“Look, we’ll figure something out,” said Brian. “Maybe Felix is open to letting people sleep in his bushes.” A row of halfhearted azaleas lined the front of the cafe in gravel beds. Above the exterior door, she’d noticed a sign for the Better Days Cafe, now all but obliterated by sunlight and time.
The café’s proprietor, Felix, turned out to be a grey-haired gentleman wiping down the counter.
“Do you folks for something?” he asked, as Brian approached. “How about a nice banana sundae? We’ve got a special on those today.”
“Actually, we were referred here by Handy Henry across the street,” said Brian. “We’ve got a little problem. No car until tomorrow and no place to stay. He said you might have an idea.”
Felix paused. “How many of you are there?” he asked. Brian turned and pointed towards Evelyn, who was picking at a donut from the plate the waitress set in front of her.
“She’s got an emergency in Alabama,” said Brian. “We’re a little behind schedule and she’s a little disappointed that we’re not making good time today.” Leaning forward, he met Felix’s gaze with an almost pleading stare. “So anything you can do would be really appreciated.”
“Well, I live upstairs, son, and there’s not much room, what with the damage to the place in the last storm,” said Felix. “But I reckon since you’re stranded...ever slept in a vinyl booth before?” Glancing at Brian with his eyebrows raised significantly.
A moment later, Brian slid into the booth across from Evelyn. “Good news,” he said. “I got us a place to stay.”
“Is there bad news?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Sort of,” he answered, evasively. “That is, it’ll be a long night curled up on one of these booths...”
“In here?” she said. “Here–in the diner? That’s the place?” She didn’t know whether to believe him or scold him for making up something that unbelievable.
“Felix says we’re welcome to stay here until morning,” Brian answered. “He says it won’t bother him, he spends his evenings playing checkers downtown and he’ll lock us inside before he leaves.”
Evelyn’s eyes widened as she glanced around at the checkered curtains and table cloths, the authentic vintage Coca-Cola ads on the wall. This man was extraordinarily trusting, given that two strangers could trash his diner overnight and steal anything of value before fleeing the scene.
“So what do you think?” Brian leveled his gaze with hers. She stared into his eyes, trying to resist the faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Trying not to let the impulse of this decision carry her along.
“Just keep the ‘closed’ sign up–don’t want to encourage any customers,” Felix chuckled, as he turned the heavy lock in the diner’s glass door. It swung closed behind him as he exited, leaving them at one of the tables with a cozy electric lantern in the dusk, a pack of playing cards Felix unearthed from a drawer somewhere in the kitchen.
Brian took a bite out of a platter of muffins. “For this morning’s breakfast, these are still pretty good,” he said, after swallowing. “Maybe Felix was a baker in a previous business.” He offered one to Evelyn, who shook her head. Her corner in the booth had grown cool in the dying sunlight, the vinyl sticky after a long afternoon of sitting with cups of coffee and the same old roadmap.
Making up the lost time would be impossible. Miles and miles lay between her and Jared, a little over a day between her former boyfriend and the mistake of his life. And here she was, stranded in a little diner with a plate of muffins and a burned-out car battery.
Her fingers stroked the purse tucked in her lap, thinking of the letter folded inside. Imagining Jared surrounded by cardboard boxes in his Montgomery apartment, a lump of loneliness in his throat as he wrote the letter he believed would close the distance between them.
No wonder he turned to the first pretty face that came along–not that she had seized the first opportunity that came her way in the weeks of anger after he left New York.
A car motor sputtered, then died into the distance. She shivered, aware how much bigger the cafe seemed in the dark. Brian seemed closer in the seat across from her, the lantern’s glow highlighting the contours of his face. Her eyes traced them, succumbing to an atmosphere made strangely intimate with the lights dimmed and the growing twilight.
“Hungry?” Brian’s voice broke the silence. She took a glance at the platter of muffins and shook her head.
“Hungry for something real, I mean,” he said.
“Like what?” she laughed. “Some of the courtesy mints by the cash register? Not that I wouldn’t kill for something from Leopold’s right now.” Evelyn stretched her legs beneath the table, crossing them at the ankle.
