Mammoth Secrets (2 page)

“I'm here to stay, I'm afraid.” He held a hand out in greeting. “Name's Jacob-Jake Gibb. I'm—”

“Pastor Gibb?” She gave his hand a hearty pump. “As in Cherokee Springs' new pastor?”

“That's right.”

Her gaze went deer-in-the-headlights, caught. “Not to be disrespectful...”

“Believe me.” He leaned in, voice lowering into a conspiratorial whisper. “I'm as surprised as you.”

They shared a laugh as she hopped off the stool. “Let me be the first to welcome you to Mammoth, Pastor Gibb.” She circled around the counter to walk him to the door, standing all of five feet tall, hands parked on her hips. “We've certainly been waiting for you!”

“Sorry it took me so long to get here.” He frowned, knowing that he should have arrived in the middle of last week. “I had some business to attend to in California before I came out...”

“Ah, yes, about that, Pastor.” She cleared her throat with a noisy rattle.

His stomach dropped a notch or two. Here goes, lowering the boom. The church leaders had decided they didn't want a divorced man leading them. Mouth dry, he flicked a glance to the packed truck, his homelessness spearing deep. “Is there a problem?”

She frowned, a flush rising to her cheeks. “Just some friendly advice. Be careful with too much California talk. Folks 'round here think anyone from west of the Rockies can't be trusted. Not me, a'course.” She hooted a laugh.

“I'll take that under advisement.” A sudden rumble from his midsection and he palmed his empty stomach. “Sorry. I haven't eaten anything but chips and a soda since last night.”

“That's easy enough to fix.” She pointed out directions. “Under the bridge, and left on Main Street. Earl's Kitchen's on the right, across from the pharmacy. I'll phone the auxiliary, an' all. Let 'em know you're coming.”

“I'd appreciate that.” His smile betrayed thoughts of the freckle-faced young woman with the cooler of fish. Brochures in hand, he paused at the door. “Where's that diner?”

She jotted quick directions on a pad and then handed it over. “Earl's is kind of Mammoth's meeting place, especially since our old pastor...well–” Her voice went grave. “Since–”

“Right.” He nodded, as if that explained everything.

“Hot Springs Ministries didn't have much of a bio on you. And the ladies league didn't find you on that Facebook.”

“Yeah, I try to stay away from social sites.” Jake dragged a hand over the back of his neck, sighing.
Should have been ready for this, Lord. I should have—

“I'm with you, Pastor. If I'm gonna make friends with someone, it's over a cup of coffee.”

“No need to worry about me. I, um, my wife...” The words lodged in his throat.
How do I say this?
“Uh, she, she's no longer—”

“Oh, Pastor!” Impossible not to notice the wash of sadness over her pale blue eyes, the tinge of pink at her cheeks—her obvious embarrassment for asking such a personal question.

He cringed. “Actually—”
Just say it, Jake.

A crackling radio interrupted before he could explain. The rapid firing of code numbers snapped Rita into action. With a squelch, she grabbed her walkie-talkie.

“Duty calls!” She walked him out to the parking lot and waved goodbye as she hefted herself into the little electric golf cart with the spring's logo. “Under the bridge, hang a left to get to that diner.”

“Well, then.” He backpedaled and climbed in behind the wheel. “Thanks for the directions. And the welcome.”

“We should be thanking you!” she called out and buzzed off.

With a final wave, Jake headed to the scatter of buildings that made up the blip of Mammoth, Arkansas.

His new home.

 

 

 

 

2

 

Lilah stowed her morning's work in the walk-in fridge and punched her card just a few minutes later than planned.

Hallelujah pop filtered through the built-in speakers and spoke of her sister's, holier-than-thou mood.

Through the window that separated the kitchen from the floor, Eden wiped down the last of the booths with her vinegar cleanser. Even the prep table's stainless steel gleamed.

Lilah dragged a fresh apron from the stack and called a hello across the empty restaurant.

“You're late.” Eden popped a piece of gum and went to the register. Change rattled into the drawer as she hip-shut it with a bang.

“Sorry.” Lilah hustled to the counter and grabbed her whiteboard. With a frown, she wiped off the un-ordered special from yesterday. Strike that. Plenty of people had ordered the French dip. Just not with the layer of melting Swiss or caramelized Vidalia onion. With swoosh and flourish, she scrawled her description of succulent, pico de gallo-covered fish sandwiches with tangy chipotle sauce.

Raymond slunk through the back door, blue bandana tied over his overgrowth of black, curling hair. With a yawn and stretch, he tied a white half-apron over his jeans.

“You're late, too,” Eden scolded, adjusted her name badge over a square of lace handkerchief. She changed “Closed” to “Open
”
with a flip. “I made the coffee.”

“Better drink it before the customers come in and complain about too much chicory.”

“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?”