“I know how to make coffee, Lilah.” Eden snapped.
Lilah propped the board up over the soda fountain for all to see. And ignore.
Raymond ambled to review her handiwork.
“Don’t matter how you word it, Lilah.” He spoke in a slow, resonant drawl. “They’re gonna order what they always do.” He was eighteen now and not a bit the boy she once babysat.
“Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
The bell announced the breakfast rush.
Eden shot to hostess mode and greeted morning regulars by name with hugs and chatter, until booths and tables filled to capacity. The phone rang, and Eden answered, “Earl’s Kitchen! How can we make your day?”
Low, lyrical voices buzzed as one by one Lilah plated orders from the wheel. The rhythm of the work, the repetition, the monotony as coffee sloshed into mugs, bacon sizzled and popped on the griddle, and home fries crisped under the broiler. Just another day.
Save for the drifter.
Those eyes. That smile. No ring on his hand. With an idle rub to her own free finger, she gathered the toast and tossed a few jelly packets on the plate. Looks could deceive.
She slammed the order bell a bit too hard. Scrambled eggs with well-done sausage plated for Mr. Steadman. Ray emptied the industrial washer at Lilah’s back. A quick scan of the tables showed no new faces. Maybe he’d gone to that fast food joint across state line after all. Just the same old, same old, at her grandfather’s diner. Then the door chimed.
~*~
Jake steered toward the flickering neon orange sign that declared Earl’s Kitchen. He parked in between a huge, old sedan and a bevy of trucks. Engine off, he pulled out the key. Studied it, solitary in his palm. So, this was what starting over felt like. Eyes closed, Jake prayed that this time he’d do it right. No compromise. No settling. No running away. No one to know who he was or compare his sermons to his father’s mega-ministry. He stepped out into the noonday air to meet his congregation. The door jangled.
Heads swiveled to view his arrival.
Senses greeted with the siren song of roasting coffee and frying bacon. Silverware scraped plates as the masses devoured breakfast. He palmed his midsection with the notion of real food and scanned the jam-packed dining room. Kitchen in back, cook busy flipping flapjacks. A bleached-blonde waitress in orange walking shorts and crisp white blouse shot soda into glasses from the huge dispenser. Above, a propped whiteboard with handwritten daily specials and artfully drawn trout declared “Papaw’s Catch of the Day!”
The booths, barstools, and tables were filled with all manner of folks dressed in megastore five-dollar button shirts and rock-bottom bargain jeans. The only seat in the house was a lone bar stool between two men—a heavy-set, sun burnished construction type, and a thin, elderly man with a spray of white hair and smudged glasses.
“You must be Pastor Gibb,” a resonant country twang from the half-circle booth halted his progress.
Parishioners before yourself, his father’s voice reminded through the hunger. Here goes. Jake changed course, parked his pastor’s smile, shook hands with the man, and nodded to his pregnant wife, doing his best to remember the rattling of names. Scott Thompson. Emma. Kids. He nodded to their stair-stepped, blonde-headed children ranging in age from a bored-looking high school girl to kindergarten twins. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for the welcome.”
Their toddler stopped fiddling with fish crackers from his highchair perch and reached toward Jake’s belt.
“Here, Dewey.” The mother, Emma, filled the tyke’s hand with an orange bite and looked up with a smile. “You stumbled into the local meetin’ place. Everybody’s here, most days. My Scottie’s one of your newest deacons.” She gave her husband’s lanky arm a pat.
Scott scanned the packed room, then his full table with a slight shoulder jog. “We could pull up another chair—”
“Dad!” The girl shot a mortified look at her father, then to Jake, finally ducking her attention low, over a mobile.
“Oops!” A splash of white as one of the twins’ milk toppled.
Emma sopped the reaching splash with a fistful of napkins. “He don’t want to sit with us, Scottie. Let the man eat a meal in peace.”
“Another time, maybe.” Jake gave in to the urge to ruffle the highchair toddler’s curly hair.
The kid actually giggled, the rest of the family following suit, save for the red-faced texting teen.