Whistling the tune to the Beatles song from earlier, Brian slipped from his seat. Sliding behind the counter, he pushed open the door to the kitchen and began rummaging through the fridge and cabinets.
“What are you doing?” Uncrossing her legs, Evelyn scrambled up at the sound of his activity.
“Don’t worry,” he answered “I’ll leave our friend Felix the biggest tip of his life for using the facilities.” He slammed a series of ingredients onto the counter: a bottle of oil, several jars of spices, a Styrofoam carton he propped open and surveyed before adding.
The sudden realization swept over Evelyn that she hadn’t eaten anything of substance for over twenty-four hours. “I don‘t want to break his trust,” she said, arms crossed as she stood in the doorway. “For all he knows, we’re thieves or serial arsonists or something.”
“Is that what we look like?” Brian grinned at his reflection in the metallic fridge, running a hand over his sandpaper jaw. “I mean, I knew you were starting to look a little rough,” he joked, “but I’ve always maintained a certain sense of style up ‘til now.”
“The hobo style?” she guessed. On a strange impulse, she slipped off her sandals and felt the cool tiles beneath her feet. Her muscles ached all over, no doubt from the cramped conditions of the car and the absence of her usual yoga exercises.
“Har, har.” He placed two frying pans on the burner and measured some oil into the bottom of the bigger one. “Maybe it’s true what they say about Southern hospitality, creating a foreign environment we fear as jaded city natives.”
“Are you a native New Yorker?” she asked. “Somehow I can’t picture you coming from anywhere settled–like you’ve always been in transit, always wandering the road.”
“Well, I lived in the same house for my whole childhood, believe it or not.” As he talked, he cracked several eggs into a mixing bowl with one hand, the other busy adjusting the heat on the slowly simmering pan. “We had a brownstone and a back yard with a swing and a tree house. I even had a dog named Skip.”
“That sounds a little too perfect,” Evelyn said, letting a playful edge creep into her voice. “I think maybe you’ve confused your childhood with an Andy Hardy movie.”
He flicked a dishtowel over his shoulder. “What’s the matter–can’t picture me with a respectable background? Because I’m thinking you probably grew up in Manhattan, in one of those high-rise apartment buildings. With a governess and a service that delivered the groceries right to your door. Am I close?”
“Not even,” she answered, moving closer. “My parents were divorced, so my brother and I split our time between two very average apartments. I guess houses seem like something for married people.” The memory of an argument surfaced, one with Jared about the pros and cons of home ownership. How he resisted the idea of getting tied down to a mortgage with all its long term obligations.
“I’ve never thought about it like that,” said Brian. Pottery rattled as he diced a plateful of fresh veggies, his wrist flexing the knife with expert speed. He scraped the carefully-sliced bits into the smaller frying pan and set it to cook on medium.
He sliced his vegetables perfectly, she couldn’t help but notice. Little even half-moons of onion, mini cubes of tomato. Mushrooms sliced intact, like the picture vers
ion in old cookbooks.
“If I want a house and I’ve got the means, I’ll probably buy it,” said Brian, “with or without the girl of my dreams in tow.”
“You– in a picket fence existence?” she answered, half-joking, although her eyes studied him for signs of old heartaches, a subtle flinch or a tightening of the jaw. Wondering if his heart had ever been where hers was now–pinning her future hopes on someone else’s ‘yes’ or ‘no’.
“Sure,” he admitted, pouring the scrambled egg yolks into the pan that sizzled with oil, a soft shhhh! sound filling the air as they made contact. “There’ve been a couple close calls, but none were the girl. The one I couldn’t live without, the one I had to chase after like some lovesick dog...” He paused, a sheepish look on his face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to–”
“I know.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and glanced away. The spirit of her quirky quest rising like a phantom to dampen the moment of closeness. “You know, somehow I pictured you as the impulsive type,” she said. “Who would have trouble believing I was the kind of person who would do something this crazy.”
