Page 65 of Love & Rockets

This was a familiar bit of Zelda patter. Once she admitted she hadn’t been drinking, the older woman would suggest she get her behind inside and start filling sauce bottles. The shtick was old and worn thin, but today her patter made Darla smile. She lowered the window a few inches, wiped the smile off her face, and responded with a stone sober, “No, ma’am.”

“Then you’d better get in there and start hittin’ the bottles.” Zelda Jo patted the roof of Darla’s car, then sauntered toward the smoke shack. Calling the usual, “They ain’t gonna fill themselves, you know,” over her shoulder as she sashayed away.

Darla ducked her head and gave it a rueful shake as she reached for the door handle. Pleased with the majority of choices she’d made overall, she climbed from the car, half-apron in hand. “No, ma’am, they sure aren’t.”

Feeling more settled than she had all weekend, she followed Zelda Jo to the back door. She’d go fill those bottles. Again. Then later, when she was alone, she’d call Jake. Again. She was going to apply the principles she’d learned from her daughter. He could choose not to talk to her again, and that was his option. But he needed to know she chose him. But if she’d learned one thing from living with Gracie, it was the importance of having all the facts before a conclusion could be drawn. Telling Jake that she did want to be with him was simply a matter of good science.

Darla spent most of the morning in the back, inventorying supplies for the upcoming week, placing replenishment orders, and doing dining room prep. She didn’t mind. Filling salt and pepper shakers, bowls of sweetener packets, and yes, squeeze bottles of The Pit’s secret sauce, was far preferable to watching Zelda Jo coo and flirt with Bubba as he pulled, chopped and basted the day’s offerings. The two of them must have had a particularly good weekend. The level of lovey-dovey had reached almost epic proportions by the time Darla flipped the lock on the front door.

She stood back and smiled broadly as Mr. Beau and his cronies climbed from the spotless Cadillacs and Lincolns parked curbside. “You know, you still have a key,” she said, accepting the owner’s kiss on her cheek.

“I know, but I like to make these jokers wait,” he said, jerking his head toward the three old men trailing him. “How’s my second best girl today?”

“Second? Wow. I thought I’d slipped to third,” she teased as they shuffled past.

Mr. Ritter was always quick to rat the others out, and today proved to be no exception. “Miss Alee-Ann has him in the doghouse.”

“Uh-oh,” she said in a low voice. “What’d you do?”

“I didn’t do a damn thing,” Mr. Beau growled.

Darla quirked a brow as she let the door swing shut behind them. “Is that the trouble?”

“The trouble is living with a woman who doesn’t understand when a man is retired, he doesn’t want to spend every blessed moment working.”

“He didn’t show up for soup kitchen duty,” Mr. Ritter explained.

“I fell asleep.” Beau Pickett scowled as he surveyed the business he’d built with the sweat of his brow. “Criminy, the woman acts like I was out carousing. I’m old. I fall asleep.” He started toward their usual table. “Makes me a good catch for a pretty young thing like you.”

Darla smiled and flirted with the older men as they got themselves situated. “Sweet tea and chicken sandwiches coming up,” she promised, disregarding the menus in their hands.

“Now, listen here—” Mr. Beau growled.

Darla ignored him. Spats with Miss Alee-Ann always made him uncharacteristically cantankerous. He’d eat the chicken, though, because he knew darn well his bride wanted him to.

“Back in a sec.” She dropped a kiss on the top of the old man’s head and turned away.

“Tell Beauregard he needs to do something about the loose shingles on the roof,” he called after her.

Darla kept her smile still firmly in place. She had no intention of telling Bubba anything about the shingles, as he had no more business climbing up on the roof than Mr. Beau did. She’d tell Harley or Mat the next time they came in, and they would take care of things.

“Excuse me,” a woman called from one of the booths as she passed.

Her Beau-induced grin still in place, she turned to greet the new customer. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. Oh….” She blinked, trailing off like an idiot when she found herself staring down into a pair of achingly familiar brown eyes. “Mrs. Dalton.” Too aware she was acting the fool, Darla tried desperately to shore up her slipping smile. “Hi. How are you?”

Jake’s mother returned her weak greeting with a warm twinkle in her eyes. “I’m fine, Darla. You’re looking well.”

Automatically, Darla glanced down to see which T-shirt she’d pulled from her drawer that morning, praying she’d chosen one of the plain ones with only the logo. No such luck. Darla closed her eyes as the heat of mortification flooded her cheeks. She was feeling low and more than a little sorry for herself, so she’d chosen an old crowd favorite, hoping a little attention from her customers would give her a boost. So here she was, standing face-to-face with Julia Dalton, wearing a hot-pink shirt nearly a size too small and proclaimed her to be ‘Super-Saucy’ in big, bold script letters emblazoned across her breasts.

Flustered, she fumbled to extract the order pad and pen from her apron pocket. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you. I thought I’d stop by and say hello, perhaps pick up an order of whatever my husband sneaks in here to eat instead of the lunches I pack for him.”

Darla stared at Jake’s mom for a moment, trying to decide if she should confirm or deny her suspicions.

A wicked smile lit the older woman’s face as she leaned in conspiratorially. “I’ve found suspicious sauce stains on his cuffs.” Darla opened her mouth to say something, but Julia waved her protests away. “Don’t worry yourself, sweetheart. Better than lipstick on his collar, right?”

“Right.”

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