She shakes her head. “Not really. I mean, you were pretty obvious.”
“What?” I sputter. “How?”
I thought I’d been so careful.
“You always reached for the licorice a little too quickly,” she says. “And quit asking me if I wanted butter after, about… my second visit.”
I chuckle, giving it right back to her. “So if you knew, why didn’t you say anything?”
She shrugs, reaches for her beer. Just then the first sizzle of a firework shimmers in the air behind me; I can see the reflection in her glasses and turn around, watching a single silver stream of light streak into the air before exploding into a shimmering, glimmering ball high above us.
I hear her “oohing” and “aahing” behind me and I suppose the hiss and boom of the fireworks covers the sound of her chair squeaking. And the cooler opening. And her opening two new beers. And her feet crunching on the gravel rooftop as she creeps toward me.
“Here,” she says and, startled, I jump. We laugh and she hands me a beer. “You’ve been waiting on me for five months,” she explains, face streaked with red and blue from the fireworks filling the sky above us. “I guess it’s time I finally return the favor.”
“Thanks,” I say as we turn and watch the fireworks.
I don’t remember when her hand creeps into mine. Just… one minute it’s next to it, brushing gently as we stand and stare at the glittering, flickering, sulfur night. Then, the next, her fingers lace between mine, warm and soft as I tremble with excitement.
Long after the fireworks end we stand there, staring at the haze of smoke that fills the sky above the ocean. I’m afraid that, if I turn and face her, try to kiss her too soon or do something stupid, the spell will break and she’ll run down the stairs and out to her car and drive away and never come back.
Finally we turn and face each other, her a few inches shorter, eyes soft and dewy behind her glasses. “Thanks,” she says, looking up at me. “That was… those were beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful,” I say, risking it all. She blushes and turns away, then turns back.
“You too,” she chuckles, her hand drifting from mine as she sinks down to sit on the roof’s wide cement ledge.
I sit next to her and we sip our beers, the night cooler up here, somehow. “What now?” she asks, kicking my cheap black sneakers with her red shoes.
“Well,” I say, looking at the cooler. “There are a couple of beers left, so we could sit up here till they run out.”
“Won’t your boss get mad?” she asks, knowingly.
“Mr. Herald spends every summer on a lake in Maine,” I say, “so until the first week of August, I’m the only boss around here.”
“That explains all this,” she says, nodding toward the star lights and cooler and me drinking on the job.
“Rank has its privileges,” I chuckle.
“And then?” she asks, smirking. “I mean, after the beer is gone and the ice is melting, then what?”
“Then…” I say, stretching out beside her. “I suppose I could start the movie up again.”
“Only if you watch it with me,” she smiles.
“That’s a given,” I say. “But first I could dish up some hot dogs, maybe make you one of my 4th of July Freezie Slush specials you so rudely turned down earlier.”
She sighs, contentedly, stretching her long legs out near mine. “Hot dogs are a traditional 4th of July treat,” she says. “And a little Freezie Slush to wash them down couldn’t hurt.”
“I agree,” I say, reaching for her hand again. She eases into mine, a perfect fit, warm and soft as the night around us.
“You shouldn’t have waited so long,” she says, squeezing my hand. “We could have been doing this for the last five months.”
“What can I say? I’m a slow learner…”
She laughs, the sound as sweet as ten Freezie Slushes, one after the other. The night plays out, long and soft, like summer itself. I could live on this roof, with these lights and this girl, and never come down.
The movie theater below may be filled with summer blockbusters, but after five long months, I’ve finally found my main attraction. And the reviews are in: two thumbs up!
* * * * *
Story # 3:
The Elf in Summer
He just walks in one summer day, out of nowhere. I’m wiping down the counter after a busy lunch shift when the door opens and, without even looking up, I chime on autopilot, “Welcome to Dale’s Diner, sit wherever you like.”
“Thanks,” he says, in a kind, soft voice that is so unfamiliar, and so unexpected, I can’t help but look up.
He’s slight, small, slim and compact, but that’s not what makes me take notice. It’s his bright red T-shirt, soft and well-worn, with “Believe” written in dark cursive script across the front.
That’s it, just that one word: Believe.
My heart does a lazy little flutter. That’s… that’s what my husband Dale used to say, all the time: “Believe”.
“Holly, believe me, it’s not as bad as you think.”