“I don’t leap every cliff I find,” said Brian. “Sometimes the distance isn‘t worth the risk–so why fall?”
He glanced up from his skillet, meeting her gaze with a sudden flicker of apology. “But clearly, this chance means something to you.” He tilted the pan that held the egg yolks sideways, watching its contents shift. “Although I still can’t figure out exactly how this scenario qualifies as destiny–a guy from your past marrying someone else.”
It was said softly, without the usual trace of sarcasm. His face angled away from hers as he stirred the vegetables with a spatula to sauté them in golden brown butter.
For a moment, she didn’t respond; he said nothing as he scraped the vegetables onto a plate.
“I found a letter he wrote me.” Evelyn’s voice broke the stretch of silence with a suddenness that almost surprised herself. “Written four months ago, right after he left. It–it said he wanted to work things out; he wanted us to grow old together. And he didn’t want to settle for someone else.”
Brian was quiet, his wrist ceasing to rock the pan of eggs back and forth. His eyes trained ahead with a thoughtful intensity that prompted her to go on.
“When I found out he was getting married, it just seemed...it seemed like a sign. I had to see him, I had to answer him before he let go.” She stopped, fingers tracing the surface of the stainless steel kitchen table. Waiting for him to laugh or maybe shake his head in pity or disbelief.
Instead, he turned his attention to the dinner preparations again, keeping his thoughts to himself as he began to sprinkle the vegetables into bubbling pools of egg in swift, expert motions.
How could you tell him? Evelyn shifted restlessly, regretting the impromptu moment of disclosure. Aware the worst part of her story had just come out: that this whole trip was basically one gigantic leap of faith. She turned towards the main restaurant again, leaving the sight of Brian scraping egg whites away from the skillet edges.
Faint clinking sounds reached her ears as she slid into the booth again, letting her face rest on her hand. The street outside was illuminated faintly by Henry’s yard light, a car passing by with its blinkers signaling a right turn.
Brian appeared from the kitchen with a plate in either hand. A yellow omelet displayed on ceramic dishware, a sprig of parsley beside the steaming entree.
Brandishing it like a waiter at a posh restaurant, he placed one before her with a flourish. “Your gourmet meal, Madame.” He placed the second plate across from her, then ducked into the kitchen and returned with two soda pop cans. “Your complimentary beverage.”
As he slid across from her, she glanced up, reading a spark of quiet understanding in his dark eyes.
“Thanks,” she said. She looked at the perfect egg folded over before her, stuffed with sautéed vegetables. Slicing a little piece off, she tasted it.
“Mmmm,” she said, eyes closing. “That is really, really perfect.”
“You’re tasting the dish that earned my first ‘A’ in night school,” he said, digging into his own plate. The familiar casual edge was back in his voice, though perhaps a trifle less carefree than before.
Her eyebrow quirked in skeptical surprise. “You learned that in cooking class?” Somehow she’d expected grander things were taught in culinary arts, like recipes for chicken parmesan or creamy garlic soups.
“It was an overview on breakfast cuisine,” he explained. “And I would’ve gotten an ‘A’ Plus too, if not for the food poisoning claim.” A playful gleam in his eye, as he unfurled a napkin. “I was framed, of course. Jealous classmate.”
“Uh-huh.” Evelyn reached for her knife and began slicing the omelet into perfect sections. “You know, I haven’t eaten eggs for dinner since I was a little girl,” she said. “My mother used them in pretty much everything we ate back then–Frittatas, Quiche Lorraine. Something quick but nutritious for a working mom on a budget.”
He took a swallow from his soda can. “But these days your menu is a little more exclusive, right? At least, an art critic strikes me as someone whose social circle frequents only the finest in dinning.”
“So you think all my friends are food snobs?” Her retort was slightly muffled by another bite of sumptuous omelet. “You picture us as card carrying members to private clubs, who’d rather die than set foot in a fast food restaurant?”
“Pretty much.” He grinned, dodging a smack from her napkin. “I could be wrong, of course, but something tells me you’ve grown more than a little accustomed to five star cuisine. Other than Leopold’s Deli, that is.”
