The Makeover (15 page)

TWENTY-THREE

That Saturday, Camellia pulled up in front of the diner, emerging from her new SUV in black leggings, flat boots, and a black turtleneck. Spring had finally found its way to Markleeville, melting away the residuals of snow and dotting the trees along Beech Street with hopeful buds. Town was a little busier. Camellia learned from Deb that the seasonal business owners were arriving to prepare for the summer season, which included an influx of subcontractors already getting started on new construction projects.

Her own house was almost framed. While it was exciting, and required what felt like non-stop decision-making, it was now far from her focus, Camellia deferring to her husband to handle many of the remaining choices.

Once in the diner, Camellia sped past her usual seat at the counter, walking around to the other side and stowing her trenchcoat and handbag in a cupboard under the counter, as she had seen Shelby do dozens of times. Irene eyed her, started to open her mouth to say something and then closed it, turning instead to retrieve a side of mashed potatoes from the line. With potatoes in hand, she regarded Camellia again for a split second before disappearing into the back of the restaurant, presumably to devour the buttery dish.

Camellia yanked an apron off a hook behind her and put it over her head, wrapping the strings around her body and tying them in front. Shelby came out from the back and stopped in her tracks at the site of Camellia.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her face looking tired and strained.

“Working,” Camellia responded, taking Shelby’s pad and pen from her hands.

“Wait, did my mama hire
you or something?”

Shelby’s confused expression made Camellia smile. “No, I hired myself. And I’m firing you. At least temporarily.”

“Did you buy the diner?”

Camellia laughed. “No, I didn’t buy the diner. I’m just going to work here for a while. So you don’t have to.” She pulled at Shelby’s apron strings, whisking the material over her head. “It’s a non-paying position, of course. However, if anyone should take pity on me and leave a tip, it will rightfully belong to you.”

“Camellia,” Shelby whimpered.

“Hush now.” Camellia picked up a full pot of coffee from the burner. “Your mama needs you now. The diner can wait.” She moved along the counter, pouri
ng from the pot and cleaning up discarded food.

“But Camellia,” Shelby said, hurrying over to her, “what do you know about running a diner?”

Camellia set the pot down and crossed her arms. “I’ve been watching you do it since January. And don’t worry,” she said, twirling to grab the dishes the cook set on the line. “I won’t run this place into the ground. I’ve learned a thing or two about making a business successful.” She looked down at the dishes and then at the faces lining the counter that were looking curiously back at her. “Now, who had the Meatloaf Special and Turkey Feast?” she called out brazenly.

Camellia spent the better part of the summer going between the diner and the construction site, along with one long trip to the storage facility to trade out her winter clothing and boots for lighter, summery options.

She had gotten the hang of waitressing, even going so far as to proclaim to Henry that she had “missed her calling in the food services industry,” inciting a laughing fit that rolled him off the bed. The small staff seemed to like her, too, and invited her to their regular Thirsty Thursday bar nights, which she attended when she wasn’t too tired.

The diner was always packed now that summer was in full swing. The tourists changed over so frequently, just as Camellia had put to memory an entire family’s names, they were gone, replaced with another excitable group ready for some downtime. There were many who came and stayed for large chunks of the summer, but they had their own kitchens and only ventured out to the diner for a night off from cooking.

Lisa and Deb had taken to having lunch there five days a week, as a show of support for Camellia. Lisa was an accomplished cook, and Camellia knew her friend’s reheated leftovers were far superior to anything on the diner’s menu. To show her appreciation for both their patronage and the lively talks they provided her each day, Camellia always slipped them a fresh piece of apple or blueberry pie – the one thing the cooks did very well – using her own money to cover the desserts once the ladies had finished their lunches and left. 

The house was mostly complete on the outside, the gray shingled siding and steep dormered roof giving the home that charming Cape-Cod appeal. The screened-in sunroom at the back of the house on the first floor was turning into a peaceful space to enjoy a Sunday breakfast or read while watching the rain fall, while the open deck built over it, allowed for breathtaking views of the lake. Inside, the drywall was up, with the spackling and sanding stage in process. Now that the rooms were fully formed, Camellia and Henry could walk through the house and make their plans for paint colors and furniture placement. Even though Camellia had come to terms with living in the little cottage, she couldn’t wait to have her own furniture again. The only thing she could wait for was getting to know her neighbors at the lake.

The topic of the lake residents had come up one afternoon in late July over heated blueberry pie a la mode at the diner with Lisa and Deb.

“The foreman says we are still on schedule for an end-of-September completion,” Camellia informed the women.

“I’m expecting one hell of a blow-out party,” Deb said, dabbing a piece of pie in the melted ice cream at the bottom of the bowl.

Lisa raised her fork. “I’ll second that. I’m also hoping for lots of invitations to drink a beer on that deck and watch the leaves change colors.”

Camellia wiped at a stain on the counter with a wet rag. “Believe me, you’ll be getting lots of invitations from me. I’m not expecting to find any friendly neighbors.”

“You’ve already encountered The Snobs?” Lisa asked between bites. “They don’t come into town much, thank God.”

“Hey!” Deb cried out, elbowing Lisa in the arm. “You watch who you’re talking about.”

Camellia’s eyes grew wide. “
You
live on the lake?”

Deb eyed Camellia seriously. “You suggesting I’m not fancy enough?”

“No, no, of course not–“

Deb broke into a laugh. “I’m just messing with you, Cammie.”

It was the first time anyone besides Tray Mathers had used that nickname for Camellia. But where with Tray the name had sounded demeaning and childlike, coming from Deb it was actually nice. Camellia smiled sheepishly at the women.

“What is that goofy look for?” Deb asked, her eyebrows high.

