For the next sixty minutes Linda espoused the virtues of life in Heber and Midway while teaching me the towns’ 156-year history. She told me that Midway was renamed from “Mound City,” after the relocation of an Indian tribe forced the building of a fort midway between the towns of Heber and Mound City, hence Midway.
There was just one break from the conversation, when the timer on the oven sounded and Linda brought out a tray of hot popovers, orange marmalade, and raw honey.
She finally came back to the purpose of my visit. “Now, this other Linda Harding you’re looking for, could it be that you have the wrong Midway? You know, there are at least a dozen cities named Midway in this country, including the famous Midway Island, which marked a turning point in World War II. My great-uncle Kirby was in the Navy. He was stationed at Midway—not this Midway, the island in the Pacific, Midway—when the war began. That’s where the Japanese—”
Realizing that we were potentially entering another hourlong lecture, I quickly stood. “Ms. Harding?”
“Linda, please, Alex. Call me Linda. Why are you standing? Do you need to use the washroom?”
“No, but I think you may be right. I might be in the wrong city, and I’d better get right on this while there’s still time. Thank you so much for the cocoa and popovers and your company.”
“The cocoa and popovers were certainly no trouble, and I’m always so glad for company. As a matter of fact, I’m just about to start making dinner. Would you like to stay? You have to eat.”
“Thank you so much, but I have other commitments I need to attend to. And thank you so much for setting me straight. I’ll see myself to the door.”
I headed to the front door with Linda still talking behind me. “I would love to have you for dinner. It’s no trouble.”
When I opened the door it was already dark outside, the curtain of evening accented by a softly falling snow. “Thank you, but I’d really better get on my way.”
“Come back soon,” she said. “Tomorrow I’m baking my cinnamon pull-aparts.”
As peculiar as my first day of visits had been, outside of the two city bureaucrats, everyone I’d met so far had wanted to spend more time with me. I had come away with three dinner invitations. What if the world’s best-kept secret was that the whole world was lonely?
I was able to clear some of the snow off my windshield with the wipers but had to use my hands for the rest, leaving them wet and cold. On Main Street I found a convenience store. There was a box of snow brush/scrapers near the front door and I bought the largest size they had.
In spite of Mrs. Harding’s popovers, I was hungry, so I decided to find the restaurant that Ray had told me about. The Mistletoe Diner.
CHAPTER
Nineteen
I drove cautiously, my wipers flailing wildly against the increasingly steady snowfall as I looked for the diner. I had the car’s defroster on full, which had cleared patches of windshield about the size of two large pizzas but not all of it, which is partially why I drove past the diner twice before finally finding it, a block and a half east of the Midway community center.
Unlike most of the other establishments on the street, the diner didn’t look Swiss. It also didn’t have much going on by way of signage. The Mistletoe Diner on the neon sign above the front door didn’t light—only a sprig of green mistletoe that moved back and forth, looking more like a feather duster than holiday-themed foliage.
The diner was built adjacent to the road and was long and narrow, with a curtained window at each booth along the front of the building. The windows glowed invitingly.
I parked my car, then walked inside. Hanging directly above the waiting area was a sprig of dusty mistletoe that looked a few decades old. Christmas music was softly playing. Bing Crosby. I wondered if, considering the diner’s name, there was always Christmas music playing.
“Someone will be right with you,” an older woman said as she walked past me to a table. She was wearing a white apron over a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She said to a younger woman on the far end of the front counter, “Ari, will you help the gentleman?”
“Of course.” The waitress had been facing away from me and she turned, wiping her hands on her apron. “Hi. Welcome to the Mistletoe Diner.”
The young woman was dressed the same as the other waitress, with a white apron and black blouse, except her blouse was short-sleeved, exposing the pale, smooth flesh of her arms. Her dark-brown hair softly cradled her face. She had lush lips and full, high, defined cheeks that almost seemed to crowd her dark eyes.
The truth is, most of the time when we meet someone it barely registers a memory—you know, those times when someone tells us their name and we forget it before we even use it. Then there are times that some force, invisible as magnetic waves, creates an immediate pull and connection. The latter describes the first moment I saw her. She was attractive, which in itself implies some form of magnetism, but it was more than that. If she was beautiful, she also looked, like the diner, a little worn down and frayed around the edges. Peculiarly, there was something familiar about her.
I was so busy taking her in that it almost startled me when she spoke.
“Dinner for one?” she asked softly, grabbing a menu from the front counter.
“Yes. It’s just me.” Why was I always embarrassed to say that?
“Would you like a table or a booth?”
“Booth,” I said, adding, “I’m a recluse.”
She gently smiled and it was warm and pretty. “The isolation booth it is.”
I followed her to the back corner of the diner. “Here you are. Seclusion.”
“Thank you.” I sat and she handed me a menu.
“My name is Aria. Can I get you something to drink?”
“That’s a pretty name,” I said.
