A Summer Fling: Three Romantic 4th of July Stories Page 5

  “Hi Phil,” I call out, getting my waitress pad ready. He waves back, distracted by what Rex is saying.

  I shake my head and wade into the night shift, taking and filling orders for the next two hours straight. I keep thinking Rex is going to trip and fall every time he hoists a heavy bus pan into the kitchen or carries a tray of ice water across the room, but he never does.

  Nor does he have to ask where I keep the ketchup, the to-go containers or even the plastic “Dale’s Diner” bags I always put them in.

  As the last table of the night shuffles out – the Helmsworths, both in their 80s and wearing matching ski caps despite the summer heat – I sigh and lock the door, turning the “Open” sign over to “Closed”.

  Rex sits at the counter, counting his tips. “How’d you do?” I ask, closing out the register and filling out the deposit slip for the next day.

  “Not bad,” he says, sliding the money away. “What’s next?”

  I chuckle. “Aren’t you the eager beaver?” I joke. “Aren’t you tired? The way you were hustling around all night, I’m tired just watching you.”

  He shrugs. “I like to work,” he says. “It keeps me busy.”

  I yawn, stretching my arms, eager for a nice, cold shower, a cheesy romance novel and a long night’s sleep. “Well, your work is done until 11 AM tomorrow, Rex,” I tell him. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “Really?” he asks, sounding almost… disappointed. “I’m happy to help.”

  I smirk. “You’ve made your money, you’ve earned a little time off.”

  “Well,” he says, getting up and talking loudly enough so Frosty can hear as he grunts and sweats, cleaning off the greasy grill on the other side of the kitchen window. “I was going to go to the Books ‘N Beans for a nightcap if you guys want to join me.”

  Frosty grunts. “I got a cold root beer and can of beanless chili at home with my name on it,” he says, nodding. “But thank you kindly, Rex.”

  Rex nods, wearing that same look of disappointment. “Holly?”

  “Oh, gosh no,” I say, too quickly. “I, well… but thank you just the same.”

  He nods, looking away. “See you guys tomorrow,” he says, letting himself out.

  “What’d you go and do that for?” Frosty asks, magically appearing outside the kitchen and pouring himself a long, tall soda.

  “Do what?” I ask, joining him by the soda machine. I pour a small glass of orange soda, heavy on the ice.

  “Crush our little friend for.” Frosty’s voice is hoarse and whiskey-soaked from those long, hard years before Dale hired him when we first bought the diner five years earlier. Lucky for us, he’s been sober ever since.

  “I hardly think he’s crushed,” I snort, waving Frosty’s concern away. “Besides, I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot.”

  “He wasn’t asking for your hand in marriage, Holly,” Frosty grumbles, untying his apron in the back.

  “I know that,” I snap.

  His eyes get big as he tosses his plastic apron in the trash. “I know you know that,” he says, softer now, eyes a faded blue above his wiry white beard. He has a little pot belly in his faded blue shirt, even as his jeans sag off his narrow waist. “I just don’t think it would hurt you to break up your routine a little.”

  “Oh, like you?” I snort. “I’m not quite sure root beer and chili 365 nights a year is so great for you.”

  “Better than those boring romance novels you read,” he replies, chuckling with a slight rasp. “Seriously, Holly, it’s not a sin to enjoy yourself.”

  “Who said it was?”

  My tone is sharp, sharper than I intended. He notes it with a curt nod, raising his hands in self-defense as he backs toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, doll,” he says, somewhat fatherly, letting himself out. “But reconsider how you spend your night tonight.”

  Our eyes meet and his flicker down to the cheap watch on his wrinkled wrist. “Fireworks are going off in a few,” he says, nodding toward the plate glass window facing Cinnamon Street. “Maybe the little fella would like to watch them with you.”

  I groan as the door swings shut behind him. He walks a few feet to the bus stop and waits, peering in at me every few minutes with a mysterious smile.

  I sigh and tidy up, using the little girls’ room in the back and slipping into my light track jacket for the short walk home. By the time I turn out the lights and lock up, Frosty’s bus has come and gone.

  I see the little white Christmas lights twinkling around the window in the Books ‘N Beans, groan, and quietly cross the street.

  Noel is famous for its year round festivities, all befitting its merry name. From our “Spring Christmas Fling” to “Merry Halloween-mas” to our Valentine Christmas parade, it can take some getting used to.

  Even between special events, most of the stores keep their decorations up year round, adding to the festive atmosphere of the quiet little town nestled at the foot of North Carolina’s Mistletoe Mountain.

