Page 1 of Pining for You

1

CHLOE

The restaurant’s lights flickered as I slid a plate of pancakes, bacon, and toast in front of the man sitting at table four. Startled, I glanced up at the lights, wondering if a bulb was going, but they looked fine. Then I noticed my patrons staring outside, so I followed their gaze. Where minutes before there’d been a brilliant blue sky, reflecting off Hawkeshead Lake, now dark clouds raced towards us, obscuring the sun.

“Storm’s coming in,” the guy muttered as he poured syrup over his pancakes until it formed a lake on his plate.

“Huh, the weather guy said it wasn’t supposed to rain today,” said the guy on the other side of the table as I placed his order of a Reuben sandwich on rye with a side of home fries in front of him.

Pancake guy snorted. “Yeah, like you can trust those weather guys. You might as well look out the window to see what it’s doing.”

Reuben guy leaned back in the booth. “I swear one Toronto channel’ll say the weather will be fine, while the other one will say it’s gonna storm. I’m telling you, Jer, these weather people don’t know what they’re doing.”

I left Jer and his friend to their meteorological discussion to stand by the register near the front of the restaurant. I loved this spot because I could stare out the huge plate-glass window that overlooked not only the parking lot but also gave me an excellent view of Hawkeshead Lake.

The first drops of rain darkened the pavement, and the trees the city had planted along the verge swayed and danced as the wind picked up. I jumped when a spear of lightning streaked down at the far end of the peninsula that jutted out on the right side of the lake. Moments later, thunder rattled the restaurant windows, and one of the patrons seated at the four-top table by the window squealed in alarm.

I turned my attention back to the restaurant. A half hour until closing. It was one of those breakfast-and-lunch-only places that closed at 3:00 p.m., so the place was clearing out except for Jer and his Reuben-loving friend, and an older couple who had already paid their bill and now lingered over the last of their coffees. The woman was mid-sixties, gray threading through her hair. The man was older, perhaps early seventies. He was saying something, and she leaned forward, her gaze not leaving his. I wasn’t sure if it was interest in the conversation or the woman was hard of hearing. Their wedding rings were old, scratched and tarnished, the woman’s, nearly embedded in her swollen finger, so not new friends or lovers. Their absolute concentration on each other kept me watching, trying to capture some of the emotion thick between them.

Contentment.

Love.

Trust.

A marriage that worked. They’d found the magic formula to survive through tough years, and stay together.

I thought I’d had the magic formula once, too. I’d been content in my marriage, and I’d loved my husband, even trusted him. What a fool I’d been.

As I watched, keeping my eyes lowered as if feigning disinterest, the couple shifted the edge of their seats in their booth, and craned their necks, looking for something. Or someone. From the plates the couple had shoved to the edge of the table, they were probably looking for their bill. Except their waitress, Josie, had escaped to the kitchen, either doom scrolling her social media accounts or chatting up the new fry cook.

After signaling the couple that I saw them, I hurried to the kitchen and found Josie on her phone, as in actually talking to someone. Huh, I didn’t think people her age actually talked on their phones these days, instead preferring to text. As soon as she saw me, she turned away, her shoulders hitching up to her ears. Her voice dropped so I couldn’t understand what she was saying. When she finally looked over her shoulder, she grimaced and asked, her tone sullen, “What?”

Right after I informed her that her patrons were looking for their check, my own phone vibrated in my apron pocket. I waited until Josie had gone out front before discreetly checking my phone and found a text message from my father looking for help to check his clients’ properties once the storm had passed.

Dad ran a property management firm that looked after cottages where the owner either was absent most of the year or rented it out and required someone to maintain the premises. Which meant, since I’d returned to Port Paxton, he relied on me to help him clean out the cottages between renters. While he didn’t pay me, it was the least I could do because he and Mom helped me out so much during my divorce.

At least today’s shift had been fairly quiet, and his request was a check-in on a couple of properties out on the island.

I shoved my phone in my apron pocket when the back door opened. Gord, the Cozy Counter’s owner, wrestled it closed as the wind attempted to tear it from his hands. He used a four-letter word that he’d have fired any of his employees for using. He was one of those old-school guys raised in the fifties and didn’t like swearing around women. Or women who swore.

“Hey, boss, wasn’t expecting to see you in today,” Tom, the fry cook, called, a frown creasing his face.

As Gord took his time hanging his coat up on the hooks by the back door, an ominous feeling enveloped me. Tom was right. Gord rarely came in on Friday mornings. Finally, he faced us, though his gaze danced about the kitchen without landing on anyone. “Josie still around?”

“Yeah, she’s in the front. Do you need me to get her?” I offered.

“No, but when you guys close up, don’t leave right away. I need to speak to you all. Make sure Josie knows too.”

Tom and I exchanged glances, an unspoken acknowledgment that whatever Gord had to say wasn’t going to be good news.

Gord opened his mouth to say something else, stopped, gave what might have been a shrug, and headed into the storeroom that he used as his office.

The storm was in full fury when I returned to the main room, rain lashing against the windows, a mist rising off the pavement so we could barely see the buildings on the other side of the road. Lightning arced across the sky in epilepsy-inducing flashes, thunder roaring right on its heels, rattling the windows. The parking lot that had been mostly empty fifteen minutes ago was now filled with cars and trucks pulling off the highway, waiting for the storm to pass over.

“Oh, come on,” Josie whined when six people entered, battling against the winds to close the door. “We close in twenty minutes. Tell Gord we should lock the door.”

I wasn’t about to interrupt Gord with whatever issue he was dealing with in the office. “Think of the extra tips you’ll get.”

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