Page 192 of Coach
“Potatoes don’t lie,” he said, deadpan.
The waiter snorted, glancing between us, then left us alone again.
“Okay, Mr. Idaho. What brought youto Georgia?”
“Mr. Ohio,” he corrected, then added, “Work.”
“Of course,” I said. “That answers so much.”
He rolled his eyes, and I was pretty sure he was trying not to smile.
“I came here to help a friend build a studio,” he said. “Stayed longer than planned and ended up building furniture out of my garage. People started buying it.”
“Just like that?”
“No, not just like that. It took years to build up enough clients to scrape out a living.”
He took another slow sip, then set the glass down carefully.
“I like working with my hands,” he said. “I like quiet, and wood doesn’t lie to you.”
“Okay, that’s the most poetically intimidating thing anyone’s ever said to me at a restaurant,” I said through a nervous chuckle. “First, honest potatoes, now non-lying wood? Might there be a trust issue or two in there, Mr. Ohio?”
“Might be. Might not. Depends on who’s trying to earn it.” He didn’t flinch. “My work’s honest. I either do the work or I don’t. If I mess it up, it tells you. If I fix it, it holds.” He looked down at the table for a second like he was embarrassed by how much he’d said.
And that was when a few pieces slid together.
Shane wasn’t cold. He was careful.
He didn’t throw words around like my kids tossed basketballs. When he gave you one, it meant something. He didn’t open up because once he did, he couldn’t take it back.
Shane Douglas didn’t hide because he had nothing to say.
He held back because there was too much.
Mrs. H’s house smelled like impending gastrointestinal regret.
Her kitchen was a battlefield of cast iron, questionable herbs, and the occasional puff of smoke that wasn’t sanctioned by the fire department. She’d already slapped my hand twice with a wooden spoon and muttered something about “soft-handed pretty boys” when I tried to help.
We’d been there less than ten minutes.
“I call this one Caledonian stew,” she announced, plopping a bubbling cauldron onto a cork mat. “It’s named after the Scots who survived by eating boiled shoe leather and their feelings.”
Mike leaned in and whispered, “Translation:whatever was in the fridge plus two full sticks of butter.”
Elliot made a sound like he just remembered to draft his will.
I took the spot next to him while Mike grabbed the other end of the table, because no one wanted to sit in front of Mrs. H while she doled out portions like a wartime lunch lady with no regard for personal safety.
Homer, Mike’s spastic pup, heaved a sigh and slid down next to Elliot’s boot. I looked down to find him staring at Elliot’s leg, a faint whine escaping his lips. After a moment, his head drifted to land on Elliot’s foot. His eyes closed and breathing steadied.
“Don’t you dare give him any of this,” Elliot muttered, smiling down at the sleeping terrier.
“I love that you think Homer would eat it,” I whispered back. “Dogs are smarter than people. They can sense poison.”
Mrs. H clanged a ladle against the pot. “If I hear one more whisper about my food, you can go outside and gnaw on the lawn like proper beasts!”
We snapped to attention like schoolboys.
