, and routinely chose restaurants based on their ability to accommodate his preferences.
He’d limited caffeine, forsworn all but the most moderate amounts of alcohol, avoided secondhand smoke and cut out sugar and white flour. In truth, he hadn’t missed a single item that he’d given up. But then he’d never eaten cornbread so sweet and soft and buttery that it all but fell apart on its way to his watering mouth or tea so fragrant and smooth that it begged to slide down his throat.
He’d already tossed prudence to the wind by the time Joanie brought a second basket of what Charlotte referred to as “corncake” to
the table along with paper-lined baskets of golden fish fillets heaped atop thick slices of crisp fries, or in his case, crowded around a steaming potato the size of a football. This came accompanied with generous bowls of red beans and coleslaw and cups of creamy tartar sauce. Tyler managed to resist only the latter. The rest of it remained untouched only so long as it took Holt to pray over it.
Tyler tried not to appear uneasy when brother and sister joined hands and bowed their heads over the rough table. He might have succeeded if the whole place hadn’t gone suddenly quiet, allowing Holt’s voice to carry.
“Heavenly Father, we thank You for Your bounty and seek Your blessing on this food and all those within the confines of this building. Keep us mindful of Your love and grace. We pray in the name of Your Son. Amen.”
“Amens” wafted around the building. Tyler shifted, feeling uncertain. These Jeffords were sure praying people. Praying at the dinner table in the privacy of one’s home was one thing, but he’d never seen anyone pray in such a public setting before. Here, however, it seemed perfectly acceptable.
Knives and forks clinked, someone laughed and conversation resumed, quickly growing to previous decibels. Holt attacked his food like a man starved.
Tyler tried to display more control, cringing a little at the grease glistening on the crispy coating of the fish. He flaked some of the breading off with his fork, but in the end he ate every piece and wished he’d ordered more. The potato, baked to perfection and heaped with sour cream, filled his mouth with warm, hearty delight. He quickly filled up, but still managed to taste the beans and slaw.
At least he intended only to taste the slaw. Surprised by the fresh flavor of the shredded cabbage and other vegetables, he ate all of the coleslaw despite the calorie-rich dressing. Only later did he reflect that the meaty, tasty beans probably comprised the most healthy part of the whole meal, but he simply didn’t have room for more than a few bites.
Charlotte ate steadily, but after Holt polished off what he’d been served, he finished her portion and sat eyeing what Tyler had left over until Joanie returned with dishes of peach cobbler swimming in cream. Too full even to be tempted, Tyler shoved his dessert across the table and watched it disappear beneath Holt’s spoon while Charlotte made a fair dent in hers.
