A Summer Fling: Three Romantic 4th of July Stories

by Rusty Fischer

  “I’m surprised, Holly,” Jim says as Rex hustles around, doing my work and his own to setup for the lunch rush. “The way you made it sound on the phone last week, you had the place looking like Ma and Pa Kettle’s barn. But I’ve never seen such a spotless diner before.”

  I smirk. “Well it just so happens that after I called you, I hired this guy,” I say, tousling Rex’s curls as he passes by with a stack of bread plates, “and he’s been sprucing the place up ever since.”

  “Well, he’s done a great job. I particularly like the new curtains on the windows. Are they… snowmen?”

  I sigh. “Actually, yes, my busboy slash interior designer here seems especially fond of the holidays for some reason.”

  But Jim only smiles, offering some unsolicited – and unwelcome – advice. “Well, it is Noel, Holly. I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to string a few lights and keep in line with the rest of the stores on Cinnamon Street. At least until you sell the place.”

  “Please don’t give him anymore ideas,” I sigh, only half-joking. But already I can see Rex by the window, admiring it with a critical eye, probably figuring out the best way to wrap twinkling lights around each sill and where to buy a few cans of that fake snow they sell down at the dollar store year round.

  “You know,” Rex says as I sit at the lunch counter, looking over the documents Jim left for me to sign. “Your friend there is right.”

  “Who, Jim?”

  “Yeah, I mean… you do live in Noel, North Carolina. I’ve been checking it out, ever since I got here. Lots of stores keep their decorations up year round.”

  “Ugghh,” I say, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m not sure I could look at that every day.”

  He seems kind of offended, as if personally owns stock in Christmas or something, and says no more about it. Lunch comes and goes and, before he disappears back into the kitchen to finish up my “to do” list, I hand him an envelope.

  “What’s this?” he says, his back to the kitchen door.

  “Well, it’s your last night, so I wanted to give you a little bonus for all you’ve done to fix this place up.”

  “No, no, I couldn’t take that…”

  “Take it,” I insist, shoving it in his tip apron. “You heard the realtor. I’ll probably fetch a higher price with all you’ve done to spruce up the place. It’s the least I can do…”

  He takes it with a silent nod, and disappears into the kitchen without opening it.

  I stand there, staring at the swinging kitchen door, and suddenly realize how much I’ll miss him.

  * * * * *

  I lock the door after the last dinner guest leaves a few hours later and sigh.

  He watches me, wiping down a nearby table. “I could stay another week or so,” he offers, tossing the rag on top of the pile of dishes in the bus pan on the booth seat. “You could stay open dinners that way, at least for a little while longer.”

  I chuckle. “That’s nice, Rex, but… I’m a little burned out on the double shifts myself, you know?”

  He leans against the booth and says, “You could always hire someone to help.”

  “I could, but… I’d still have to be here, you know, train them, supervise them. I’m just not sure I have it in me anymore…”

  “And you’re really going to sell?” he asks. “Your mind’s made up?” he adds when I nod.

  I nod some more.

  He nods, too, and picks up the bus pan, taking it into the kitchen without another word.

  I finish up my chores, a little miffed that he’s not more excited by the hundred dollar bill I stuffed inside the envelope. I mean, that’s nothing to sneeze at these days.

  I hear he and Frosty chatting, chuckling and then, before Frosty races out the back door to catch the bus, watch them share something amazing: a quick hug.

  A hug. From Frosty. Will wonders ever cease?

  I’m smiling again by the time Rex comes out from the kitchen, shutting off lights behind him as he goes.

  “Do you…” I hem, throat tight with emotion. “I thought I’d buy you a going away coffee at the Books ‘N Beans,” I finally venture, something I’ve been meaning to do all night.

  “Really?” he asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet so that he’s only a head shorter than me.

  “Absolutely!” I say, slipping on my jacket and holding the front door open for him.

  “But my treat!” he says, waving the envelope. I notice that, somewhere along the line, he’s torn it open. For some reason, that makes me smile.

  The Books ‘N Beans is nearly deserted now, and suddenly I realize the kids have already gone back to school.

  I head for the cash register to order but he hustles by and beats me to it, so I drift over to the crackling electric fireplace and grab the same table we shared a few weeks earlier.

  It’s hard to believe he’s been here that long, and harder to believe he won’t be there in the morning, waiting for me, as I open up the Diner.

