Page 74 of Just Like Starting Over
“Merrie,” I say because there are no other humans who can make chicken soup smell this good.
Sylvia nods, then drops into the chair opposite me. “Is that the washer I hear?”
I nod and take a spoonful of soup. It’s as good as I expected,and then some. I feel its warmth slide down my throat and close my eyes in appreciation. “She should put this on the menu. Take-out for the walking wounded.”
“She might.”
I look up at her tone. “What’s that about?”
Sylvia is frowning a little. “I completely called the chicken thing wrong. I don’t understand. There’s no place in town to get rotisserie chicken. I was sure Merrie’s roast chickens would sell like mad, that if she limited them, she’d sell out every night.”
“But no,” I guess.
“But no,” she agrees.
“I have zero objections to whatever resulted in this.”
“It’s a good time to get sick. There’s a huge supply of chicken soup at the café.” She nods at me and smiles a little. “Good planning on your part.”
“That was my great scheme,” I say and she smiles. It’s like I just stepped into the sun from a darkened cave, maybe woke up from hibernation. I stare at her for a minute, dazzled, and her smile fades.
“Go on. It’ll get cold.”
“It’ll still be great.” I just eat for a few minutes. She sits there and watches me, probably wanting to make sure I eat it all. I do.
“More?”
“Not yet. Thank you.”
“Grilled cheese?”
“Not yet.” Our gazes meet and I know I’m not the only one thinking about that forehead kiss. I clear my throat and look away, still yearning.
I do feel about ten billion times better than I did an hour ago. It’s thanks to Sylvia so I have to let her in on our great local secret.
“About the chicken,” I say.
“Mmm hmm?” She’s moving food into the fridge and I just watch her for a few minutes. Efficient but graceful. She’s wearing shorts tonight, which gives me a great view of her legs, and that’s irresistible. I push aside my thoughts with an effort. “I’m guessing you haven’t found Junior’s yet.”
“Junior’s?” She turns to look at me.
“This guy in Port Cavendish who does barbeque. Chickens on Thursday, wings on Friday, ribs on Saturday.”
“How do I not know about this guy?”
“He wasn’t there when you were here.”
“Where is this place?”
“That’s just it. It’s not really a place. I mean he has a place but it’s not a restaurant.”
Sylvia is looking at me as if I’m insane, and it’s a reasonable response.
“I’m not explaining this well.”
“No, you’re not.” She softens that with a smile. I indicate the chair opposite me and she sits down, waiting.
I start over. “There’s a guy who people call Junior. He lives in Port Cavendish.”