  The bell jingles overhead as I walk inside and I spot Rex at a faraway table, facing a fake fireplace flickering in the corner. His back is to me, shoulders slightly hunched, and I order quietly while he’s not looking.

  When it’s done I carry over two gingerbread scones and a low-fat milk, sliding them onto the table. He sits up with a start, but his smile is broad and honest as he peers up at me from under his soft blond curls.

  “You came,” he says, craning his neck to see if perhaps I’ve brought Frosty with me.

  “You don’t mess with Frosty’s double meat chili,” I chuckle, sliding down into the chair across from him. “Don’t take it personally. I never hang around with him after work, either.”

  He nods, looking down at the two scones on the same plate. “What are these?” he asks.

  “Awesome,” I say, reaching for one. “Go on, try it.”

  “For me?” he asks as I take the cap off my little jug of milk.

  “Of course,” I say. “A sign of appreciation for all your hard work tonight.”

  He smirks, slyly reaching for the scone. “I’ve got a pocket full of cash as an appreciation for my night’s work.”

  We eat the scones quietly, soft jazz oozing from speakers overhead, little clusters of teens seated around the room, enjoying the last few weeks of summer before heading back to Noel High School or off to one of the state colleges in Charlotte or Raleigh.

  He has one of those oversized sketch pads in front of him, one hand hiding what looks like a pencil drawing on the open page. Next to it is a short, stubby pencil. I smirk, wondering what he’s been sketching.

  “How long have you lived here?” he asks, watching me look around.

  I sigh. “Almost ten years now,” I reply. “My husband and his family used to summer at Lake Bullfrog, just up the road. He fell in love with the area as a kid and always wanted to live here when he grew up. Too bad he never grew up,” I add, under my breath.

  “You’ve had the diner that long?” he asks, either not hearing the jab – or ignoring it.

  “Not quite,” I chuckle. “We worked around town awhile, getting to know the place, figuring out our lives. But Dale always wanted to own a restaurant, so we bought the diner about five years ago…”

  My voice trails off, throat tight, unable to speak. Gheez, I thought I was through with all this. Eyes moist and red, cheeks sore from straining to keep a smile, I look back at him, unblinking. “Sorry,” I croak.

  He just nods, waiting me out. I look down, reaching for a green Books ‘N Beans napkin, dry my eyes. “Wow,” I say. “I was not expecting that.”

  “How long as it been?” he asks.

  “Since Dale died?” I say, more bravely now. “Nearly four years, but… I haven’t talked about it for awhile.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, before adding, “for making you talk about it.”

  “It’s probably good to get it out,” I say.

  He nods, patiently, taking quiet little sips of th
e hot chocolate in front of him. “How old are you?” I snort, wiping my eyes once more.

  “Older than I look,” is all he’ll cop to.

  “Most guys would have run for the hills by now,” I admit.

  “What, and leave my scone?” he jokes.

  I snort, suddenly famished, and finish my scone in three quick bites. “Now you see why I don’t get out more,” I chuckle, before finishing my milk.

  Before things can get awkward he says, “I wanted to thank you for hiring me today, Holly.”

  “Thanks for taking the job no one else wanted,” I say, reaching for my purse. “And for letting me get home early for once.”

  He sees me getting ready to leave and smiles. “Do you want company?”

  I smile, shaking my head. “It’s a nice walk,” I say. “I kind of… does it sound rude if I feel like being alone?”

  “You’re the boss,” he says, standing up anyway. I think maybe he didn’t hear me and is going to follow me home but, no, he’s just a gentleman and stands up when a lady does.

  Somehow, of all the crazy things he’s done since I met him, that seems the craziest.

  Suddenly there is a rustling in the café and chairs squeak as they kick out from under antic feet, spoons clanking as they drop to small white saucers on suddenly empty tables.

  “What…?” Rex asks when, suddenly, the chirpy little cashier spies us as she races from behind the sales counter.

  “Fireworks!” she cries and, as I groan, Rex cheers.

  As if on cue, the plate glass window facing Cinnamon Street lights up with a red, white and blue glow and Rex says, “Look!”

  Then he grabs my hand and out we go, into the middle of the empty street, where the dozen or so patrons of the Books ‘N Beans mingle in the soft summer heat, eyes on the sky, craning their heads for a better look at the fireworks blasting high above nearby Maple Beach.

  “Aren’t they great?” Rex asks, eyes wide with wonder, fingers pointing at each new blast, pop, fizzle, hiss, crackle, splash or boom.

  I shrug, more impressed with his childlike enthusiasm than the actual fireworks themselves. I’ve never seen anyone over the age of twelve get so excited about… fireworks.