“Believe me, honey, losing that job was the best thing for you!”
“Believe me, babe, it’s gonna all work out.”
“Believe me, Holly, this diner is going to be a goldmine once we fix her up.”
I look around the six booths, four tables and six counter stools, all empty, and sigh.
The new guy takes a stool toward the middle of the counter and I pour him a glass of ice water and slide it in front of him, along with a menu.
“Are you Dale?” he asks, looking at the name printed in bold red letters across my counter apron.
I chuckle, dryly. “My husband,” I say, a note lower – a tad softer – than I’ve been saying everything else.
He arches a soft eyebrow, then nods. He looks at the menu and smiles. “Oh, a BLT! I haven’t had one of those in years. Decades, maybe.”
He sounds so excited, like a little kid on Christmas. “Does… that mean you want one?” I sigh, pen poised over my official waitress pad.
“Oh, sorry,” he says, blushing. “Absolutely. One BLT for me, please!”
“Chips come with it, or you can get fries or onion rings for an extra dollar.”
“Onion rings,” he says, definitively, closing his menu with a satisfied grin like it’s New Year’s Eve and he’s just ordered filet mignon and the best bottle of champagne in the house.
I chuckle and turn, clipping the order to the mini “clothesline” above the kitchen windowsill and ringing the dented little bell beneath it to let our cook, “Frosty,” know there’s an order up.
I hear him grumbling and then the screen door slam out back as he comes inside, probably after another smoke.
“Can I get an iced coffee?” the new guy asks, shyly, like I might yell at him.
I turn around with a smirk. “Sure,” I tell him, reaching for a plastic jug in the pickle cooler. I fill a cup with ice, then pour the chilled coffee from last night’s leftovers on top. When I hand it to him, he smirks.
“What’s this?”
I grin. “Iced. Coffee.”
When he’s still smirking I add, “Coffee. Over. Ice.”
“Well,” he agrees, “technically speaking, I mean…”
“Cream and sugar?” I ask.
“Mocha and caramel?” he asks back, hopefully.
I shake my head. “We’re a diner, pal, not a café.”
He grumbles good-naturedly and fixes up his coffee with much playful tearing of sugar packets and clinking of spoon.
“I like your shirt,” I say, leaning against the counter, watching him wince and sip until he has the cream and sugar ratio just right; it takes some doing.
His face lights up. “Thanks,” he says, but offers no more.
“What does it mean?” I ask.
“My shirt?” He shrugs. “Whatever you want it to, I guess,” he answers cryptically.
I smile and decide to tease him a little. �
��Hmmm, well I ‘believe’ you’re not from around these parts.”
He laughs so hard, he has to put down his iced coffee. “What makes you say that?”
“Small town,” I say, shrugging, looking out the big picture window facing Cinnamon Street as sleepy Noel, North Carolina swelters in the summer heat. “Plus, everyone in Noel knows enough to order their iced coffee at the Books ‘N Beans across the street.”
He swivels around in his seat and follows my gaze to the cute little bookstore-slash-café across the way.
“I tried that already,” he sighs, turning back around to face me, but not without admiring the empty restaurant floor first. “Too crowded.”
I chuckle. “Touché,” I snort, casually wiping the counter down with a wet rag. It’s not really dirty, just kind of a habit.
“It’s the 4th of July,” I explain, a tad defensively. “Most folks head to Summerville for the weekend, or down to Maple Beach to watch the fireworks.”
He nods, sips at his disappointing ice coffee and smiles. “Sounds nice,” he sighs, and I have to agree, though I don’t tell him that.
“You still hiring?” he asks after another few seconds, nodding at the dusty “Help Wanted” sign under the Specials Board.
I smile. “Well, here’s the thing…” I hedge. “It’s a really, really specific job, with really, really specific hours. That’s why nobody’s taken me up on it yet.”
He shoves his empty iced coffee glass away, cross his arms over his “Believe” T-shirt, sits back a little and grins. “Lay it on me.”
“Well, as you can see, we tend to lame out here in the early afternoon but man, come dinnertime, it’s crazy busy in here and I really need just an evening person to seat folks, bus tables, bring water, run orders when I can’t keep up, that kind of thing.”
“Sounds good so far.”
