by Liz Johnson
And what of George? He was a fine man. She’d conceded that point. Sometimes Ruth’s descriptions of him made him sound like he belonged on the pages of her latest library read. Ruth had let him hold her. But Millie had let Ben hold her. No big deal.
Except sometimes it felt like a big deal. No, not a big deal. But a deal. A situation. A thing.
If that was the best she could do in describing it, then it really wasn’t any of those. But that didn’t—
“Millie? Millie!”
She jerked around, almost toppling the tray in her friend’s hand. “Ella!”
“Where were you? Cook’s been calling your order for ten minutes.”
Millie blinked quickly, trying to erase a vision of grass-green eyes and a warm smile beneath a sunny summer sky. “I’m here. Sorry. I’m here.” At least, she was here for another twenty minutes before Ben picked her up for what would probably turn out to be another wild goose chase.
Scooping up the plates at the window, she dodged Cook’s salty glare and headed for the end of the counter. All but two of the red padded stools were filled, and the four teenagers on the end scowled as she approached. The only girl in the group said something, but the clanging of Cook’s spatula against his griddle mixed with Elvis on the jukebox drowned her out.
“Sorry about that wait. Here you go.” She slid each plate into place across the narrow Formica counter and pulled a bottle of syrup from her apron pocket. “Can I get you anything else right now?”
The girl huffed and rolled her eyes as she squeezed out enough ketchup to drown her hash browns. “I’m out of water.”
“Of course. Anything else?”
The three boys were already neck-deep in their breakfasts, rich maple syrup drenching their pancakes. They shook their heads, so she reached for the pitcher of ice water.
Just as Millie began to refill the glass around a dancing straw, the girl shrieked. “Ugh! This is cold.” And then she shoved her plate.
In an instant Millie dropped the water, the pitcher cracking against the black and white tiles of the floor, and grabbed for the plate, which flew over the counter’s edge. She kept it from hitting the floor only by scooping it into her arms. Right against her middle.
The ketchup was cool and wet through her uniform dress, and she froze as it began leaking toward her waist. It didn’t pool like the water from the pitcher did in her white tennis shoes, but it globbed against her skin, leaving sticky trails all down her front.
The whole room seemed to freeze. Even Cook’s spatula paused. Only Elvis, begging for his girl to love him tender and true, continued.
And every single gaze zeroed in on her.
She tried to find a smile or a chuckle or something. Anything to detract from the fiasco. But before she could break the tension, the rude girl brayed like a donkey. Her laughter was as coarse as her manners, and every other face in the room seemed unsure how to respond. Even the girl’s three companions struggled to follow her lead. Each of the teenage boys, all clean-cut and polished enough for Sunday morning, blinked in slow motion as strained smiles pulled at their faces.
Easy for them—they didn’t have a midsection full of ketchup, fried potatoes, and runny eggs that had made it to the bottom of her skirt and oozed past her knee.
“Idiot.” The girl glared at her, daring her to speak up against the injustice, knowing somehow that she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. There were unspoken rules about these things. The customer was always right. Treat others as you’d like to be treated. She needed this job.
It was the last that made her clamp her mouth closed and ease the plate away from her. Looking down, she surveyed the damage. She looked like she’d been in a knife fight. More specifically, she looked like she’d taken a plate to a knife fight, and she’d lost. Badly.
The ketchup was still spreading, but there were three distinct splotches in the region of her belly button.
“Millie? Are you all right?”
His voice was both wonderfully familiar and terribly jarring. And it seemed to pull everyone else from their stupor, the whole place erupting with sound and activity at once.
Buddy, the café’s manager, lunged for her, holding out a wet towel that had probably wiped down a thousand greasy tables. She deflected it with her free hand, trying to find the face she hadn’t seen but knew was there.
Not at the counter. Not in a booth. There, at the hostess stand. Ben in his wrinkle-free shirt. Ben, his damp hair a testament that he’d recently showered. Ben, his eyes wide with concern.
She could only meet his gaze, hold up the plate, and shrug.
He seemed to understand. At least enough to realize that she wasn’t gravely wounded and that the attack had been more emotional than anything else. So he offered her a gentle smile, crinkled eyes and all.
That’s when her insides, which had been frozen in shock, suddenly twisted with the force of a tornado. Her head spun and her eyes went blurry, and for a moment she thought she’d lost her ever-lovin’ mind. Maybe she had. Maybe Grandma Joy and Ruth and Claude Devereaux—or maybe George—had gotten to be too much.
All she wanted to do was curl up in her bed and disappear into the pages of a book. Not forever, but for a while. A long while. Only that wasn’t really an option at the moment. Every single one of her worries wasn’t going away. Not anytime soon.
So she stared at Ben and sucked every bit of strength she could from his stable, solid stance as three other waitresses fluttered around her. One pulled the plate away while another wiped her hands with a napkin, and the third glared at the nasty girl.
“Come on, guys,” the girl said. “We’re leaving. This place smells like rotten fish.”