  He arrives with a tray heaping with frozen coffees and scones and donuts with sprinkles. “What on earth?” I marvel as he sets them down on the table.

  “The girl said she made too much,” he explains, sprinkles all over his upper lip from the donut he’d bitten into on his way over to the table. “On account of forgetting summer was over. She’d rather sell them than let them go to waste, so these were all half-price.”

  “Nice one,” I admire, grabbing a donut for myself.

  We eat and drink and sit, the smooth jazz above, the crackling fire beside us, new friends, old friends, I can’t decide which.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I say when, at last, belly full and chocolate cherry mocha half empty, my mouth is no longer full. His still is, so he just nods. “Where are you going, Rex? I mean, it’s not like me but when you asked for the job, I never stopped to ask why you were here, in Noel, for the last few weeks of summer.”

  “It’s my vacation,” he says.

  I chuckle, pushing my dirty plates and coffee mug away. “Yeah, Rex, I get that but… your vacation from where?”

  “Up North,” he hedges, smirking a little.

  “But why here?” I ask. “Why Noel?”

  He shrugs, slight shoulders in his green T-shirt, the word “Believe” in red cursive on the front. “I like the name,” he says.

  “Fair enough,” I say, sitting back in my seat. “I guess I’m just glad you came.”

  “Me too,” he says, sitting up in his seat a little. “I just wish I had longer but, it’s time for me to get back to my real work.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Building toys,” he says, quickly, then makes a face like maybe he shouldn’t have.

  “Well if you’re only half as good at making toys as you are at everything you’ve done in the restaurant, you must be a master toy builder by now.”

  “Why do you think I get so much time off?” he asks, without a trace of irony.

  I chuckle as he tidies up the tray and lifts it onto the nearest table. When ours is clean he reaches for his ever present red backpack, sliding the sketch pad from inside. “Can I show you something, before I go back… where I came from?”

  “Can you?” I squeal, clapping my hands and leaning forward for a closer look. “I’ve been wondering what you’ve been sketching in that thing this whole time.”

  He looks back at me, eyes wide. “Really?”

  “Yeah, I mean, you’re always scribbling in it, you’ve got me curious.”

  He opens it and I see a sketch of Santa Claus. Then he flips a few more pages and there are more, all beautiful, vivid, thick pencil lines on big white paper.

  “Santa?” I ask.

  He just shakes his head and keeps going. “That’s… that’s not the part I want to show you,” he says, finally arriving at a sketch of… the Diner.

  My Diner. Dale’s Diner.

  The outside of the Diner, specifically, with little topiary trees in front, and blinking Christmas lights around the large p
late glass window. It’s so vividly drawn, so endlessly detailed, down to the snowmen drapes, it might as well be a photograph.

  “What… what’s this?” I ask, leaning closer to inspect it.

  “It’s the Diner,” he says, stating the obvious. “Just… different.”

  “I’ll say. Is this… but what is it?”

  “It’s how it could look if you took that realtor’s advice.”

  “What, Jim Collins?” I blurt. “What advice?”

  “About decorating the place for the holidays, all year.”

  I shake my head, leaning back a little, despite my curiosity. “But Rex, I…”

  He waves his hand and says, “Just… stick with me for a second, okay?”

  I sigh, giving him the benefit of the doubt. “Okay.”

  He flips to the next page and it’s just inside the door now, where two Christmas trees sit on either side of the hostess desk. “Good lord,” I mumble.

  “Okay,” he chuckles, flipping to the next sketch, which is a close up of a typical Diner table with a checkered cloth and little snowmen salt and pepper shakers on top.

  “Where am I supposed to find them?” I ask before he flips to the next page, which is a sketch of a menu, shaped like a gingerbread house, and filled with dishes, actual dishes that he’s concocted, with bright and cheery names like “North Pole Nibblers” for chicken tenders and “Santa’s Stew” for, well, beef stew.

  He keeps flipping, past designs for waitress uniforms with flowing skirts and holly covered aprons and busboys wearing jingly elf caps and I put a hand out to stop him.

  “Stop,” I say, more loudly than I wanted to. “I told you I wasn’t interested in this.”

  “But why?” he says, sitting back in his chair and studying me coolly. “I mean, just try it out and see if it works. Summer’s pretty much over, fall is almost here, folks in this town would love a Christmas themed restaurant. And think of the tourists who would come just to eat there?”

