face. Can you drop dead from pure happiness?”
Annie glanced up at the ceiling as she turned to place the coffeepot back onto its burner. The prodigal son appeared, and Joyce was itching to throw him a ticker tape parade. Between running the diner, worrying about losing business and...well...other problems, times had been hard on Joyce. Annie wanted to be happy for her friend. She wanted to make Joyce’s joy her joy, because she loved that old woman as much as she had loved her own mother. Instead, she flexed the muscles in her clenched jaw.
Perhaps Joyce was eager to forgive and forget, but Annie had a long memory and wasn’t about to pretend William Kauffman had done anything other than abandon his mother when she had needed him most. Besides, Joyce hadn’t been the only person William had bailed on; her own pride suddenly felt very tender and bruised, recalling the memory. She had stood there for hours and hours...
Joyce patted William on the arm. “Whatcha hungry for? You musta been eat’n junk on the road. Let me wrap some things up real quick while Miles fixes you anything you want. And when we get home we’ll celebrate with sometin’ fancy.”
“What’s good?” William asked, finally focusing on Annie as Joyce hurried to the back.
“Everything,” Annie said. She pursed her lips to bite back every scathing remark for William she’d dreamed up when she was crying into her pillow all those nights ago.
“I’ll have that,” he said with a smirk, flashing his baby blues at her. Annie mocked his reply under her breath as she strolled back into the kitchen to place the order.
“Egg salad on rye, Miles,” she called, strumming her fingers on the wall and shaking her head in disgust. Maybe William thought he could act the part and simply charm people into forgiving him, but she certainly wasn’t going to fall for it. She’d had one too many men fool her in the past to be made a fool of ever again, and he had been the first.
Miles leaned into view. “It’ll take me a few minutes to whip up a new batch of egg salad. The carton in there is past its peak.”
“Ripe, is it?”
“It needs to be tossed.”
“Even better,” Annie said with a shrug, walking to the refrigerator to fix the sandwich herself.
“I was listening for shouts of attack, you know,” Miles said, directing his attention to the grill. “Who was looking for Joyce?”
“Nobody worth mentioning.”
“So, you don’t need the frying pan?”
Annie’s mouth turned into a smile, though her eyes had darkened. “Nope. I’m taking care of it.” She scooped out a heaping portion of egg salad and flicked the spoon over a slice of bread with a plop. “Perfect,” she said before waltzing out to the dining room.
* * *
WILLIAM DEVOURED HIS SANDWICH, his ravenous appetite suddenly apparent as he sized up his old stomping ground. At first glance it had all the basic amenities of a greasy spoon: heavy white mugs with varying degrees of coffee stains; slices of pie displayed attractively in a countertop dessert case; and tables adorned with ketchup bottles, sugar packets and coffee creamer. But unfortunately it hadn’t changed much since he’d left, and the wear and tear, which had been noticeable years ago, was now grossly evident.
The tiny entryway was cluttered with empty vintage gumball machines he’d once kicked over as a kid. A large, opaque glass-globe light fixture hung awkwardly low at the entrance, caked with a heavy film of dust and dated 1960s’ appeal. The three perimeter walls of the long, narrow diner had large bay windows to catch the warm, cheery glow of the morning sun, but by nightfall, the fluorescent overhead lights, sterile and intrusive, made William shudder. He tried to ignore the childhood memory of being forced to work in the restaurant most evenings as his stepfather, Dennis, disapprovingly scrutinized his every move.
Elbows planted firmly on the counter, William distracted himself with the sight of Annie as she hustled in and out through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. With each push of the aluminum door, he caught a whiff of the sizzling, steaming engulfment of grease just beyond it. Even the momentary sniff of it made his stomach churn. That kitchen had seemed like a humid prison, caking his skin and hair in a grimy film. He took a swig of coffee and turned to inspect the dining room.
The scuffed sand-colored tabletops were still sandwiched between vertical vinyl booths of spruce green and chestnut. Most seats were torn, with faded spots where thousands of patrons had plopped their derrieres over the years. As Annie seated a couple in their fifties, William grimaced as he waited for the thwart sound the seat cushions always made. The couple crouched over to manipulate their bodies into the booth, and—thwart—their weight pushed the air out of the giant rips in the vinyl. He used to find it amusing as a kid, the sound playing into his adolescent sense of humor, but now it, along with all the other sights, was beginning to be too much.
William slowly swiveled his barstool, also grossly cracked and fading. Running his hand along the long L-shaped counter with a cream laminate and two-inch metal banding, he forced a few deep breaths. The counter still comfortably sat twelve people and provided a perch at the far end to view the entire diner and all its happenings.
It was from this perch William sipped his coffee and studied Annie as she served her customers, occasionally fidgeting with the waist of her apron whenever her eyes shifted his way. It wasn’t busy for a dinner rush, leaving her time to chat with patrons as she breezed by him, nose tilted ever so slightly in the air. By the time she slapped his bill on the counter, he concluded she had developed a serious attitude problem.
William’s inner monologue finally found his lips. “Refill on your coffee? Sure, sounds great, Annie. Thanks so much for offering,” he said. From across the countertop, she gritted her teeth and poured him another cup, stopping short at least an inch and a half from the rim. “A little more, thanks,” he told her with a sweet smile before glancing at the bill. “That’s awfully steep for a lousy sandwich and a pickle, don’t you think? Are you highballing me here?”
Annie shrugged and cleared his plate before he could finish his pickle or protest further. She was a far cry from the vivacious girl he had known in high school who had been hard to miss with her natural good looks and vibrant laugh. As she hustled back and forth behind the counter, the heavy polyester uniform couldn’t mask her thin frame and bony elbows, while her hair, tied up in a ratty knot, framed dark circles shadowed beneath her eyes.
“How long have you been working here?” he asked, eyeing her intently. He hadn’t been prepared to see her again, not after all this time. But as she scooted here and there, her eyes focused only on the task at hand, he found himself yearning for her to look at him. “I said, how long have you been—”
“I heard you.”
“Do you like it here?”
Her mouth twisted. “I suppose.”
“Don’t be too enthusiastic,” he said. “It’s only my mom’s place.”
Her chin jerked up. “What was that?”
“I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself, Annie.”
A flush crept up her face as she stopped short in front of him. He braced himself, waiting for a reaction of any kind, even if it was an outburst. Anything had to be better than the silent treatment.
“Can
