Last Chance At The Someday Café

Jack ended the call, and Morgan turned the rig onto the highway, forcing himself not to floor the gas pedal, his heart and mind screaming for him to follow them instead of Jack’s common sense. But Jack was right. Morgan had to be smart about it. This time.

How many times had he driven all these small towns scattered around the Texas countryside? Dozens? Felt like hundreds. He knew the locals as well as if he was one of them.

He didn’t think Sylvie would immediately recognize this rig. They’d bought it after she’d taken off, and he’d purposefully not put the company logo on it. But she’d be suspicious of any eighteen-wheeler since he’d always driven.

And that was part of why they’d grown apart. The steering wheel survived another pounding—barely.

* * *

TARA GREW UP in a house full of brothers and sisters. One of six. As the youngest, she’d been the “cute” little sister. From the moment at Dad’s funeral where everyone looked at her with that “poor little baby” look, clear up until last week when she’d gotten her final permit from the city for this restaurant, she’d struggled to be taken seriously.

Now, standing in the center of the unoccupied dining room, she wondered if she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life. Every penny, every drop of sweat and several drops of blood were invested in this place.

She’d finally sent everyone home. She’d hired a good crew and they’d all worked hard to put in the final touches and last-minute cleaning.

She loved the result. Loved just standing here, soaking up the sense of homecoming this place exuded.

Tomorrow, she and her staff would return and start on what they all wanted to do. Cook and serve amazing food.

Slowly, Tara walked behind the counter, through the prep area, then through the big, metal swinging doors into the spacious industrial kitchen. She turned and frowned at the nondescript door at the back of the kitchen. The door led to the tiny closet she’d converted into an office. An office that held a small desk, just big enough for her computer and printer, a small two-drawer file cabinet and her chair. The chair from her mother’s house.

Tara had been only two when their dad died, so her memories of him were vague and little more than flashes. Her brother, Wyatt, was more dad to her in her mind, though he’d been only fifteen when he’d stepped into that role.

Mom, however, was strong in her memory. Tara had been the last to leave home and had gotten the most time alone with their mother after the others had left the nest. She hadn’t realized how precious that time was until Mom was gone.

Tara walked to the door and opened it. The desk lamp lit up the room, barely. Pulling out the chair, she settled in the well-worn wooden seat. It felt so good. “I think you’d like this place, Mom,” she whispered.

She often talked to her mom’s spirit, feeling, like now, that her mother was nearby. Hoping so anyway. “I’m going to use most of your recipes.” She knew her mother wouldn’t mind. Helen Hawkins had loved to cook, loved making big batches of food. Tara had inherited that love, and Helen had been more than willing to share the kitchen with her youngest child.

Tara remembered standing on this very chair, its back pushed against the counter, to stir a mixing bowl of something with a big wooden spoon. Those had been the happiest times of her life.

For a while, she sat there, letting the contentment and sense of accomplishment settle over her. She’d done it. She’d finally done it.

Tomorrow, the doors would open and peace and quiet would vanish. Tara stood, flipped off the light and turned to leave. Closing the office door, she headed across the kitchen toward her purse and the jacket she’d draped over the rack by the door.

Her fingers curled around the fabric the same instant a horrendous crash broke the quiet of the peaceful night.

“What the—” After she’d jumped nearly a foot, she yanked open the back door, realizing too late how stupid that was. It could be anything—or anyone—out there in the darkness.

The megawatt spotlight above the door shone bright as daylight, and she blinked to adjust to the glare. One large trash can was on its side. The lid was open, half the contents scattered on the pavement.

Great, just great. Now she had a mess to clean up before she could go home. Hopefully, the new Dumpsters would be delivered soon so this wouldn’t be a common occurrence.

Sounds of something moving near the trash can made her pause. What was it? The idea of being bitten or attacked by an animal did not thrill her. “Okay, whatever you are, come out and shoo.” More rustling inside the trash can.

Whatever it was didn’t seem too scared of her. She moved closer and tried to peer inside. “Hey. Scat!” There was no way she was reaching inside. She looked around for a stick or a broom or something to use to poke at it. Nothing.