  “I don’t have money for this,” I snap.

  “Here’s a start,” he says, sliding the envelope I gave him back across the table.

  “What’s this?” The envelope is thick, thicker than just the single hundred dollar bill I’d slipped in there that morning.

  “The bonus you gave me, plus all the tips I made these last few weeks.”

  “Rex,” I hiss, head thick and full and throbbing uncontrollably. “I… this is all very kind of you but I didn’t. Ask. For It. Any of it. I don’t want to run a diner, period, let alone some diner where I’m reminded of Christmas every day.”

  He cocks his head, lips soft and full. “Why, Holly? What do you have against Christmas?”

  “You have to ask?” I hiss, leaning forward. “Can’t you tell? Four years ago, I spent Christmas in the hospital, watching my husband die. At 39. The nurses made it homey, in that room, bringing in trees and stockings and music and… I know they were just being nice, but…”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, eyes wide and moist and hurt. “I didn’t know…”

  “You don’t have to know, Rex,” I say, watching his eyes peer down to the table. They widen, as if in horror, and when I follow them, I see why: I’ve torn his sketches, his beautiful sketches, from the book.

  I look back at him, his face dark and sad, eyes half-lidded with disappointment, maybe even anger. “I’m sorry, Rex, I… I don’t even remember doing that.”

  “I’m sorry, too, Holly,” he says, standing up abruptly and avoiding my eyes.

  “W-w-where are you going?” I stammer, heart pounding.

  “Back North,” he says, hoisting his backpack. And then, a flicker of forgiveness, and our eyes meet awkwardly. “Are you… will you get home okay?” he asks, ever the gentleman.

  “I always do,” I chuckle, humorlessly, looking down at the scraps of paper on the table. They were so beautiful, and now they’re scraps.

  When I look up, Rex is gone.

  * * * * *

  I’m grumpy when I come in the next morning. Grumpy because I didn’t sleep well. Grumpy because I didn’t sleep well because I was such a jerk. Grumpy because I didn’t sleep well because I was such a jerk and now I miss Rex.

  God, how I miss Rex.

  I’m grumbling to myself, about how grumpy I am, how sad and stupid and lonely and evil I am, when I see something on the lunch counter.

  Something really familiar, and completely, absolutely, utterly… impossible.

  “But…” I mumble, out loud, in the empty diner, to myself. “How in the world…?”

  Because there, in the middle of the counter, is Rex’s sketch book. The one I ripped in pieces the night before.

  And next to it, the envelope, filled with the “bonus” I’d given Rex, plus all the tips he’d made all summer long.

  “How in the hell?” I mutter, slumping down onto the nearest counter stool.

  “Didn’t he tell you?” Frosty says, pouring us both a cup of his trademark double strong morning coffee. “He’s an elf.”

  “Frosty,” I snort, annoyed and still grumpy. “Don’t start…”

  “Seriously,” Frosty says, stirring real sugar and cream into his off white Dale’s Diner mug. “Said he came from the North Pole to spend his vacation here in Noel. Said he goes around every year, during his vacation, spending a couple weeks in towns with Christmas names.”

  “He was kidding, Frosty.”

  “Didn’t seem like it,” he croaks in that whiskey soaked voice of his. “I mean, makes a lot of sense to me. Why wouldn’t the elves get a little time of in the middle of summer?”

  I look at him, waiting for a smile to crack behind that messy white beard of his. “Uh,” I explain, “because… there are no elves. And there is no Santa, or workshop or job for them to get time off from. You know that, right?”

  He shrugs his narrow shoulders, sad blue eyes still hopeful.

  “Are you serious?” I snort.

  “Kind of,” he says. “I’ve seen a lot of stuff in my day, Holly, trust me. An elf? I’m okay with that…”

  Then he looks down at the sketches. “May I?” he asks and I release them, watching as his trembling old hands leaf through the sketches Rex left behind.

  “These are real beautiful,” he says, voice soft and low, faded blue eyes misty. “What are they?”

  “Rex’s version for a year-round Christmas restaurant.”

  Frosty nods. Says nothing. He knew Dale, from the first day of the diner. Frosty was our first employee. He was there when Dale got sick, not long after the diner opened. Was there in the hospital, that long Christmas he fought, and lost.

  He knows. And he smiles. “I think that’s a great idea,” he says.

  “What? How can you?”