Word Gets Around

by Lisa Wingate

  Mimi gave a little wave rather than shaking my hand. “It’s okay.” The words ended in a sigh, as if all of this was far too much trouble, and she was hoping to move on to a restaurant where the coffee came in styro sippy cups. “Willie, honey, can you tell the lady to bring me some more? A mocha latte with calorie-free sweetener this time? You know I don’t take it black.”

  My father frowned at the plastic boat with the cream and sugar packets in it, bemused. Willie hopped up and went to the counter to procure a proper cup of coffee for his girl-toy. In the prep area, Bob left the fry grill to personally fill Mimi’s order.

  My father chattered on about the movie project as we waited for Willie and Bob to figure out how to make a mocha latte from coffee, hot chocolate mix, and milk. When they were finished, they topped it off with a scoop of meringue from one of Imagene’s famous mile-high lemon cream pies in the cooler.

  “There ya go, Mr. Wardlaw. Just like one’a them fancy Starbucks,” Bob pronounced as he handed over the coffee. “Who says we don’t have culture in Daily, Texas?”

  Something was burning on the fry grill. Imagene shoulder-butted Bob as she slipped behind him and turned the food. Bob barely even noticed. He was busy watching the presentation of his newly invented mocha-lemo-choca-lattachino as it crossed the room to Mimi. The Countertop Coffee Club turned to observe as Mimi dunked the meringue blob with a fingernail, studied it sideways for a moment, then skimmed a few lumps of cocoa mix off the top with a spoon before bringing the cup to her perfectly lined lips. Bob’s brows rose as he leaned over the counter and breathlessly awaited her approval.

  Swilling the first sip, Mimi considered the taste, licked a tiny bit of meringue off her lip, then purred, “Mmmmmm. That’s good,” as if she were screen-testing for a commercial somewhere.

  The Countertoppers broke into applause.

  “Well, th-there ya uggg-go, B-B-Bob,” Doyle Banes said, his stutter slowing the sentence to a crawl, as usual. “Y-y-you done invented somethin’ unnn-new, invented somethin’ new. You ummm-might wanna uggg-go into business, mmm-maybe. Get-get you a wagon at the s-s-state fair, at the state fair.” The thing about Doyle was that whenever he opened his mouth, you could always count on something positive coming out. Perhaps because the words were so much effort to produce, he was careful how he used them. Leaning forward on his stool, he peered over the counter at the leftover mocha-lemo-choca-lattachino supplies. “I ummm-might want one’a th-th-them myself.”

  “No, sir,” Imagene said as she slid past Bob and rescued the slightly damaged lemon pie. “Y’all already ruint a pie.”

  “It ain’t ruint,” Bob protested, only now considering that perhaps the price of the doctored coffee wasn’t worth the cost of the pie. “Just smooth it back over that spot. It’ll be all right.” Looking concerned about the loss of confectionary profits, Bob glanced at Mimi again. She’d set down the coffee and pushed it away, begun toying with a sugar packet, looking bored again.

  Imagene was miffed about the pie. “Nobody’s gonna want to eat that piece with the coffee and chocolate all dripped in it and a big hole in the meringue.” She piled pancakes onto a plate and filled three cups of orange juice while keeping the debate alive. During my teenage years of working at the café, I’d concluded that both things were second nature to her—serving up food and arguing with Bob. They’d been at it since shortly after Texas applied for statehood.

  Bob flipped the food on the grill, then peered at the cooler, considering the pie quandary.

  “I’d-I’d-I’d eat it,” Doyle chimed in.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Doyle, that don’t count. You’d eat anything.” Imagene grabbed a tray of food and headed for the dining room while Bob took a wet knife, moved to the cooler, and began pie reparations.

  At the countertop, the conversation turned to politics, then fishing, and grazed briefly over the price of feed, which ping-ponged the topic to livestock and the cost of horses at last month’s auction.

  My father leaned over, slipped his arm around my shoulders, and whispered, “Did’ja miss this ol’ place?”

  My heart filled with an unexpected rush of emotions. It was nice to be home, where everything was familiar, where nothing ever changed, where the café and the customers could be counted upon to be the same today, tomorrow, a year from now. Here in the café, I felt like a child again, basking in the privilege of being late for school while Dad lingered with the men, discussing his latest plan to strike it rich in cattle and used farm equipment.