“That’s what I get for making everyone clean so thoroughly,” she mumbled. “Okay, whatever you are, go away so I can clean up and go home.” More rustling but nothing came out. Now what?

“Okay, buddy.” She stomped back into the kitchen. Maybe by the time she returned, the stupid thing would be gone. Mop in hand, she shoved open the door again, making as much noise as she could to hopefully scare the thing away. She approached the spilled trash can.

When she stopped, everything was silent. No rustling. No little feet scratching against the plastic can. Nothing but the normal night sounds that came from a distance. She smiled. It was gone.

“Hello?” Another step. “Yoo-hoo, little critter.” Another step. “Are you gone?” Nothing but silence. Slowly, she pushed the end of the broom handle into the dark interior of the trash can.

The animal came out with a screech and something furry and disgustingly wet flew past her bare legs. She screamed. She couldn’t help it. It was done before she could stop it.

Her heart pounded so hard against her ribs, it hurt. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath. “Damn it!” was the first thing she managed to say. “Ewww,” was the second. She did not want to know what was now drying on her leg. She’d find out when she got home and showered. Besides, she still had to clean up everything scattered on the new asphalt.

At least once she righted the trash can, she could see what she was doing. She did peer inside carefully, just in case. No beady little eyes looked up at her, thank goodness—just smelly, slimy trash. Finally, she had everything cleaned up and the lid securely in place.

After closing the diner’s back door, she headed to her car. As she walked across the parking lot, she swore she could feel eyes staring at her. Beady little eyes giving her the stink eye. “Sorry, no free meals,” she called into the night, laughing. “I’m tougher than I look, you know. I’ve got three older brothers.”

Climbing into her car, she flipped on the headlights, and the beam found a small furry form at the edge of the lot, near the creek that meandered past the property. A fat raccoon glared at her.

Tara laughed. She was exhausted. And punchy. And dirty. But she’d survived. Tomorrow—she glanced at her watch—today was going to be a piece of cake.

* * *

MORGAN’S STOMACH RUMBLED as he hit the outskirts of Haskins Corners just after dawn. He needed to find a safe place to park, grab some grub and figure out his next move.

It was early. Nothing much was open. But a familiar, ancient diner came to mind.

The parking lot was big enough to park the truck now that he was bobtailing. This time of day there would be plenty of room, even if he’d had the trailer.

Except, this morning the parking lot was more than half-full. He pulled to a halt. What the heck? Dozens of cars filled the upper half of the lot, though there was still room in the lower.

What was going on? He’d never seen this much traffic here, even at breakfast time.

Slowly, he turned the rig into the lot, stopping at the outer edge along the creek side, underneath the trees. The silence of the air when he shut off the engine still amazed him. He climbed out and made his way across the newly paved parking lot. Nice. Smooth. There wasn’t even the hint of a pothole in sight.

And landscaping? Bushes and trees in the median? Daisy was moving up in the world. The now-elderly woman who’d run the joint since the 1970s must have come into some money.

Approaching the front door, however, Morgan paused. This couldn’t be Daisy’s domain any longer. A menu was posted in a fancy metal box on the wall. Different, but if the scents coming out of the kitchen were any indication, good. His stomach rumbled again in response.

Inside he froze. The layout of the place was the same, but run-down had given way to kitsch, and utilitarian to almost pretty. The clunky vinyl booths and Formica tables were gone. In their place sat tables and chairs that looked better suited for a dollhouse than a diner.

He wasn’t especially tall, but his years of bodybuilding workouts had made that type of furniture totally off-limits. He knew better than to sit on any of those chairs. He’d probably end up on his ass with splinters beneath his butt.

Morgan frowned. He was here and he was hungry. The perky little hostess was new, too. Since when did diners have hostesses?

“Just one?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah.” Where exactly would she put him? He resisted the urge to retreat instead of following her. The lace curtains and tablecloths didn’t help with the feeling he had of stepping into a woman’s boudoir.

“I’ll just sit at the counter.” It was still there, still the same, but cleaner. Much cleaner. With a shrug, she dismissed him as easily as he did her.

“What can I get ya?” Another young woman with bright, albeit tired eyes and a name tag that read Wendy stood on the other side of the counter, a carafe of coffee in one hand.