“Yeah, well, the rush only lasts an hour or two, then there’s not much for you to do but I need the same kind of thing for the lunch rush, then go home for a few hours and come back for dinner…”
He smiles. “I could see how that would be a challenge for most folks.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” I huff. “The high school kids can’t do it during the school year, and every time I hire one during summer they’re fine for the day shift, but flake out for the night shift. Same with the grannies or soccer moms who occasionally apply.”
“I’ll take it,” he says confidently, nodding as if the deal is already done.
“Well, there’s one more thing,” I warn him. “I only need someone for another few weeks.”
“Oh?” he asks, cocking his head slightly. “Why?”
I blush a little, pausing. I mean, I haven’t really told anyone other than my accountant and Frosty yet. “Once the summer’s over,” I explain, “I’m just going to go down to lunches until we sell the place.”
He blinks a little. “It’s just too much for me,” I add, voice cracking a little as I stare down at the countertop, wiping the same clean spot absently. “And I can’t afford to hire any real help, so…”
“I’m only in town for a few weeks anyway,” he says, gently. “And I’ll work just for tips.”
His eyes are soft and warm, our hands close on the counter. I have a feeling that, if we’d known each other for just a week or so more, maybe even just a day or two, he would have reached out and patted mine comfortingly.
“That’ll work,” I say, suspiciously. “Are you… sure?”
He looks clean cut, a little preppy, like he might not know his way around a bus tray or ice machine.
“Sure I’m sure,” he says, pouring more cream and sugar into his fresh coffee. “How soon can I start?”
“Are you free tonight?” I ask.
* * * * *
He shows up half an hour before his shift, without being told. I kind of watch him through the window, walking up Mott Street toward Cinnamon Street, turning toward the diner with a smile on his face.
It gives me a warm feeling, just knowing I won’t be alone for once. “You sure about this?” Frosty grumbles from behind the small, greasy window that separates the kitchen from the diner counter.
“Not really.” I turn to him with a smile. “But… he’s working for tips, so… what do I have to lose?”
He’s wearing the same outfit when he walks in the front door, smiling, carrying three coffee drinks from the Books ‘N Beans in one of their fancy little cardboard carrying trays.
“What’s this?” I ask as he hands me a cherry mocha cooler, my favorite.
“A ‘thank you’ gift for giving me the job,” he says brightly, a gleam in his eye.
“But…” I blather, staring at it, befuddled. “How did you know?”
He blushes a little. “I just asked the girl behind the counter what ‘Holly’ would order. She made me that…”
I wrinkle my nose, suddenly curious. “Did I… tell you my name?” I ask.
“You must have,” he says, elusively, avoiding my eyes as he rounds the counter. “Maybe Frosty said it while I was here earlier,” he mutters over his shoulder.
Then he disappears into the kitchen, and I hear muted talking as he presents Frosty with something cool and, well… frosty. Frosty scratches his unruly white beard – hence his nickname – and then smiles, accepting it with a curt nod, which is about as emotional as the old crumb ever gets.
“What’d you bring him?” I ask as he comes back behind the counter.
“Same as you,” he admits. “Same as me, too, I suppose.” Then he hoists his own cherry mocha cooler.
We toast, I sip and then say, “Oh shoot, I just realized I don’t even know your name.”
“Rex,” he says, offering his hand as we shake. Both our palms are cold from the coffee drink.
“Thanks for the coffee, Rex,” I say, handing him some forms to fill out and scribbling his name in indelible ink on a fresh nametag.
He suits up, in a Dale’s Diner apron and a fresh bus pan, and as the first two customers of the evening drift in I’m about to tell him what to do.
But he goes and does it anyway. “Welcome to Dale’s Diner,” he says to the first couple, Mary and Tim Bradshaw, both teachers at Noel High School. “Right this way…”
He grabs a few menus, some fresh rolled silverware out of the wicker basket by the hostess stand and as I’m about to guide him toward their favorite booth… leads them straight there.
Then, as if he’s known the Bradshaws all his life, he stands and chats with them awhile.
“That okay?” he asks me as he swings back by the counter, filling up two glasses with ice water without being told.
“It’s… that’s great,” I stammer, watching him deliver the water, joke with the Bradshaws some more and then magically get back to the hostess stand just in time to seat Phil Carrington, the local librarian.
A Summer Fling: Three Romantic 4th of July Stories Page 4