  So far, everyone was so preoccupied with Mimi’s presence and the movie plans that they’d barely noticed Puggy was back in town. Maybe Imagene had told them not to make a big deal about it.

  “Yes, I did,” I said, and circled my fingers around Dad’s, leaning my chin on the hand that had held me through the loss of my mother, through childhood hurts, through the long, painful days of recovery after my accident. Tears prickled in my nose. “I really did.”

  Clearing his throat, my father rubbed his free hand back and forth across his mustache, squeezed my fingers, and then let go and turned his attention to Willie and Mimi’s questions about the menu. His voice quivered as he began making breakfast recommendations, then he cleared his throat again.

  I relaxed in my chair, listened to the hum of conversation around me, and exchanged a few greetings with the countertoppers, basking in the feeling of being back home in Daily’s community kitchen. For as long as I could remember, we had been connected by this building. This was the place where news was spread, engagements and births were announced, recipes were shared, vacation adventures were recounted, and pictures of new grandchildren and high-school graduates were pinned to the bulletin board for all to see. The photos remained as the colors paled, children grew up, married couples fell into middle age, and family vacations faded into history. They collected the fine, fragile patina of memory until seemingly by happenstance, someone told a story from days past, and the pictures were awakened and brushed off, the colors polished to a luster beyond the original.

  In my childhood, I’d loved this place. I’d loved the stories, I’d loved the people. The last two years, I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it.

  “Hey, P-p-puggy, you gon-gon-gonna go out to the Anderson-Shay ranch’n train the hors-horses for the ummm-movie, for the movie?” Doyle’s question sliced through my reverie. Suddenly, all the attention was focused on me. There was a pregnant anticipation in the air—round, and heavy, and bloated with water weight.

  At one of the tables, someone whispered, “That’s down past the low-water crossin’. … ”

  I felt the blood draining from my body, seeping into the silence. The moment seemed to stretch, growing larger, more potent.

  My emotions swung violently, reminding me of all the reasons I’d stayed away. I’d been avoiding this very thing, this very stitch in time. With one seemingly harmless question, we’d all been brought back to the reason I’d left.

  “I think I’ll have an egg white omelet with green pepper, onion, and just a sprinkle of Swiss,” Mimi announced, setting down her menu, then giving Willie a perplexed look when no one in the room responded. “Willie honey, I said I think I’ll … ” She trailed off as the door burst open and Justin Shay strode into the café with Aunt Donetta and Lucy trotting proudly behind him.

  Aunt Netta did an under-the-lashes surveillance sweep, checking to see who was present to witness her entrance in such auspicious company. No telling what sort of mileage she’d get out of this at the next meeting of the ladies Bible study or the Civic Improvement Society.

  Judging from the look of things, she might be able to claim title as not only hotel owner to the stars, but wardrobe mistress, as well. From head to shiny metal-tipped toe, Justin Shay was dressed in brand-new cowboy duds—crisp Wrangler jeans, a Texas flag–patterned western shirt with twin Lone Stars on the plackets, a blue bandanna neatly tied at the neck, and a black felt cowboy hat, which any cowpoke with sense would have known better
than to wear in the summer in Texas. Justin Shay looked like what Aunt Netta always called a K-Mart cowboy, which wasn’t an insult, exactly, just a name for someone with too many new western clothes all at once. Aunt Netta loved K-Mart.

  Nate stepped through the door wearing a faded Hard Rock Café T-shirt, khaki shorts, and a pair of flip-flops, with an expression of complete embarrassment. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there, posing with the K-Mart cowboy while the pillars of Daily society stood up and took notice.

  Chapter 8

  Nathaniel Heath

  Breakfast at the café was like a scene from that old Jim Carrey flick The Truman Show, where the main character, Truman, is living in a twenty-four-hour reality TV program, but he doesn’t know it. Everything around him is part of a giant film set—the all too perfect island of Seahaven, the plucky townspeople, the Technicolor food. Each event in Truman’s day is scripted. Even the weather is controlled, manipulated to keep Truman content and happy, oblivious. To keep him playing the game. Only he doesn’t know it’s a game. He thinks it’s real.

