Page 22 of Stick Play

“How about right here?” I guide him to the small table with a view of the outside, even though it’s a miserable cold day. This way he can people watch as he eats, and maybe that won’t feel so lonely for him. I’m not saying that he’s lonely. I don’t know the man. Maybe he likes being alone. Nevertheless, I care about my customers, and this way he has a choice between solitude and people watching.

He turns his coffee cup over and offers me a big smile. “Are you the owner of this lovely place now?”

“I am, for a couple of years now. I inherited it from my uncle. Did you know him?” I turn and look at the quaint café from his point of view. My life has changed so much in the last couple of years, and for the first time in a long time, I’m content. Happy? Well, I’m happy with my business and daughter, and I have great friends. That’s enough for now. I don’t know if it will be enough later on, and even if it’s not, that’s okay. I am keeping life status-quo.

“Heard it changed hands, but I’ve never been here before.” He takes his coat and hat off and sets them on the other chair. “Only been living in Boston for a couple years now, though.”

“Well…” I spread my arms. “Welcome to the Nook. I hope you become a regular.” I fix his placemat. “What made you try it today?”

“Heard good things.”

“Excellent. You go ahead and look over the menu.” I hand him one. “And I’ll be right back with the coffee.”

I walk to the coffee pot behind the counter, just as the gentleman’s cell phone rings and I glance back to see him fish it from his coat pocket. I reach for the carafe, and try not to eavesdrop on his conversation as I pour. He laughs and shakes his head as he catches my eye.

“I just thought I’d go out for lunch today.” He covers the phone. “It’s my son. He worries about me.” That warms my heart. Ash takes care of his dad, too. Or rather, from the sounds of things, he’d like to, but his father is a proud man, or rather a stubborn bastard. That thought makes me want to laugh. For some reason, I find the thoughts of anyone giving the Mountain a hard time rather amusing.

You gave him a hard time, Gina.

I gulp at that, and work to maintain professionalism as my customer covers the phone. “My son. Needs to know where I am every damn minute of every damn day.” I laugh, thinking about Ash’s father and how he gives him a hard time.

“I think that’s nice,” I tell him. “It’s nice to have someone in the family worry about you.”

“I guess you have a loved one who worries over you too, huh?” My stomach clenches, because actually I don’t have a loved one who worries over me. “I hope your husband or boyfriend or whoever your loved one is, isn’t as big of a pain as my son.”

I chuckle at that because while he’s being a curmudgeon, his voice and eyes are full of love, and it fills me with an equal measure of joy and sadness. Joy for what this man has, and sadness for what I don’t—family members who worry about me.

My mind goes to my late grandparents and my throat squeezes tight. They left everything to me when they passed, but it wasn’t the material things that mattered. It was the love, kindness and forgiveness they always showed me. I want to be the same kind of parent to Zoe. It’s not always easy doing it by myself and at times I’m just barely doing my best.

You can only do your best, Grandma used to say to me when I struggled in nursing school. They truly were good people, and Grandma always said they didn’t make them like Grandpa anymore. I don’t think she was wrong. It’s funny, because back in their generation, the woman never asked the man out. But Grandma did. She saw what she wanted and went after it. I love that about her. She was so unconventional, and it paid off. They had a lifelong love affair. One day, she took me aside and told me they were leaving me something special in a safety deposit box and what she left me came with special instructions. When I fled California, I left the contents of the box behind.

“Are you kidding me?” the man seated before me says into the phone. I step back and he continues to talk to his son for a second. He laughs into the phone, and asks, “Do you think it’s broken?” My ears perk up. I hope everything is okay. “Okay, son. I’ll see you later.” With that he hangs up. “Kids,” he grouches and throws his hands up. “Do you have children?” he glances at my nametag. “Gina,” he says. “I’m Grant.”

“Well, Grant, I do have a child. One daughter. Six going on sixteen.”

“Oh yes, my son was the same. He was hardheaded at times and stubborn as hell. Although,” he begins sadly. “He had to grow up fast.” I don’t press, and he continues. “Just the two of us.”

Is Zoe growing up too fast? Do I give her too many responsibilities?

“He’s a fine young man, though.” He jabs his thumb into his chest. “Takes after his father, I’m happy to say.”

I laugh at that. “From what I can tell, I’d say that’s a good thing.”

“I like you,” he says with a wink and under his breath murmurs, “I can see why he does too.”

My head rears back. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“What do you recommend?” He turns his attention to the menu, and I let go whatever it was he was talking about. Perhaps he has some memory issues.

I point to the special on the menu. “I have to say the chicken pot pie is pretty delicious.”

“Chicken pot pie…the last time I had chicken pot pie was…” He goes quiet, thoughtful, then a laugh bursts out of his throat. “…I can’t remember the last time. It sounds just about right for today, though.”

“Chicken pot pie it is, then. Perfect to warm you up on this chilly day.”

He takes a big drink of his coffee as I head to the back to put in his ticket. Once his meal is prepared and I see that there’s not much left in the dish, I scoop some up into a take-away container for him. Come late afternoon, we mostly sell pastries and coffee, and I don’t want this to go to waste.

I bring him his steaming bowl of chicken pot pie, and he picks up his fork as he breathes in the delicious scents.

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