Page 2 of Made For Ruin

The diner’s not glamorous by any means. The linoleum floors are scuffed, the vinyl booths are more patch than original material, and the ancient coffee makers groan to life each morning. But it’s my family’s legacy.

And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it going.

With a final sigh, I wipe the tears from my eyes, tie on an apron and start getting ready for the morning rush.

I head into the walk-in fridge, hoping to find some muffins to tide us over since the oven is out. Our blueberry muffins are legendary in this town. People drive for miles just to get a taste. Unfortunately, there’s only one lonely blueberry muffin left.

My stomach rumbles loudly as I pick it up.

Money’s been tight these last few weeks, and I haven’t eaten anything since last night’s questionable gas station hot dog. Usually, I try to save the pastries for the customers. But after the morning I’ve had I could use a little pick me up.

I’m just about to unwrap it when the bell above the front door chimes.

“Morning, Lainey,” a voice calls out.

I recognize it instantly.

Joe is seventy-five and retired, but he still keeps cop hours. He comes in at 6:15 on the dot every morning and orders a cup of black coffee and a blueberry muffin while he reads the morning paper.

Sure enough, when I poke my head out of the kitchen, Joe is sitting at the counter in his usual spot. His faded John Deere hat sits crooked on his head, revealing wisps of white hair.

I emerge from the kitchen carrying the last blueberry muffin on a plate for him.

“Morning, Joe. Wasn’t expecting to see you today. I thought you and Margie were in Arizona all week.”

Joe grins. “Got back early. Margie wanted to stay a few extra days, but you know me. I can only take so much of that desert heat before I start missing the mountains.”

I grin back as I hand him the muffin. “How are the grandbabies?”

“Growing like weeds.” Joe chuckles as he unfolds his newspaper. “The little one, Timmy, he’s walking now. And talking up a storm.” His eyes scan the mostly empty diner. “How are things around here? Seems a little quiet for a Friday morning.”

I bite my lip, debating how much to share.

I don’t want to worry him, but Joe has been coming here for as long as I can remember. He’s practically family.

“Well, we’re having a little trouble with the bread oven,” I admit, trying to keep my voice light. “Carl’s looking into it.”

Joe frowns. “Sounds expensive.”

“It’s a little pricey. But it’s nothing we can’t handle.” I force a smile. “Anyway, let me grab you that coffee. Won’t be but a minute.”

“Take your time. Paper’s not going anywhere.”

I head to the back and start prepping the coffee makers. I fill the industrial-sized filters with our signature dark roast blend and slide the pots into place. Then I turn the machines on, watching as the hot water starts to drip through and the rich aroma of fresh coffee starts to fill the air.

While the coffee brews, I head back to the fridge to grab the creamer. Only this time, the door sticks. I brace my foot against the wall and pull harder. After a few tugs, it finally gives way with a sudden pop, sending me stumbling backward. Right into the shelf of waiting dishes.

Instantly, cold water from last night’s soaking pans cascades over me.

My uniform goes from crisp white to soaked and clinging in seconds. Leftover soap suds slide down my back.

“Lainey?” Joe calls out. “You okay back there?”

“I’m fine!” I call back. “Just a little accident. I’ll be right out.”

I look down at my soaked uniform. Water drips steadily onto the floor, forming puddles around my shoes.

Ugh.

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