  This town was Justin’s Seahaven. It encased him in militant goodwill. During breakfast, friendly neighbors admired his new cowboy shirt, stopped by the table to ask about construction at the ranch, offered to supply him with laying hens when the chicken house was ready, slapped him on the back and told him they were glad to have him in Daily. He was fitting in here just fine.

  The weird thing was, he ate it up, along with a gigantic platter of over-easy eggs, French toast, and bacon. When he was finished, the horse wrangler, Willie Wardlaw, handed him the toast basket and said, “Here, son, yer leavin’ the best part. Sop up that egg yoke and bacon grease. No self-respectin’ ranchman throws out the drippin’s. Hard day’s work ahead.”

  Willie’s bombshell girlfriend rolled her eyes, crossed her arms over her tiny waist, and sulked against her chair. She was tired of all the breakfast food and chit-chat, and displeased that after the initial introductions, The Shay had shown much more interest in the food than in her. She’d tried to draw attention away from the ranching talk and the breakfast platter. It just wasn’t working.

  Frederico wandered by the front window of the café, looking lost and slightly dazed, as if he couldn’t remember how he’d awakened in Seahaven, and he was wondering how to get out. Doyle, the stuttering guy who’d just exited a counter stool, stopped to hold the door open as Fred peered through the glass, hoping to find someone familiar. “Come-come on in, uhhh-fella,” Doyle offered. “Unnn-nice morning, ain’t it?”

  Fred scratched his head, blinked at Doyle, nodded uncertainly, then came in the door. He crossed the room without glancing right or left, like a stockbroker with a flat tire in the wrong part of town, afraid to look the locals in the eye. He was just in time to observe Justin sopping up a week’s worth of trans fats and cholesterol while Willie Wardlaw and Lauren’s father, Frank, cheered him on.

  “Good stuff, ain’t it?”

  “Cowboy fare.”

  Willie slapped Justin on the back, and I thought Justin was going to choke on his toast. “Didn’t know what you been missin’, right son? That’s real food.”

  Sometime after the initial introductions and before the grease sopping, a strange quasi father-son dialogue had developed between The Shay and Willie Wardlaw. There was lots of laughing and backslapping and talking about the cowboy way. Willie called Justin son and young fella, and Justin didn’t seem to mind. He actually listened as Willie went on and on about his reasons for wanting to use some broken-down racehorse named Lucky Strike to play the equine lead in the movie. Right before the sopping began, he’d been warning Justin that the horse had been through a traumatic time with a broken leg and could be difficult to handle. This would be no problem, Willie assured him, because Frank’s little girl was just about the best horse trainer around. He reached across the table and patted Lauren’s hand when he said it, and Lauren returned a half-hearted smile that spoke volumes. She didn’t want to be here any more than I did.

  Frank Eldridge supported Willie’s recommendation by promising everyone that his daughter could practically read an animal’s mind. “Why, Lauren could train a goat to wear a neck tie and use a table fork,” he added. “She’s got a magic way with animals, always has.”

  As the conversation quickly moved on to other subjects, Lauren rested her elbow next to a basket of Texas toast and rubbed her temple with two outstretched fingers. She observed the sopping and the new cowboy mentorship while bracing up her head, as if all of this were too heavy to hold. I knew exactly how she felt. This was what my grandfather would have called knee deep and rising.

  Frederico leaned over the table and seized Justin’s empty platter, widening his eyes at the soupy mixture of grease and egg yoke. “This is not on the diet.” Frederico, being fitness guru to the stars, was as mellow as a lap cat until it came to calorie consumption and calorie burn. Then he was a drill sergeant.

  Justin paused, confused by Frederico’s presence. He’d probably forgotten kidnapping Fred from LA the day before. Actually, so had I.

  Justin observed the dripping half-eaten piece of toast in his hand, trying to decide whether even The Shay dared consume such a thing right in front of Frederico Calderone.

  “Who’s this fella?” Tipping back his hat, Willie Wardlaw took in Fred all the way from Nike track shoes to rumpled Under Armour workout shorts and day-old spandex tank top. Fred always looked like he was ready to step into a Bowflex commercial.