Just then, the blonde waitress hurried up to greet him. A flash of recognition told him it was the same girl from the parking lot, but no freckles, too bleached hair. Her sister, maybe? Her nametag read, Eden, pinned over a lace hankie at her shoulder as she squeezed his hand in welcome.
“I’m Eden Dale. You can call me Edie.” Hand to hip, she smile-chewed, and snapped tiny bubbles with her gum. “Now, where shall we sit ya?” Everything about her spoke confidence in volumes.
He read nothing but trouble coming at a million miles an hour. “I think maybe I’ll just order to go.” Should have gone to the drive through, then straight to the church. What the heck am I doing here?
“If you’re done greeting our new celebrity...order up!” Another voice called from the back. The tone and timber of voice was identical to Eden’s, minus the Ozark-ian twang.
He followed the sound, doing a double take at the woman’s face. Not just a sister, but twins.
“Coming, Lilah,” Edie snapped, then plastered her grin back in place. “That’s my sister. She’s a bit on the serious side, but don’t mind her. She needs all the prayers she can get.” Aside, she whispered a bit too loud, “She’s gettin’ a divorce.”
Jake nodded. Getting, as in, still married. That slippery slope of the almost divorced was familiar territory. Limbo that could be over in a snap, or last long torturous months. He’d counseled so many to avoid that trap of falling for the still involved. A stolen glance at the glowering figure at the grill, and he caught the message loud and clear.
Lilah Dale was off limits. Her freckle dusted nose scrunched in annoyance. The same fresh-faced woman who’d startled him awake, not an hour before. The one he’d been thinking about ever since.
Brows lifting with recognition, she stared him down, as if the small town had plastered a scarlet letter on her chest.
Jake’s expression remained placid as he nodded a greeting, refusing to look away. If he could send her his thoughts, she’d know she wasn’t alone.
Her frown deepened until a buzzing timer drew her attention elsewhere.
Eden, “call me Edie,” seated him at the counter between the burly construction guy with the faded anchor tattoo and the eighty-something man in khakis and a golf shirt.
Pausing, Eden removed the elderly man’s reading glasses, wiped them clean, and deposited them back into place. She kissed his cheek, and then rubbed the gloss lip print away as well. “There you go, Papaw.”
“The better to see you with!” He winked. “Thank ya, Rebecca. Best daughter a daddy can have.”
Her sunny-bright smile faltered a moment. She inhaled it back into place and turned with an easy drawl. “Mr. Steadman, you keep our Pastor Gibb company, now.”
Jake watched in fascination as she collected herself and gathered up the back order platters in her arms. She efficiently negotiated the floor, clattered heaping pancakes in front of Scottie and Emma’s brood, the kids barely waiting for her to set the plates down before digging in.
“Oh, yes. That’s right. Eden...” the old man stammered with foggy confusion way beyond smeared glasses, Jake realized. Edie’s papaw turned to face him, as he cleared his throat with a rattle. “Pastors get younger every season. Couldn’t be me getting any older, could it, Tom?”
“No, sir, Mr. Dale. That’d mean I’m gettin’ older, too.” Tom, the heavy-set man, rumbled a laugh, sipped his coffee, and gestured for another cup.
Eavesdroppers from nearby tables snickered.
Tom continued. “Where d’ya hail from, Pastor Gibb?”
Before Jake could answer, Eden returned with a mug and sloshed fresh, steaming coffee into all three.
“He’s from out west.” Her neat eyebrows danced up and down as she turned to the soda machine to fill a glass with ice and juice and hustled off.
“That’s fine. That’s right fine. Spring’s the best time of year out here. Fishin’ and basketball...” The old man turned back to his plate, fork in hand, and then blinked at the scraped clean dish and crust of toast. Replacing fork for mug, his hand trembled as he sipped coffee. “Think Quentin and Scottie can take us ta’ state this year, Tom?”
A silence floated around them and all heads swiveled to the front booth.
Scottie paused and spoke up, loud but kind. “That was back in ’88, Mr. Dale.”
The other diners resumed their breakfasts, though quieter now.
“Last time Mammoth made it to the finals.” Tom’s disappointment was obvious in his frown.