She lightly smiled and pulled back a strand of hair from her face. “Thank you. I had nothing to do with choosing it. Would you like something to drink?”
“Do you have lemonade?”
“Yes. We have Minute Maid. I can put some strawberry or blackberry syrup in it if you like.”
“Strawberry, please.”
“One strawberry lemonade. I’ll give you a minute to look over the menu.”
I watched her walk back to the kitchen, then opened my menu. The food selection was typical of a diner: chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, that sort of thing. I was still perusing the menu when she returned carrying my drink and a basket of bread. “Here you are, your drink and some bread. Did you have time to decide on what you’d like?”
“I’m still undecided. What do you like?”
She leaned comfortably against the opposite vinyl backrest. “I usually order the chicken pot pie.”
I set down my menu. “That sounds good. I’ll have that.”
“We’re out of it tonight.” When I looked at her blankly she said, “You asked me what I like, not what we have.”
I smiled. “Fair enough. What do you like that you have?”
“I would recommend the meat loaf. Or the sage-roasted chicken. They’re both good.”
“And you’re sure that you have both?”
She grinned slightly. “I’m pretty sure we do. And I also recommend the split pea soup, if you like split pea soup. If you don’t, then don’t order it.”
“I’ll have the meat loaf and a cup of the soup.”
“The meat loaf comes with mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy and corn or mixed vegetables.”
“What kind of vegetables?”
She thought. “It’s mostly corn too.”
I laughed again. “I’ll have that.”
“All right, that’ll be just a few minutes. Would you like your soup first?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, and enjoy the bread. I baked it this morning.”
She disappe
ared back into the kitchen. I tasted my lemonade, then stirred in the strawberry syrup that had settled to the bottom of the glass. As I sipped my drink I panned the dining room.
Some modern diners try to mimic traditional old-time diners with faux vintage Coke signs, vinyl bar chairs, and neon clocks, accessories now more likely to be made in China than Toledo, Ohio. But the accessories surrounding me were old and authentic, as if the place were caught in a time warp. And the other patrons seemed as eclectic as the diner itself: truck drivers, old folks out for pie, tourists.
Aria returned carrying my soup steaming in a porcelain bowl on a matching plate. “Here you are. The soup du jour. Be careful, it’s hot.”
“That was fast.”
“It doesn’t take long to ladle soup into a bowl.” She set the bowl down in front of me. “I’ll be back with the rest of your meal in a few minutes.”
I tried the soup and was pleased to find that it was as good as anything I’d had in my travels. Per Aria’s suggestion, I took a piece of thick white bread, buttered it, and took a bite. It was good as well. I broke some pieces of the bread into the bowl and began to eat.
I had just finished the soup when Aria returned carrying my meal and a fresh lemonade, even though I had drunk less than half of what I had.
“Here you are. How was the soup?” She looked at my empty bowl. “It must not be terrible.”
“I could probably force down another bowl.”
“I think you’ll like this as well.” She set down a platter with meat loaf and a generous helping of mashed potatoes covered with brown gravy. That’s when I noticed the small diamond on her ring finger. Peculiarly, it bothered me.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Just wave if you need anything.” She walked across the room to a new booth of diners.
She moved gracefully. She was in a small-town diner, but she was not without poise. I suspected that she could have been in one of the finest restaurants in Europe and won the crowd. I wondered if she was from the town or a transplant.
I ate slowly, in no particular hurry to be anywhere. I tried not to stare at her. I saw her glancing over at me several times, though I’m sure she was just doing her job. As I was finishing she came over to check on me.
“How’s your dinner?”
“I’m glad you recommended the meat loaf.”
“Comfort food,” she said. “Perfect for a cold winter night.”
I desperately scrambled for something to keep the conversation going. “I sounded a little weird telling you that I’m a recluse. I’m not, like, Howard Hughes.”
“A lot of people don’t like company when they eat. I used to have a dog who wouldn’t eat if you looked at him.”
“You just compared me to your dog.”
She smiled again, and it was beautiful. “At least he was a cute dog.”
I laughed. Was she flirting?
“It surprises me that most of the truck drivers want to be alone. You would think that being on the road all the time would make them want company, but I think it does the opposite. Most of them shun it. At least when they come here.”
“I think I understand,” I said. “I travel a lot for work. It seems that the more I travel, the more I just want to stay inside my hotel room and order room service. It happens.”
She thought a moment, then said, “Maybe we get out of the habit of being around people faster than we think.” She took a deep breath and smiled. “That got deep, fast.”
I put out my hand. “By the way, my name is Alex.”
“Hi, Alex. What brings you to Midway?”
“How do you know I’m not from Midway?”
She cocked her head. “Because if you were, I would have already known you.”
“I’m from Daytona Beach, Florida.”
“The beach. It’s been so long since I’ve seen beach. And sand. And warmth. They say there’s four seasons in Utah. Almost winter, winter, still winter, and road construction.”
“There’s a lot of snow out there.”