She toyed with her fork, uncomfortable with this subject. Her “regular” tables at New York city restaurants belonged to the swanky seafood places and specialty foreign cuisine establishments–tables she shared with Jared before his abrupt departure from her life.
“I thought so,” he said, clearly enjoying her lack of rebuttal, as he popped an escaped slice of pepper into his mouth. His quick wink, however, signaled she shouldn’t take it too seriously.
“What about you?” she asked, in an attempt to turn the tables. “What kind of people do you hang out with, where do you go for fun?”
The question seemed to throw him, his confident expression vanishing momentarily. “There’s actually not a lot of time for socializing between the day job and classes.” He chewed a bite of egg and pepper, contemplating the rest of his answer. “Other than a few friends leftover from college days, most of my time is spent with strangers. Driving in and out of other people’s daily dramas.”
Evelyn’s fingers curved around her beverage can, but she didn’t pick it up. Did she imagine the sudden flicker of discomfort in his expression; the serious edge in his tone? His throat clearing awkwardly before he continued, his fork pushing another piece of omelet around his plate.
“Take this one guy I drove over to Hartford, Connecticut. It’s a long ways for a cab to go, but he was desperate–so to speak. Not enough cash for a regular cab or a bus ride, but his ex-wife was in the hospital for a car wreck. Seems he’d been pretending to be fine with their current status, had gone along with the whole divorce for her sake.”
“And he was going to tell her the truth?” she asked, her fingers still holding the fizzling can. Its touch cool against her skin, unlike the flush in her cheeks, inspired by the stranger’s dramatic story.
“He may have,” said Brian, “or else he chickened out, or maybe got there too late. None of my business, so I couldn‘t stick around.”
She was quiet, her half-eaten plate inched aside. “I guess you see a lot of emergency scenarios like that. Desperate people in need of last-ditch transportation.”
“So does every cab driver.” His eyes met hers, an uncharacteristic softness in their coal black depths. “Maybe that’s what makes the job so interesting.” Was this his way of telling her that she was simply another case of interest, that he would
drive away the instant his part was over?
“If it were me, I would just pretend they all lived happily ever after endings,” she said, wiping her fingers on her napkin. “That maybe I helped them for a reason, to give them a chance at happiness.”
For a second, he looked as if wanted to say something, then brushed it off with a shrug. “Yeah, I think you would.” He offered a crooked grin, clinking his can against hers in a toast. “Here’s to happy endings, right?”
“Happy endings,” she echoed. Wondering why these words sounded so hollow in her ears.
*****
“Seriously–you’ve never been in love?” Evelyn’s voice held an incredulous note, her arms wrapped around her knees as she perched on a patio chair outside the coffee bar. The evening breeze ruffled her hair, along with the café’s wooden sign, as a sweet floral scent traveled through the air from the flower baskets above.
After dinner and wiping down the kitchen again, there had been nothing to do. The restaurant had grown dark, the cards an uninviting form of entertainment. Which was why Brian pushed open the door.
“Let’s step outside for some fresh air,” he said. Evelyn glanced up from the sponge in her hand, busy wiping down the booth’s table.
“Outside?” she repeated. “Brian, we’re locked in. If that door swings shut, we’re sleeping on the concrete walk outside.”
“That’s why we don’t let it shut,” he answered. Reaching for a large rock in the azaleas’ gravel bed, wedging it firmly between the door and the frame.
Now they were perched outside on two chairs undoubtedly enjoyed by Felix’s regular patrons. The last colors of sunset had vanished long ago, the only glow a pinkish-white blaze from the cafe’s exterior light, surrounded by a crowd of moths and buzzing green beetles in frantic worship of the glow.
“I just can’t believe you’re telling the truth,” said Evelyn. “I think you’re making it up.”
“Do you have to make it sound like I never got the chicken pox?” said Brian, leaning back in the chair across from her, one hand rumpling his tousled mane. “A guy cooks you dinner and suddenly the topic of the evening is his romantic life?”
Late to the Wedding Page 8