“Scottie’s got the jump shot, but Quentin’s the three-point leader.” The gentleman blinked over his coffee, giving Jake a wink. “My Rebecca’s taken quite a liking to Quentin Marshall. Don’t tell her mamma, though. The boy’s Catholic.”
“Uh, no, of course not.” Jake eyed Tom with a knowing look.
Signs of the man’s dementia were unmistakable.
He buried his attention in the faded menu. The thing didn’t look updated anytime this century. Instead, Jake perused the hand-drawn Monday breakfast and lunch specials, written in curving script by an obviously careful hand. The idea of a chipotle grilled trout sandwich set his stomach rumbling and his mind tripping back to his days fishing with his dad off the California coast.
Maybe this place wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Tom twisted a bit on the barstool. “I’m the contractor the church hired to see to the repairs. Last pastor left things in an awful mess—he brought in all kinds of animals, strays, you know. You’ll probably see cats under the porch, a dog’ll show up from time to time wanting supper. He never could say no to anything. Didn’t care much for his politics.”
Jake drank in the gossip with placid expression and washed worry down with a steaming sip.
Across the room, Edie bumped her way through the buzzing crowd, chatting and gossiping with two thirty-something women, sending a glance over her shoulder his direction. She turned back with a giggle.
“So, Pastor. You bring your wife along with ya?” Tom asked with an appraising stare.
“No.” Jake sipped coffee and swallowed a hot ball of regret. “Truth is—”
The interrupting kitchen door flung open and out popped Edie’s doppelganger. Light and quick on her feet, she gathered a cup and shoved it in the dispenser to fill with ice, then water.
“Hello, again.” She slid it his way. “Sorry about that.”
“Thanks, uh—”
“Lilah. Lilah Simpson.” Her chin jutted forward, pale green eyes stared at him through slits, as if daring him to say something about her different last name.
“Jacob Gibb.” He offered a hand over the counter divider.
She shook it, a tiny smirk reaching her generous mouth. “Nice to meet you. Officially.” Lilah’s sun-streaked hair fought against restraint in a curly ponytail, tendrils escaping around her ears and face. She looked fresh, natural, and annoyed. “What can I get you, Jacob Gibb?” A smile tinged her mouth, adding sparkle to her gaze with her refusal to say Pastor. “Since you’ve forgone fast food for our humble diner.”
“Not much on breakfast…how about that chalkboard lunch special, if you’re serving it this time of day.”
That made her blink.
He pushed the coffee cup aside. “And a lemonade. Please.”
She nodded as she piled empty dishes high, and hustled to the back. She worked in the open space, confident in her element as she moved, grilled, chopped, and plated his sandwich. A few minutes later, she returned with his meal and filled them each a glass.
Lilah leaned to the cutout window at her back and hollered, “Raymond! I’m on break.”
An affirmation mumbled through as a hand shot up to the spinning rack and grabbed the next dangling ticket.
“That’s the first and only special I’ll sell today.” Lilah grinned. “I could start orders before any hit the wheel. Don’t know why I bother.”
“It’s hard to step out of your comfort zone.” Jake sipped the tart-sweet lemonade. He took a bite. Flaky, hints of heat, fresh and succulent with garden fresh salsa.
“Good?” By her tone, she knew the answer already.
Jake nodded, took another bite, and turned to the contractor. “I was just talking to Tom here about renovations over at the church.”
“That’s right.” Tom clapped him heavy on the shoulder. “One thing’s been causing me trouble, though. It’s that blasted stained glass window. Last estimate showed it’d be more than our annual budget to fix. There’s a crack, top to bottom, through several of the panes. Might have to replace it with glass block, or just plain glass. We’ll see what you want to do.”
The man Jake assumed to be Earl Dale straightened tall in his seat for the first time, eyes bright and focused. “You can’t replace the lost sheep. You can’t...”
“I know, Mr. Dale. I know.” Tom averted his eyes, pushed off the stool. “I’ll see you up there, then, Pastor. Nice to meet you.” Tom hitched up his belt and headed out, the crowd mumbling goodbyes as he ambled toward the door.
Jake added succulent tomato and red onion to a bite of trout. “Excellent. Papaw’s catch of the day?”
“Caught this morning at the landing.” Her smile seemed harmless enough, though her ocean-green eyes flashed a warning over the implied truth.