Two of the boys followed her across the diner floor, but the last one dug into the pocket of his jeans. “Man, I’m sorry about your dress.” He pulled out two twenties, which would barely cover the four breakfasts, and tossed them on the counter. Then he followed his buddies, and they disappeared to the sound of the jingling bell on the door.
“Are you all right, Millie?”
“That girl’s the worst. She sat at my table last week.”
“I’ll ask Buddy to comp their meals so you can use the money to get your uniform cleaned.”
All three women spoke at the same time. She just couldn’t seem to look at them. Not when Ben was making his way over.
“You want me to go take care of them?” His voice was lower than usual, and it sounded like he hadn’t used it in days. But his words made her laugh.
“And how exactly would you take care of them?” Foot sloshing in her shoe, she took a step toward the counter.
His brows furrowed and his lips pursed as he looked over his shoulder at the place where they’d exited the diner. “Um . . . well . . . you know. I’d take care of them.” He held up a fist and waved it around.
She laughed again. He was one hundred percent history professor in his dark jeans and green button-up shirt. Even with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he looked about as capable of “taking care” of those kids as she was able to snap her fingers and make her uniform spotless.
Shaking her head, she managed a genuine smile. “Thank you, though. I’m glad you offered.”
Strangely, she was. She didn’t want him to beat them up. She didn’t think he’d even meant that in his offer. But even if he’d said it only to make her laugh, it had been exactly what she needed. And the spectacle she’d been had suddenly become a lot less interesting to every other patron in the Hermit Crab Café.
“Who’s this guy?”
Suddenly Millie realized that she and Ben weren’t alone. At the counter between them still sat a dozen other well-behaved diners. And Courtney, Priscilla, and Ella—the other waitresses on the morning shift—were still by her side.
“Um, this is Ben. He’s . . . um . . .” She hadn’t even had as much trouble introducing him to Grandma Joy. So why was this so hard? But as she looked into the expectant faces of her co-workers and gossip queens, she cringe
d. “He’s a friend of mine.”
Lamer words had never been spoken.
“A friend, huh?” Ella eyed him like a medium-rare steak, just the way she liked it.
Ben nodded slowly and spoke like Ella might need him to spell it out. “Yes. A friend. We work together.”
Courtney’s nose wrinkled. “You don’t work here.”
Maybe these girls did need Ben to speak slowly.
“We work together at my other job,” Millie said. “At the Chateau.”
“Oh.” Priscilla eyed him up and down, twirling a platinum-blonde corkscrew curl around her finger. “You a tour guide there too?”
“She’s not a—” He was halfway to explaining her job to them when she held up a quick hand. She’d already told them a thousand times what she did there. How three women who could remember every “hold the pickle” and “add mayo” for a buzzing party of ten couldn’t remember that she played dress-up six nights a week, she’d never understand.
“You girls going to serve some of this food?” Buddy yelled right in her ear.
The others hopped up and took off to deliver the plates stacking up at the window. Millie just turned around and motioned to her dress. “My shift is over in ten. Mind if I go home?”
Buddy rubbed his hands together in front of his too-short tie. Patting his greasy bald spot, he gave her a once-over and then went back for seconds and thirds. His gaze made her skin crawl, but she tried to keep her smile from slipping away.
“Okay. Ella, cover Millie’s tables.”
She didn’t need a written invitation. Sliding around the counter, she ducked into the back room, grabbed her purse and the bag of clothes she’d been planning to change into, and met up with Ben just inside the front door.
As he held it open for her to exit first, he said, “You want to go home?” His tone took a decidedly disappointed dip.
She took another good look at the front of her uniform and sighed. “I don’t have much of a choice.”
She’d planned to change her clothes at the diner and leave straight from there with Ben. But that was before ketchup started pooling at the waistband of her underwear. Not that she was going to explain that particular discomfort to him. Still, she gave him a hint as she wiggled against her damp underthings, praying that she wouldn’t leave stains all over the seat of her car.
Except she hadn’t driven that morning. Her car had refused to start. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about making a mess.
“Can we go another day?”
He looked toward the far side of the road, over the passing vehicles, like he could see something more than the threadbare clouds. “Today’s my only day off for another couple weeks. I’m working a few extra shifts.”
“At the Chateau?”
Squinting, he looked back at her. “At the library.”
Just how many jobs did this guy have? By her count that made three. Three and a half if treasure hunting took up any more of their time.
She was busy—but Ben was crazy.
Opening her mouth, she started some sort of casual dismissal. She could go on her own. He didn’t need to go with her. She probably wouldn’t find anything anyway.
But even as she began to form the words, she shook her head at her own arguments. She didn’t want to go alone. And she sure didn’t want to dwell on why she felt that way.
Maybe Great-Grandma Ruth was right and feelings were foolishness. But they were still feelings. It was that simple. That complex. Sometimes they required untangling, and sometimes she could ignore whatever knotted mess they held.
She’d go with the latter today.
“I do need to run home.”
His eyes dropped.
“But I can be fast. I live close by.”
As soon as his lips parted in a grin, her ketchup-covered stomach dropped. Why oh why had she said that? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
“Okay. I’ll drive.” There was no question in his words, only a logical plan he expected them to follow. Except his plan included him seeing where she lived. And worse, maybe coming inside.