  Except maybe my husband.

  He follows each twirling sizzle with his wide, green eyes, points at every burst and boom, chuckles and laughs with the gaggle of teens clustered around us, clapping excitedly, then frowning, after the giant grand finale is over and the smell of sulfur hangs heavy in the air.

  “Brilliant!” he says, turning to me.

  “Something wrong?” he asks, immediately, seeing the frown I was hoping to hide.

  “No,” I sniff, waving him away. “Just… holidays are harder now, you know?”

  He races by my side, just a step or two, not wanting to bother me, but not wanting me to leave like that, either.

  “I’m sorry, Holly,” he says, a hand on my shoulder. I turn, looking down at him, touch the top of his hand briefly, and then start for home.

  When I turn around a few steps later, just curious, he’s still standing there, alone in the street, waving quietly. I smirk, wave him away and stand there, hands on my hips, until I watch him slink back into the café and return to his table.

  Only then do I turn and cry myself home…

  * * * * *

  Rex is already there when I show up for work the next day. He looks jaunty and spry in khaki cargo shorts and a white T-shirt with that same word, “Believe,” scrawled in red cursive letters over his chest.

  “Hi Holly,” he says, rising from the bus stop bench he’d been sitting on.

  “Rex,” I chuckle, unlocking the diner door. “You don’t have to get here so early. We don’t even open for another hour or so.”

  He shrugs, following me inside and then waiting as I lock up behind us. “I thought you might have some summer cleaning you might need, extra stuff that never gets done when you’re busy.”

  I arch one eyebrow, thinking about the pantry I’ve been meaning to organize and the leak under the sink I’ve been meaning to patch and about fifteen other stupid little jobs the realtor wants done before the place goes up for sale in a few weeks.

  “Actually,” I say, “there are a few things I need doing.”

  His face lights up and he whips out his sketch pad. “Hit me with them,” he says, stubby little pen poised over an empty page.

  I smile and reel off a dozen or so chores and he scribbles them down, tongue out while he scribbles, like a little boy. When I’m done he nods and tucks the sketch pad away in his little red backpack and trundles off into the kitchen without another word.

  I smile and go about my business, getting ready for the bank deposit, counting out a new register drawer, the usual day to day chores that keep me busy and missing Dale, who used to do them with me.

  He would whistle as he wiped off the tables and set fresh flowers, something I quit doing years ago. Well, I still wipe the tables but fresh flowers just aren’t in the budget anymore.

  In between whistling he would talk about his plans for the place, how he wanted to expand into the empty shoe store next door and possibly talk to the little newsstand on the other side about renting that out as well.

  I would smirk, just hoping we’d get enough lunch traffic that day to buy rolls for the night shift! But Dale was like that; hopeful, where I was hopeless. Or, if not completely hopeless, eternally doubtful.

  Now that he’s gone, I turn on the local jazz station and let it fill the air instead of his sweet, soft whistling, muttering to myself as I wipe the tables down and gaze out the window at another sunny day in Noel.

  In the distance I hear the back screen door opening and Frosty shuffling in, exchanging greetings and, to my amazement, several husky chuckles with Rex. I shake my head and make my final preparations for opening time.

  The lunch crowd appears and, with it, Rex in his Dale’s Diner apron, hustling here, greeting customers by name, leaning against their table as if they were old friends, cracking jokes and all the while efficiently bussing tables and cleaning them off for the next round of guests.

  He does it all so cheerily, so effortlessly, that I find myself kind of lazing around, watching him do the hard part. Soon enough lunch is over and it’s time to get ready for dinner.

  “You can take a break if you want, Rex,” I say as he finishes rolling a second tub of silverware in paper napkins. “Hang out at Books ‘N Beans or go home and take a nap.”

  “Oh gosh,” he says, hand on the swinging kitchen door, already half open. “I was going to try and get to that leak under the sink before dinner. I mean, if you don’t mind?”

  He fixes the leak, and then straightens the pantry, and alphabetizes the canned vegetables and replaces the light bulbs and tightens the screws on the shelves that hold up the giant cornbread pans and spaghetti pots.

  In between it all he busses the dinner shift, effortlessly, cheerily, then comes back to do it again the next day, and the next, and the next.

  * * * * *

  When he comes in the following Monday, ready for work, I’m busy with the realtor from Noel Commercial Properties. His name is Jim Collins and he’s the quintessential salesmen type, but Dale loved him and when I made the hard decision to finally sell the place a few weeks ago, I couldn’t bear to call anyone else.