Page 23 of Don't Clause a Scene

“It’s Bo.”

Cockblock.

“What did he say about the quantity?”

Amos scanned the texts as his phone continued to buzz. “He said he’ll try to dig up attendance estimates at the last couple of Christmas Eve potlucks in recent years. Though he warned that this will likely have a higher attendance since all food will be provided. We might need to go with a bigger menu variety.”

I chuckled. “I can imagine his brain spinning with all the variables to consider.”

“Oh yeah. He’s going to have a Plan A, B, and C.”

Amos’s c’est la vie smile confirmed my gut’s take that the moment had passed. I couldn’t help but wonder if we’d get another, but it wasn’t wise to let my mind travel down that path.

“So, what should we do next?” I asked.

Amos’s phone buzzed again. “Bo said he can squeeze in a meeting with us on Tuesday. He asked us to bring the menu and any ideas we have of people who might be willing to cook food.” His phone buzzed several more times. “He types so fast! Jeez.”

“Let me guess, he’s basically working through a to-do list framed as ideas?”

“How’d you guess?”

I snickered. “We’ve worked a lot of festivals together.”

Shaking his head, Amos began typing. “I’m starting a group text. You need to suffer through this too.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket as my lips stretched into a wide smile. “Sounds good.”

A group chat with Bo and Amos? Surreal. Maybe that would mean Bo asked us to do more than plan a menu. I wanted to keep working with Amos, even if it meant setting myself up for disappointment.

Amos set his phone on the couch next to him. “Now to more important topics. You’ve got to tell me where you get that cheese.”

Dammit, my friends had been right. I had no choice but to believe Amos when he said how delicious it was.It might be time to finally pitch Dad on using it at Red’s. The thought of that made my stomach swirl and rock like taking a small boat on the open ocean, but Amos’s happy hum while devouring the final crumbs of cheese brought me a sense of safety like a buoy.

TEN

MICKEY

“Hey, Mick.”

I startled at my dad’s voice and knocked his pencil cup on the floor.

“I just got a call that a tourist bus is en route to town. We’ll probably get a mid-afternoon rush. Can you come help Ingrid when we get busy?” Dad stepped inside the cubby we used as an office. “You’ve been jumpy ever since you got here.”

Space was at a premium in our cramped restaurant, and anything that didn’t support butts in seats to buy food, cook food to sell, or store said food wasn’t a priority. Dad spent far more time in front of the grill than at his old computer, anyway.

“Have I?”

I’d spent all weekend stressing about how to pitch my dad on serving my cheese on the menu. My friends had been pushing me to make the ask for months, but Amos’s response to my cheese was what made me dust off the menu ideas I’d started putting together ages ago and finalize my pitch. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t let Dad leave today without having done it.

“You have. What’s going on?” Dad stared at me with fatherly concern in his eyes.

Dad loved the diner more than anything and wasn’t a fan of change. I glanced at the cooler on its last leg that Dad had somehow kept running years longer than he should have because it matched the fifties aesthetic of the diner.

He glanced toward the dining room and shifted in that direction. I could do it later.

Amos had damn near licked the tray clean when he polished off my cheese the other night. I needed to do this now, or I never will.

“Can I talk to you about something? For the diner.” I’d learned long ago that the only surefire way to get and hold Dad’s attention was to drop the D word.

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