Her left eyelid began to twitch, and she rubbed her fist against it. It didn’t stop.
He walked to the passenger-side door of his coupe and pulled it open. In his best impression of a fairy-tale prince, he motioned for her to enter. Well, a prince with a twenty-year-old two-door carriage that probably had the actual horsepower of a couple of geldings. But the car was impeccable, inside and out. There were no residual water spots from the last rain marring its faded finish. No fast-food wrappers littering the floorboards. Not even the little mulberries tracked in on the rugs.
His car was pristine. She was not.
Holding out her arms, she did a little shimmy. “I’m a mess.” Perhaps an unnecessary reminder since he was looking at her, but he seemed to have temporarily lost his good sense.
“Don’t worry about it. I have seat protectors.”
She’d barely noticed those in her previous trip in his car. She hadn’t needed them. But now they were just one more reason he could take her to her home. She needed a new plan. But knowing she needed one and coming up with one were apparently two different things.
He just kept staring at her and gave her another little wave into the car while ketchup baked onto her skin, which promptly started sweating and sent the ketchup rolling once again.
You could have been home and changed by now. Why are you holding this up?
Because . . . because . . .
Great. Now she couldn’t even answer her own questions.
Because you don’t want him to know that you live in an apartment the size of a postage stamp above someone else’s converted garage.
It was possible. Okay, probable.
Get over yourself.
“Are we going to stand outside and melt, or are we going to do this?” Ben asked.
She slid onto the fabric seat protector and immediately began to cook as he walked around and got in behind the steering wheel. No matter how hard the AC blasted, it couldn’t cut through air thicker than water, and she held herself as still as possible to keep whatever was oozing down her skin from spreading.
Somehow she managed to give him directions to the house three blocks away, and he let out a low whistle as she pointed to it. It must have looked impressive to an outsider. The two-story main house had been repainted in dazzling blue in the last year. It nearly glowed with bright white shutters and gingerbread over a quaint veranda. A quintessential wooden porch swing squeaked in the wind as they got out of the car. Even among the other impressive homes in the neighborhood, this one stood out.
Ben moved toward the big house, and Millie cleared her throat, heat already making its way up her neck. “My place is over here.”
He mumbled something and followed her around to the back of the house toward the two-story structure that had once been a garage and storage. And that was being generous. Where the house was updated and upgraded, the garage had received only just enough attention to call it habitable. Anything beyond that was up to the tenants. And she had exactly no skills in that vein and no money to put into it even if she did.
But at least the rent wasn’t bad. And when her car refused to start, she could walk to the diner.
Again Ben walked toward the door on the first floor, and she nodded around the side of the structure. “I’m up there.”
She hadn’t noticed just how flimsy the wooden stairs were until there were two people on them. Suddenly she worried that a little pressure on the railing might send them both right over.
When they reached the landing, she quickly let them in and looked anywhere but at Ben as he surveyed her home for the first time. It took him all of three seconds to spin around the single room—complete with a bed, kitchen, and table—and she hated herself for sneaking a peek at his reaction. At his smile.
“This looks like you.”
“What? Small and a little grimy?”
He laughed but immediately pointed to a framed
picture on the wall. “That must be Grandma Joy and Grandpa Zeke.” She nodded, and he continued, “And the note on the fridge.” He pointed to a white sheet of paper held up by a magnet. It said only, It’s all for Grandma.
He leaned into her kitchen, looking at the stacks of mismatched plates and cups, which were visible on the shelves that were stand-ins for cabinets. “And the dishes are so eclectic.” He sounded wowed.
But he likely wouldn’t feel the same if he knew she’d gotten them all at the thrift store for fifty cents apiece. If he’d known that was her only option. Even saving and reusing paper plates had become too expensive.
“Well, let me just get cleaned up.”
She grabbed some clothes from her closet and hurried to the bathroom. It was a bit of a tight squeeze, but she managed to slip out of her uniform, clean herself up, and put on fresh everything. She emerged from behind the accordion door to find Ben reading one of the books that were piled on the table.
Oh no.
“There’s got to be something more interesting for you there.” She tried to laugh it off, all the while praying he wouldn’t realize just how fluffy and fairy tale-y the book in his hands really was.
She’d never gone for the bodice-ripper books. She much preferred leaving some things unread. There really wasn’t anything to be embarrassed about.
Except that he—an academic and a lifelong student—would likely discover that she was a silly romantic through and through. And while she liked being a romantic, the thought of him thinking less of her made her stomach ache.
He looked up from the pages in his open hand and smiled. “I was just skimming. Seems like a fun story. Pirates and buried treasure and all that.” Setting it back down on its stack, he motioned to the others. “So, I guess you like to read.”
Pulling her hair back and fastening it with a rubber band, she nodded slowly. “Mostly just fiction.” Since she didn’t want to have to explain about the particular kinds of books she loved, she pointed toward the door. “Ready?”
He nodded and led the way, and they were soon on the road headed inland.
