He started to head for his truck, to drive out to the highway and the fast food chains that would get him in and out in a hurry, to avoid the million and one things sparking bittersweet memories of his old life here. Disliking the taste of cowardice, he shoved his keys in his pocket and cut across the town green to see what had changed in the last eight years.
The fountain in the center of the green had been dry as a bone when he’d left. Fed somehow or other from Hope Springs on the outskirts of town, the assumption was that the pipes had been damaged. They were near to a hundred and fifty years old, so that wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. A trickle of water dribbled out of the stone nymph’s flute, dripping steadily down into a shallow pool in the basin. It wasn’t a flood, but it was something. Maybe they’d finally sussed out where the blockage was and started the repairs. Brody found himself oddly nostalgic as he took in the coins that winked beneath the water. Wishes. Hundreds of them cast into the water symbolizing hope itself. He’d thrown in his own the day he left town. Maybe the poor saps who’d bought into the legend since then had had better luck.
One hand jingled the change in his pocket. Tugging out a quarter, Brody rolled it along his knuckles, wondering if he should make a new wish.
What would be the point? he thought. It didn’t do me any good the first time.
He slipped the quarter back into his pocket and strode off the other side of the green.
They’d upgraded Main Street. Brody approved of the stamped concrete now marching the three-block stretch of road in front of a newly refaced City Hall. Charm and function over the formerly crumbling brick that had been in residence when he’d left. Decorative wrought iron street lights provided elegant accents, boasting signs proclaiming Wishful to be Where Hope Springs Eternal. Interspersed between them were Bradford pear trees just getting tall enough to dapple the late morning sunlight on the sidewalk. Most of the businesses had been given face lifts. New awnings, shiny new signs, and fresh paint made each shop front stand out like an eager kid on the first day of school. Planters spilled over with bright-faced pansies and petunias. A few seasonally-minded souls had created autumnal displays with hay bales and scarecrows, despite the temperatures that hovered near eighty. September in Mississippi was, after all, still the tail end of summer. Whoever was heading up the community restoration project down here had great taste. The overall effect was charming.
Dinner Belles had a crisp coat of new white paint over the repointed bricks, but as soon as Brody stepped through the glass door to the jingle of a bell, he was back in the past. The black and white checkerboard tiles were worn, but they still shone with a mirrored gleam. The booths were green vinyl now instead of maroon, but they still marched along the outside walls in matching L’s that flanked the front door. A smattering of Formica tables dotted the middle. A few of them were occupied—some old timers still camped out with their omnipresent cup of coffee, newspaper, and crossword, and a trio of middle-aged women with shopping bags tucked neatly around their feet. Everybody glanced up as he bypassed the central seating and headed straight for the wide counter in front of the kitchen, but none of them were familiar faces.
Though the lunch hour had barely started, the scents of grease and onions perfumed the air. The smell had Brody salivating as he slid onto a stool and grabbed a menu. The edges were worn and curling, exactly as they should be after generations of patrons’ hands. He skimmed the list, idly wondering if the fried pickles would put him in a post lunch coma.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
Brody looked up at the waitress who balanced a tray of dishes on her shoulder. She was looking at him with that expectant air that said she knew him. Scrambling to identify her, he said the only thing he could think of. “Hi.”
“Let me just get these on out. I’ll be right back to take your order and you can tell me everything you’ve been up to the last few years.” She sashayed away to the shopping ladies.
Her hair was bleached an ashy blonde, with at least an inch of dark roots showing. Her face was angular, only a couple steps up from flat out gaunt, and Brody had the impression she’d been somehow winnowed down. Jeans hugged narrow, almost bony hips. A pack of cigarettes peeked out from her back pocket. Her long nails were painted a bright, bubble gum pink that nearly matched the V-necked shirt she wore.
And he didn’t have the first clue who she was.
Maybe she had him confused for somebody else?
Tucking the now empty tray under her arm, she leaned against the counter beside him and laid a hand on his arm. “So tell me, Brody Jensen, where in the world have you been the last eight years?”
The gesture, the invasion of his personal space, solved the mystery.
“Well, Corinne, I’ve been working, like everybody else, I expect.”
She laughed, as if he’d said something brilliantly witty. The scratchy, awkward bray put him in mind of a donkey with strep throat. That hadn’t changed much. Neither had her shameless flirtation.
“Silly man, I want details,” she drew the word out, as if inviting him to share a particularly juicy secret. Her gaze slid, none too subtly, to his left hand. At the lack of a ring, she eased in a little bit closer and his gut wound a little bit tighter with discomfort.
Brody reached to put the menu back, hoping to dislodge her hand. “It’s nothing much interesting, I’m afraid.” The hand didn’t budge. Okay, yeah—lunch was definitely gonna be to go. “Listen, I’d love to stay and chat, but I really just popped in to grab a sandwich to go. Gotta get back to work. Think you could put it on back to the kitchen?”
“For you, cutie pie, anything. What’ll it be?” Corinne whipped out a pen and order pad.
He refrained from sighing in relief as he got his arm back. Rather than the cheeseburger he really wanted, he wracked his brain for something that wouldn’t have to be cooked. Sandwich. Cold. “How ’bout a turkey club with chips.” His gaze skipped down the counter. A rack with the day’s selection of pies took up one corner beside the old-fashioned cash register. Nobody, but nobody, did pie like Mama Pearl. “And a slice of coconut cream pie.”
“Comin’ right up.”
As she circled around to the other side of the counter, Brody eased out a breath. He was nearly thirty. Her behavior should not make him just as uncomfortable now as it had in high school. But fact was, Corinne didn’t understand about boundaries or didn’t respect them, anyway. She’d never been able to accept he just wasn’t interested, and in the years through college, that he wasn’t available. More often than not, she’d embarrassed them both with her outrageous attempts to get his attention.
As Corinne leaned comfortably on the counter in front of him, angled deliberately to give him a chance to ogle her cleavage, the kitchen door swung open and the Goddess of Pie herself ambled out. “You finish on up here and get on the road,” said Mama Pearl. “You gots a long drive to get that youngin’ of yours from his daddy.”
Well that just wiped the flirtatious smile off Corinne’s face. She straightened. “I’ve got another forty-five minutes left on my shift.”
Mama Pearl’s placid face didn’t shift a bit at her display of conscientiousness. “Won’t hurt you none to scoot out a little early. We’ll clock you out at your regular time. Nasty storm’s comin’ in from across the river. You leave a little bit early so you can beat it back. Safer that way.”
Corinne started to say something else, but Mama Pearl just rolled right over her. “You go on back, have some lunch before you go. You’s too skinny.” She pounded a hand on the pass-through. “Omar! You see this girl gets some meat on her.”
Outflanked, Corinne stepped back and shot Brody a flirtatious smile. “Looks like I’m out. But you come on back now, you hear? We need to catch up good and proper.”
Brody said nothing, just lifted his hand in a half wave and stepped through the kitchen door. Then he let out a sigh of relief.