is starring, right?”
He shot her an impatient glare. “You’re trespassing.”
She seemed to be doing that today.
Chapter 5
VERONICA
Veronica had four plates, four coffees, four orange juices, and a basket of minibiscuits with apple butter on the heavy tray she carried over to table seven. It was Sunday morning, eight o’clock, and since the diner had opened at six thirty, she’d served what seemed like five hundred plates of eggs—from scrambled to omelets to over easy—home fries, bacon, and toast, maybe a thousand cups of coffee. And folks kept coming. A line had formed by the door, the counter was full, and every table was taken. The Best Little Diner in Boothbay lived up to its name and was one of the most popular eateries in town. Even the fish and chips rivaled the seafood joints, and that was saying something in a harbor town in Maine. And of course, when it came to pie, no one went anywhere else.
Of all the diners she’d worked in over the past twenty-two years, the Best Little Diner in Boothbay was her favorite. She loved how pretty it was, for one. The floors were wide-planked pumpkin originals dating back to the late 1800s, when it used to be a general store. Instead of standard vinyl seats for the booths, the seating was white painted wood (washable, of course) with soothing starfish-printed cushions. And the tables, twenty-five in total, were polished wood and round. When the diner slowed down at off times, she loved checking out the local artists’ work onthe walls. And the back room was a waitress’s paradise of comfy recliners, a nice restroom, and even a lovely back alley to sneak out to for some fresh air. The diner’s owner, Deirdre, had something of a secret flower garden out back, and Veronica often spent her breaks just standing amid the big pots of blue hydrangeas and breathing in the scent of roses.
“I see a table open right there, young lady,” Veronica heard a familiar voice snap to the hostess. Oh no. Mrs. Buffleman, pointing, with her usual scowl, at the table that had just opened up in Veronica’s section. Mrs. Buffleman was Veronica’s old English teacher from junior year. Buffleman retired a few years ago and had breakfast practically every day at the diner; Veronica had long ago told the hostess to seat her in someone else’s section, but sometimes, when it couldn’t be helped, Buffleman ended up in hers, like today.
“Good morning, Mrs. Buffleman, Mr. Buffleman,” Veronica said as she stopped at their table, coffeepot in hand. “Coffee this morning?”
Mrs. Buffleman studied her for a moment with her usual slight shake of her head, the shake of disappointment. When Veronica had had to drop out of high school, all her teachers had received a memo about why and that her last day would be at week’s end. Mrs. Buffleman was the only teacher who’d brought up the subject with her. “Darn shame,” she’d said to Veronica on her last day, when Veronica had been on the verge of tears since walking in the building that morning. Head shake. “What a waste.” More head shaking. And Veronica, who hadn’t thought she could possibly feel worse, had felt worse.
Veronica had never particularly liked Mrs. Buffleman, but the old battle-ax had given Veronica an A on every paper, andVeronica had earned As on every exam. English had been her best subject, but it wasn’t as if she’d planned on becoming a teacher or an editor of some kind anyway; Veronica had never known what she wanted to do. When she started baking four years ago, she thought about opening her own little pie diner, but that took a lot of money, to invest in it and to keep it up, and though Veronica had a nest egg socked away from twenty-two years of waitressing, low rents, and low overhead, she was afraid to spend it on something that might fail. It wasn’t as though she had anyone else, like a life partner, to rely on for half the bills, half of retirement, and even then, if you did have a husband, you
He shot her an impatient glare. “You’re trespassing.”
She seemed to be doing that today.
Chapter 5
VERONICA
Veronica had four plates, four coffees, four orange juices, and a basket of minibiscuits with apple butter on the heavy tray she carried over to table seven. It was Sunday morning, eight o’clock, and since the diner had opened at six thirty, she’d served what seemed like five hundred plates of eggs—from scrambled to omelets to over easy—home fries, bacon, and toast, maybe a thousand cups of coffee. And folks kept coming. A line had formed by the door, the counter was full, and every table was taken. The Best Little Diner in Boothbay lived up to its name and was one of the most popular eateries in town. Even the fish and chips rivaled the seafood joints, and that was saying something in a harbor town in Maine. And of course, when it came to pie, no one went anywhere else.
Of all the diners she’d worked in over the past twenty-two years, the Best Little Diner in Boothbay was her favorite. She loved how pretty it was, for one. The floors were wide-planked pumpkin originals dating back to the late 1800s, when it used to be a general store. Instead of standard vinyl seats for the booths, the seating was white painted wood (washable, of course) with soothing starfish-printed cushions. And the tables, twenty-five in total, were polished wood and round. When the diner slowed down at off times, she loved checking out the local artists’ work onthe walls. And the back room was a waitress’s paradise of comfy recliners, a nice restroom, and even a lovely back alley to sneak out to for some fresh air. The diner’s owner, Deirdre, had something of a secret flower garden out back, and Veronica often spent her breaks just standing amid the big pots of blue hydrangeas and breathing in the scent of roses.
“I see a table open right there, young lady,” Veronica heard a familiar voice snap to the hostess. Oh no. Mrs. Buffleman, pointing, with her usual scowl, at the table that had just opened up in Veronica’s section. Mrs. Buffleman was Veronica’s old English teacher from junior year. Buffleman retired a few years ago and had breakfast practically every day at the diner; Veronica had long ago told the hostess to seat her in someone else’s section, but sometimes, when it couldn’t be helped, Buffleman ended up in hers, like today.
“Good morning, Mrs. Buffleman, Mr. Buffleman,” Veronica said as she stopped at their table, coffeepot in hand. “Coffee this morning?”
Mrs. Buffleman studied her for a moment with her usual slight shake of her head, the shake of disappointment. When Veronica had had to drop out of high school, all her teachers had received a memo about why and that her last day would be at week’s end. Mrs. Buffleman was the only teacher who’d brought up the subject with her. “Darn shame,” she’d said to Veronica on her last day, when Veronica had been on the verge of tears since walking in the building that morning. Head shake. “What a waste.” More head shaking. And Veronica, who hadn’t thought she could possibly feel worse, had felt worse.
Veronica had never particularly liked Mrs. Buffleman, but the old battle-ax had given Veronica an A on every paper, andVeronica had earned As on every exam. English had been her best subject, but it wasn’t as if she’d planned on becoming a teacher or an editor of some kind anyway; Veronica had never known what she wanted to do. When she started baking four years ago, she thought about opening her own little pie diner, but that took a lot of money, to invest in it and to keep it up, and though Veronica had a nest egg socked away from twenty-two years of waitressing, low rents, and low overhead, she was afraid to spend it on something that might fail. It wasn’t as though she had anyone else, like a life partner, to rely on for half the bills, half of retirement, and even then, if you did have a husband, you
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