Page 1 of The Tryst

CHAPTER 1

Trey

The late-morning Julysun blazes through the front windows of Rosie’s Diner, dulling the neon sign just inside the door that reads OPEN24 HOURS. Rosie’s could have been plucked straight out of an old movie, the kind where everyone knows everyone and the coffee never stops pouring. With its shiny silver exterior, it reminds me of those classic roadside diners that promise a good meal served with a slice of nostalgia. I prefer to sit at the chrome-lined counter on a red-vinyl swivel stool—those seats are always served faster.

The diner walls are adorned with a variety of horse-themed memorabilia—a nod to the local culture deeply entrenched in both the saddlebred and thoroughbred horse industry. Framed black-and-white photos of famous racehorses from nearby tracks, their jockeys clad in colorful silks, line the walls alongside old horseshoes and prize ribbons. Fancy saddlebreds, high stepping in show rings, and if I look around long enough, I’ll find pictures of many Blackburns up there.

On each table and dotted along the counter are baskets containing horse-shaped salt and pepper shakers and horseshoe-shaped napkin holders. The air is filled with the aroma of coffee brewing, bacon sizzling, and the sweetness of maple syrup. No wonder this place is always packed. It’s why Wade and I only come here occasionally and only if we get out of the house super early to beat the normal rush.

Rosie’s customers are as varied as the menu. On any given morning, you might find elderly couples sharing pancakes and memories, young families with children giggling over large plates of scrambled eggs, or local workers grabbing a quick bite before heading to the farms or markets. Many of the regulars have their unofficial assigned seats, where they trade local gossip.

My younger brother and I enjoy the strong coffee while our breakfast is being made. Our spot gives us a full view of the hustle and bustle, waitresses moving quickly from customer to customer but always willing to stop and have a brief, friendly chat. Through the service window, Sam Parnes mans the grill, his face ruddy from the rising steam.

Wade eyeballs the community bulletin board to the left of the service window. It’s a central place to post flyers for upcoming horse auctions, local markets or other county events. “Look at that… the Whiskey River Gang is going to be playing at the fairgrounds this weekend. Want to go?”

“Maybe.” I take a sip of my coffee. They’re a decent regional country music band and it could be a good time.

“Let’s invite the guys and do some camping down near the lake after.”

“Pass,” I drawl, setting my cup down.

“Why not?” Wade asks, looking offended.

“Because when those guys are together, you all turn into a bunch of morons. Last time we did that, Bruce thought it would be a good idea to catch a copperhead and landed in the hospital for two days.”

“Yeah,” Wade muses with a grin. “He was an idiot.” He then punches my shoulder. “But it won’t be like that this time.”

“So you say.” I laugh, shaking my head. “I’ll go to the concert, but I’ll pass on the camping trip.”

“When did you get to be so old and lame?” Wade teases.

I’m only four years older, but sometimes it seems like more. I’m at the point in my life I don’t need a perpetual party buzz, chasing girls or hanging with my single buds.

But I say, “Bite me.”

“More coffee, boys?” Doris, the diner’s forever waitress, saunters over with the pot in hand. She’s about sixty, with hair as silver as the trays she carries and a wit sharper than Sam’s knives. “Or are you just here to grace me with your charming company?”

“Always for your company, Doris,” Wade quips, flashing her a charming smile. “When are you going to leave Wendell and marry me?”

She rolls her eyes as she tops up our mugs. “Oh, honey, the day I marry you is the day they stop making bourbon in Kentucky. And we both know that’s never gonna happen! Besides, Wendell might be a grump, but he’s my grump and he makes the best burgoo in the county. I’m not ready to give that up.”

I nod my head sagely. “He does make a fine burgoo. Give up, Wade. She’s smitten.”

Doris shoots me a wink. “Your order is almost ready. Be up in a jiff.”

When she’s out of earshot, Wade turns his head to smirk at me. “So, who was the lucky lady last night? Becca Caudill?”

I ignore his curiosity. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

Wade and I have been sharing a house in Shelbyville for six years, eschewing one of the many smaller abodes on the family farm that have been built to house some of the higher level, permanent workers. While it’s safe to say we both love our familial estate and the work we do there, we definitely like leaving at the end of each day and having our own place.

Of course, that means sometimes if one of us has a woman stay the night, there’s a good chance the other knows about it. The walls in our little house are thin.

“Dude… it’s your brother you’re talking to. Your compadre. Was it Becca?” Wade prods.

“Nah. We haven’t seen each other since the Spirits and Saddles Gala in June.”

“So who was it?”

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