“I don’t know,” Camellia started, suddenly embarrassed. She twisted the rag that was still in her hands. “I never had an easy time making friends.”

“I thought big-time editors just paid people to be their friends,” Deb joked, earning her another elbow from Lisa. “I’m starting to bruise,” she complained, leaning away from Lisa’s reach.

“Let the girl finish,” Lisa scolded. She nodded in Camellia’s direction. “Go on honey.”

“When I was in high school I was completely absorbed with fashion, while the other girls were either boy crazy, horse crazy, or busy playing sports. I didn’t fit in with them,” Camellia explained. “Once I landed in fashion, I knew I had found my home, but it was more of a dysfunctional home rather than The Waltons.” She sighed, chucking the rag under the counter. “Fashion is so competitive, and the higher up you get the more you wonder what people want from you. I could have an invitation to a dinner party every night of the week, but that wasn’t because these people genuinely wanted to spend time with me. It was so they could get something from me, whether that was editorial in the magazine or a photo with them for Page Six. Not exactly my definition of friendship.”

“So why did you go to their parties?” Deb questioned.

“It was my job. I have to stay on top of designers and models and photographers and everyone else in the industry. Socializing with them is the way to do that. But never, for one minute, could I let my guard down and share my secrets with any of them. I couldn’t question my job or my boss of anything. Because the minute I share, I know there’s a damn good chance the information is going to spread through the industry like a virus.”

“People love juicy gossip,” Lisa agreed.

“Exactly. So I kept a professional distance.”

“Has that changed now that you’re not working in fashion anymore?” Lisa asked.

“No.” Camellia lowered her eyes. “It’s changed because I met the two of you.”

Lisa reached for her napkin and held it over her face as her shoulders started to quiver.

Deb looked at Lisa and rolled her eyes. “Good God, Cammie, that kind of talk will have Lisa blubbering for the rest of the day.”

“I’m okay,” Lisa bellowed, causing Camellia and Deb to roar with laughter.

The bells over the door jingled and Camellia looked up to see Shelby helping a frail Sharene into the diner. The place fell silent save for the twangy country music coming from the radio. Camellia glanced around to see all the wait staff frozen, staring obviously. Even the cooks had come out from the back to have a look. It would be up to her to break the spell and return the diner to normal.

She rushed around the counter, giving a hug to Camellia then taking Sharene’s slight hand into her own. “It’s so good to see you both,” she said enthusiastically. “Are you here to visit, or are you planning to stay for lunch, too?”

“I think just a visit,” Shelby said, keeping a steady hand on her mom’s back. “Want to sit mom?”

“Yes,” Sharene said, her voice weaker than Camellia remembered.

“Pick your table and I’ll bring you over some waters,” Camellia instructed, hurrying behind the counter while scowling at the staff along the way, sending them back into motion. Once Shelby got her mom comfortable, waitresses and long-time patrons trickled over in small groups, giving careful hugs and words of encouragement. Camellia snuck around an elderly couple slowly working their way over to Sharene and set the waters on the table, motioning to Shelby to join her in the back. Shelby pulled a bottle of prescription medication from her jacket pocket, poured out two pills, and set them on the table next to her mom’s water glass before slipping away to join Camellia.

Moments later the two were huddled together at the lone table in the cramped break room located at the very back of the building just beyond the dishwashing station.

“It’s been almost a month since you’ve brought Sharene in. What’s going on?”

Shelby sighed heavily. “She doesn’t want to go anywhere. And she doesn’t want me to go anywhere, either. The only time I get out by myself is to grocery shop, because she doesn’t have the energy to walk that far and she refuses to use one of those scooters.” Shelby slapped the napkin holder on the table across the room like a child having a tantrum. It clanged against the wall then fell apart as it hit the floor, paper napkins scattering everywhere. “I’m so sick of being in that house, Camellia.”

“Is she worse? Could that be why she’s hunkering down at home?”

“Who knows? I have to beg her to get a morsel of information, and then sometimes I wonder if she’s just making something up to get me off her back.”

Camellia dropped her chin to her hand and frowned. “What does her oncologist say?”

“Beats me. It’s my job to drive her, not to go into her appointment with her. I’m relegated to the waiting room, and then it’s nothing but silence all the way home.”

“I’m sorry honey. What can I do to help?”

Shelby gave Camellia a crooked smile. “You’re already running the diner.” She paused and cocked her head. “Did I hear you say ‘hunkering’?”

“Shut it,” Camellia said, faking a stern expression. “I’ve been spending way too much time with Lisa and Deb. Irene, too.”

Shelby giggled, stooping to gather the strewn napkins into a pile. “You’re turning into a real northerner,” Shelby said. Camellia couldn’t see her face, but she guessed Shelby was smirking. “Before you know it, your iTunes library is going to be filled with Rascal Flats and George Strait.”

“Never,” Camellia declared. “You can take the woman out of the city, but you can’t force her to listen to wussy crap.”

Shelby chuckled, pushing herself to a standing position, and placing the intact napkin holder back on the table. “Thanks Camellia.” Shelby said. “I needed a laugh. It’s been so long since I’ve had any fun, I’m starting to forget what it feels like.”

“Seriously, Shelby,” Camellia frowned, shrugging her shoulders, “there has to be
something
we can do. Would Sharene spend some time at my house? You both could come for dinner or just a lazy Saturday afternoon. Or, I could stay with her at your house and you and Justin could have some time together.”

“Justin and I broke up,” Shelby announced with a quivering lower lip.

Camellia caught her breath. “Oh no.”

Shelby nodded. “He got tired of a relationship that had become all phone calls and texting.” She sniffed loudly. “I can’t blame him. Who knows how long this will go on?” She looked horrified. “Oh God, that sounded terrible! I’m terrible!”