She looked out the window. “It’s still coming down.”
I shook my head. “It’s relentless. Are the roads safe?”
She unsuccessfully hid her amusement. “Is it your first time in snow?”
“It’s my first time driving in snow.”
“Just don’t drive too fast. We’re supposed to get a lot more snow this week. We get, like, a hundred inches a year. How long are you here?”
“I’m not sure. About a week.”
“What is it that you do?”
“I sell software that counts cars.”
“Why would someone want to do that?”
“For a lot of reasons. Traffic control. Safety.”
She nodded. “Government stuff.”
“Exactly.”
“Where are you staying?”
“At the Blue Boar Inn.”
“The Blue Boar is really nice,” she said. “I’ve never stayed there, but I’ve had dinner there. It’s a lot fancier than the diner.”
“The innkeeper there recommended your diner.”
“Ray,” she said. “He’s sweet. He comes here every Thursday for pie. On Thursdays Thelma makes pecan pie just for him. Speaking of which, would you like some pie? Tonight we have Thelma’s caramel apple pie.”
“Ray warned me not to pass on any pie,” I said. “So yes, please.”
“Would you like cheese with that?”
“Cheese with pie?”
“You know what they say, apple pie without the cheese is like a kiss without a squeeze.”
“I’ve never heard that.”
“Maybe it’s a small-town thing. Being from Florida, you’re probably more of a Key lime pie kind of guy, anyway.”
“I love Key lime pie.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” She glanced over at the counter, where a man was looking at us. I couldn’t tell for sure but it looked like he was glowering at me.
“I need to check on my other tables, then I’ll get your pie. I’ll hurry.”
As she walked away I was again struck by how familiar she looked. Where did I know her from?
Five minutes later she returned with the pie. It was lattice-topped and the crust was lightly browned and encrusted with sugar.
“It’s a work of art,” I said.
“Thelma is to pie what Michelangelo was to sculpture,” she said. “And here’s your check.”
I looked it over. “May I add something to my bill? I’d like to take some pie back to Ray. To thank him for the recommendation.”
“I’ll get the pie. Don’t worry about it. Just tell him Aria says hi.”
“Thank you.”
She went over and poured coffee to a man at a booth, then disappeared into the kitchen while I ate my pie. Thelma was indeed a pie-making genius.
When Aria returned I gave her my credit card. She took care of the bill and brought me my receipt. I left her a large tip. “It was nice meeting you, Alex,” she said. “I hope you’ll come back in before you leave town.”
“I’m sure I will. Pecan pie is my favorite.”
“Thursday,” she said. “She makes it on Thursday.”
As I walked out to my car I didn’t mind the cold. I started up the car, turned on its heater, grabbed my new snow scraper, and cleaned the snow off the windshield. In spite of making little progress with LBH, I felt happy. I don’t think it was because of the pie.
CHAPTER
Twenty
The next morning at breakfast Ray stopped by my table. “Good morning, my friend. How goes the hunt?”
“It goes,” I said. “I’m glad you’re here. I have something for you.”
“You do?” he said, sitting down.
I handed him the Styr
ofoam box with the piece of pie. He opened it and smiled. “Oh, yes. Thelma’s caramel apple pie. Food of the gods.”
“I had the kitchen refrigerate it overnight.”
“Did you have some for yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know Thelma’s genius. You should try Thelma’s pecan,” he said. “That’s worth writing home about.” He grabbed a fork from another table and began to eat. Then he looked up at me. “So you found the diner.”
“It was as good as you said. And the pie’s courtesy of Aria.”
A pleasant look came across his face. “Better yet, you found Aria.” He put a special emphasis on her name. “If I were younger . . .”
“So you like Aria?”
“Like? Adulate or worship are better words. Did she say anything about me?”
“She sent the pie and said to say hi.”
“That’s it?”
“She also called you ‘sweet.’ ”
He frowned. “Sweet. Like a puppy. That’s the problem with age. You’re cute, not sexy.”
“It’s just as well,” I said, hiding my amusement. “You’re married.”
“Yes, I am. Very, very married.”
“As is she.”
He took another bite of pie then looked up. “No, Aria’s not married.”
“She had a ring.”
“I know. That’s truck driver repellent. She was married. When she first came to Midway. But that was a long time ago.”
“She’s not from Midway?”
“No, she’s a transplant. She came here about six years ago. She and her husband, Wayne, Wade, Walt, something with a W, started a coffee shop, but it didn’t make it. He left, she stayed. That pretty much sums it up.”
“She’s been alone since?”
“Yes, it’s a wonder. Beautiful girl like that. Beautiful inside and out. One of those rare women who are beautiful but don’t know it.” He thought a moment then said, “I think Polish girls are like that. The whole country.” He looked up at me. “Not like the Midway men leave her alone. They don’t. The problem is, the young ones are all married, and the guys . . . well, we’re not really in the running, are we?”
The Mistletoe Secret Page 9