“That’s good he still gets out there. Fishing.” Dipping his gaze, he did his best to offer a word of encouragement, if not understanding. “Keeps him with you.”
“Hmm.” Her expression went frosty as the awkward silence.
Sounds of dishes clattering into the sink brought her to sigh. “Looks like my break’s over.”
“Yeah. Guess I’d better check out my new church.” He downed a mouthful of lemonade. “This ought to be fun.”
“You’ll be fine,” Lilah reassured. “People around here want to like you. They’ll give you a chance as long as you don’t rock the boat.”
“Got any suggestions for a new guy in town?”
“It’s like the specials.” She thumbed to her board. “I offer them, don’t expect to sell any. Mammoth’s not a place that likes change. I wouldn’t expect much in that department.”
Edie appeared with more orders, and Lilah excused herself, kissing her papaw’s cheek before she went. “Want more coffee?”
“Thanks, Rebecca. I’d love some.” He smiled as she poured from the glass carafe. “Nothing like a fresh cup o’ joe.”
“I’m Lilah. Remember, Papaw?” she reminded patiently with a reassuring squeeze to his hands.
He nodded. “D-did the fish bite this morning?”
“Got a few good strikes. Saw ole’ Moby Dick jumping this morning.”
He smiled wide, revealing gold-rimmed dental work as he turned to Jake. “Moby Dick’s the only one that ever got away from Lilah, there. Best fisher-woman on the river.”
“Is that right?” Jake relaxed. “I guess you’re the man to ask about good spots on Cherokee Spring?”
“Grew up on its banks. Best fishin’s still out near Taylor’s Ranch. Our cabin, Lilah knows where. Carved that lot out with my bare hands. Best view on the river.” He went on, words heavy with memory.
Lilah backed away, and he saw regret flash in her sea-blue eyes. The cabin must be just another muddied memory, he guessed. Still, she mouthed a silent “thank you” as her grandfather talked about the fish hatchery, the falls, and the split at the fork.
Jake returned to his meal, interjecting where needed, until the old man’s enthusiasm drifted off like a fallen leaf downstream.
Around him, customers ate, talked, paid, and
disappeared into their lives. What did people do here?
Jake savored the final bite of the fish, the crunch of the toasted fresh-baked roll—a little taste of home from a thousand miles away. He left a generous tip as a thank you, bid Mr. Dale goodbye, and slipped out the door, sparing a last glance to Lilah as she cooked for the populace with subtle efficiency, then to her sister, Edie, with equal and opposite flamboyance. Two sides of a coin, each of them were keeping Earl’s Kitchen running in their own way.
Jake promised himself he’d come back, along with the regular crowd. If for nothing else than to see Lilah smile again.
3
Three o’clock.
Lilah glanced at the front door. The bell announced the entrance of Kimmy Johnson, the postal carrier. Dressed in her official blue shorts and shirt, towing the mail cart, she said her heys and ambled to the counter. Kimmy fished through the jam-packed handcart and dragged out a stack of rubber-banded envelopes secured to a priority mail package, then ordered up a Coke to go.
Edie traded the cup for Kimmy’s dollar and thumbed through the mail, casting a frown at the oversized red and white envelope. “What’s this? McDougal, Finch, and Hawthorne?”
The Lawyer.
“That’s mine!” Lilah pushed her way around the bar and took the thick package.
“Grabby!” Edie spat. Then her brows rose in understanding. “Those your divorce papers?”
“Could you be louder, Eden? I don’t think everyone heard you.” Lilah purposely over enunciated her sister’s name, watched her twin’s hackles rise, and then focused on the sealed envelope with the California return address.
“That’s your freedom in there, sister.” Raymond peered over her shoulder, giving her a quick squeeze. “Just in time.”
“For what?”
“Did you see the new pastor?” Raymond’s eyebrows rose.
Lilah’s cheeks rushed with heat.
“They’re sayin’ he’s a widower. Maybe you could—”
“Shame on you, Ray!” She snapped a towel at his leg. “And of course I’ve seen him. He lives at the parsonage, right across the street from us.”
Mammoth Secrets Page 2