Mammoth Secrets (3 page)

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.”

“So, you bake him some cookies. Offer to show him around town—”

“Uh-uh. You might not buy into it, but until the courts say otherwise, Nana's right. I'm still married.”

“Just want to see you happy again, Lilah.” Raymond pushed the back door open. “I got you covered. Go on and take a break.”

Lilah strode out the back door, package crinkling in hand. He was right.

Any flesh-and-blood woman would double take at the pastor's square jaw, capable-looking hands, or that jolt of heat that came with a handsome man's attention. But guilt oiled any romantic notions.

She sat hard on the weed-studded concrete and tossed the packet to the side. She'd vowed to God that she'd love Ryan Simpson until death do they part, even if it was in a seedy Vegas chapel. Now, their promise was as broken as the rear stoop cement. Her thoughts went muddy as she plucked a stubborn dandelion seed head and considered the white fluff.

Pastor Jake was all moved in now. In the one week since he'd arrived, she'd barely seen him except for a quick wave. Maybe Ray was right. She should bake him some brownies or a plate of chocolate chip cookies. It'd be the neighborly thing to do, but it was wrong. Deep down, she knew it. Her penance for choosing the wrong man, following the wrong road, was waiting in this idle purgatory. Not married, not single.

At her steady breath, the cottony puff exploded, its frothy white seeds flew on the breeze, over the gravel drive, down the long slope of grass. Like little white flags of surrender, the seeds angled down to a woody spot by the river's edge, the churning pool just beyond the waterfall, toward the old mill where she'd spent the morning.

Papaw's landing. She had a vision of his capable hands over hers, his quiet, resonant voice, and his smile of approval when she at last understood how to angle the rod to cast, and the satisfied, subtle plunk of bait in the water.

Though the restaurant still claimed his fresh catch of the day, Papaw's secret fishing hole remained clear and plentiful, while his mind had glutted up with weeds and overgrowth. He hadn't so much as baited a hook since the dementia took the desire from him, leaving only a well of empty stories.

Swallowing tears, Lilah rolled her attention up to the bright blue, late-April sky, the same color as Jake Gibb's eyes. That brought to mind his sturdy shoulders, and a tan that screamed Southern California. She tossed the empty stem aside. No sense looking for love when she was still paying off her last debt. She'd bet on love once and lost everything, a gamble she'd never make again. Lilah slid her thumb under the tape, popped open the metal tabs, and reviewed the lawyer's letter. One week to give up rights to everything. All she had to do was sign. Freedom's bitter cost turned her stomach.

Gravel crunched, jangled a dim alarm of someone coming, but she didn't look up until the shadow blocked the sun, darkening the “whereas,” “heretofore,” and other legalese in the papers.

From her seat, she shaded the glare, spying the gray face of the stranger. Ratty pants, t-shirt, green army jacket. Homeless, she guessed, not a common sight in Mammoth but in California, she'd seen them in spades.

“Can I help you?” She'd been wrong about Jake when she'd spied him in that parking lot, but this man had the look of hunger on his face.

“If it's not too much trouble...” He cleared his throat and held out a bright yellow sheet of paper. “Just wanted to know if I could post this in your window, ma'am.”

Lilah reached up for the handbill he offered and read out loud, “Reunion Carnival.”

Bright lights, the spin-whoosh of the rides, the raucous calliope music, laughter, all in a whirlwind of lost youth and promises.

“Is it almost Memorial Day already?”

“Three weeks. We're settin' up early this year.” He shifted weight, backed deeper into the shadow from the building cast across the alley. “If you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate you hanging up the notice for your customers.”

“Mm-hm.” Numbers of carnival employees filling tables warred with the improbability of Nana allowing it. “You look hungry, sir. Can I get you something from the kitchen?”

“Oh.” A work-worn hand scratched his thin midsection. He shook his head. “I don't want to trouble you none...”

“No trouble. Wait here.” Lilah stood, brushed the dust off her shorts, and stepped into the kitchen. She dropped her package and flyer on the desk and hurried to slide a fresh-plated burger and fries into a to-go box.