  “My trainer.” Justin set down the piece of toast, aware that the food party was over.

  Willie scanned Fred again. “Horse trainer? Because we already got one of those. We got Lauren Lee.”

  “Personal trainer,” Fred corrected, with a hand braced on his hip in a way that added, to the stars, thank you very much.

  “What d’ya train?” Lauren’s father broke in, and Lauren slid a hand over her eyes.

  “People.” Fred was indignant.

  “To do what?”

  “To eat.”

  Frank looked perplexed. “ ’Round here, folks just learn that natural, son.”

  Frederico raised an eyebrow, turning his nose up slightly before clarifying. “To make good food choices.”

  Willie threw back his head and laughed. “Well, yer in the right place. This food is goo-o-ood. Stick to yer ribs.”

  Setting the greasy platter out of The Shay’s reach, Fred glared pointedly at his prize customer, the one who’d dragged him all the way to Texas. For months, Fred had been trying to help Justin take off the flotsam of too much catered food, alcohol, and a growing consumption of antidepressants, sleeping pills, and antianxiety meds, which tended to leave behind weight gain. Couple that with turning forty, and Justin was having to work to maintain the necessary physique. Sometimes I actually felt sorry for Justin. Nothing in his life was his own. He couldn’t put on a few pounds without Randall and the studio on his back and the paparazzi taking long-range pictures of him on the beach, putting him on cellulite watch, and theorizing that he was on the way down—caught in an unbreakable web of depression, drugs, erratic behavior, and party nights.

  It occurred to me that despite the insanity of Justin’s plans here, it was too bad the tabloid reporters couldn’t see him sopping up eggs and talking cowboy talk with the regular people in small town America. It was only nine in the morning, and he was once again up, dressed, and communicative. For the second day in a row, breakfast was real food, rather than the usual pill or two with a chaser of whatever mixed drink was by the bed.

  Today, he looked alert and … well, enthusiastic. Both eyes were focused in the same direction. He listened with interest as, behind the counter, Bob the cook took a phone call from a reporter who was trolling for information about Justin’s whereabouts.

  “Hadn’t seen hide ner hair of him.” Bob winked at Justin, and Justin held up the high sign, while Bob hammed it up a bit. “Heard he was in that there Riviera someplace, livin’ it up, but I don’t
know for sure. No … no, ma’am, I hadn’t heard he’s got any plans to show up here in Daily anytime soon. … Nope, hadn’t seen Amber Anderson, neither. Reckon she’s still out in California. … Sure, sure. Sorry I couldn’t be more help. Y’all just feel free to call up the Daily Café anytime, y’hear.” Bob hung up the phone, and Justin rewarded him with a round of applause.

  Swiveling toward the door, Justin clapped his hands once more, catching the attention of everyone at the table. “Well, we should get out to the ranch.” He rubbed his palms together rapidly. “Give Amber a call and tell her we’ll pick … ” The sentence drifted off as he realized there was no Marla hovering over his shoulder. “We’ll just go by there … on the way.”

  “I’ll call over to Amber’s house and let her know you’re comin’,” Imagene offered from behind the counter.

  Justin gave her the thumbs-up, then stood squinting through the windows, probably searching for the limo. No Marla. No limo. Difficult adjustment.

  “Your new truck’s parked out back,” I reminded him.

  “Right.” He raised a finger and turned toward the counter. “Does this place have a door that goes there?”

  “Right through the kitchen, here, Mr. Shay.” Fry-cook Bob scrambled to move a bus cart of dirty plates out of the way. “You just come on in. Past the sink, down the hall, and you’ll be in the alley. You need any help, now—caterin’ for the movie, old time cowboy-type recipes, someone to play a ranch cook on screen— you just let ol’ Bob know, y’hear?”

  Justin didn’t answer. He was busy lifting a contraband tidbit from a biscuit basket while Fred’s back was turned. “So, uh, Fred can ride with you guys.” He indiscriminately indicated anyone at the table and didn’t wait for an answer. “Nate and I’ll pick up Amber.”

  “Sure,” Lauren’s father obliged. “There’s space in the truck with Willie ’n Mimi ’n me. You can ride with us, too, Lauren. It’ll be a tight fit but we’ll make it.”