Chapter Two: The Diner

“Hey, Ollie!” John Haversham said, raising his arm in salutation.

John and Tabitha Haversham ran the local market in town and had been calling Oliver “Ollie” since birth. John’s smile was warm and paternal, sitting directly below a semi-bulbous nose that had seen over six decades of snow and heat and was now left bumped and rigid, like a dark-tan orange peel. His eyes were so dark, they were almost black. They twinkled with a love that Oliver wished he shared.

Still, he smiled back and waved, enjoying the warmth he felt at seeing the old man’s joy. “Hey there, Mr. John! How’s Mrs. Beth?”

The old man’s face soured. He waved both hands at Oliver like he was shooing flies from a plate of baked beans and said, “Ugh! Pain in my ass as always.” He looked up the aisle and leaned forward conspiratorially, whispering. “Think she heard that?”

“You know I did, you grouchy old turd.” Tabitha Haversham appeared from around the corner, setting down the box of potato chips and trapping Oliver in one of her world-famous bear hugs. “It’s so good to see you, sweet boy.”

“You too, Miss Beth,” Oliver said, calling her by her chosen name and squeezing her back just as hard. 

He would always hold a special place in his heart for this woman. She had been a second mother to him for nearly twenty years—when his own mother couldn’t.

“There’s a pretty young thing in Harry’s at the moment.” She said, pointing down the road to Harry’s Diner, where the old timer had slung patty melts and veal cutlets for as long as Mr. John and Mrs. Beth had owned Haversham’s Gas and Grocery. “Oughta go in and take a peek.”

Oliver felt his ears getting hot, and he looked down sheepishly. “Well, I’m only in town for a haircut and some odds and ends, Mrs. Beth. Maybe another time.”

“Ollie.” She said softly, pulling gently at his chin. He hated it when she did that, but loved her for it, too. She met his eyes and continued. “Don’t deny yourself the joys of life because you think you’re bad luck.”

Oliver smiled again, stuffing the darkness back in its box like an unwanted hostage. “Oh, I’m not bad luck, Mrs. Beth, you know that…but I’m not necessarily good luck either.”

“Your luck is your own, boy.” Mr. John said, matching the tone of his wife. “Good, bad, and indifferent.”

They would be relentless about this. So instead, he relented. “Okay, fine…but on one condition.”

The couple raised their left eyebrows simultaneously, and Oliver melted at how perfect they were for each other.

He laughed aloud and declared. “You close up early and let me buy you lunch.”

A short while later, Oliver sat across from John and Beth, smiling as the two bickered like children over the ketchup bottle. It was partially out of an unspoken obligation he’d felt toward his second found family that he asked them to dinner. It was also partially because he was terrified of meeting new people. 

New people never stayed long in Oliver’s life.

“I just need a little, you ass!” Mrs. Beth said playfully, pulling the bottle from Mr. John’s hands. 

The old man looked appalled. “Ma’am, how dare you?” He puffed out his lower lip and let his eyes water. He was the best at puppy dog eyes. 

Beth ignored them and hummed as she smacked the side of the bottle, striking the numbers five and seven with such surety and precision that a good helping of thick, red paste oozed from the mouth and fell with a plop to her plate. She batted her eyelashes at her husband and handed him the bottle. “Thank you, my love!” 

She sang the words, and Oliver could hear the timber in it that had made him weep every Sunday for the past thirty years. Watching them together always seemed to fix what ailed him, like morphine did for gunshot wounds.

“I love you two,” Oliver said. “You know that, right?”

They both looked up in surprise; it was the first time he’d said it to them. 

Ever.

Oliver shifted uncomfortably. “What I mean is,” he began, looking down at his baked potato and stabbing it gently with his fork. “I’ve always looked at you two as a second set of parents, and I don’t think I’ve ever told you before…that I love you and thank you.”

He looked back up, hoping the surprised looks had dissipated. What he saw instead made him regret bringing it up altogether.

Mrs. Beth’s eyes welled up a bit, and her voice cracked as she said. “We love you too, son.” 

She reached for his hand, and he pulled away instinctively. She tried not to appear hurt. She looked at him lovingly, reaching under the table for her husband’s hand. Mr. John’s face, too, said he understood, and it was ok. And now Oliver was embarrassed.

 “Alright, Mrs. Beth.” He said, setting down the napkin. “I think I’m ready.” 

No point in delaying the inevitable, he thought, mirroring her now enthusiastic smile. 

Besides, how could he hurt such a wonderful woman so deliberately, when all she wanted was his happiness?

“Oh, Good!” She said, letting go of her husband’s hand and clapping. Her voice strained with excitement. “I think you’re going to adore her!”

Oliver felt the excitement rising in his own chest. Yes, Mrs. Beth was an excitable older woman, but it had been at least five years since he’d seen her this over the moon. She stood and snatched his hand from the table, dragging him toward the far side of the diner.

He’d already spotted the woman in question the minute they’d walked in. Her side profile was exquisite, proudly displaying a pixie chin and nose partially hidden behind auburn hair that spilled around her shoulders. She wore a white sundress that appeared stained at the bottom, but was no worse for wear. She was in the process of devouring her cheeseburger as they approached, attacking it in the same way Buckshot had with the sugar cubes earlier that morning.

“Hello!” Mrs. Beth said in her singsong voice, interrupting the woman mid-bite. “Me again! I wanted to introduce you to the fella I was talking about earlier. Ollie, meet Penelope.”

Penelope. The name opened memories long buried. Of a man’s long journey home. A woman’s refusal to give in to despair.

The love that made it happen.

It was his mother’s favorite story. One that she had started reading to him as a little boy and could recite from memory by the time she was darning little Oscar’s socks in the rocking chair by the fireplace.

No luck nor twist of fate could have been more perfect.

“Oliver.” He corrected, holding his hand out absentmindedly as he slowly drowned in the lake of her emerald eyes.

She dropped the burger and hurriedly wiped her hands and face, using the napkins to cover her mouth as she laughed awkwardly and said, “Sorry! Nice to meet you, Oliver.” She grabbed Oliver’s outstretched hand and shook it.

 Her skin was warm and soft, the color of milk with a splash of caramel, and its touch sent him to the moon.

“Likewise,” he said, then gestured to the chair next to her. “May I sit?” 

She nodded her head, and he was faintly aware of Mrs. Beth excusing herself to let them get more acquainted. His brain even registered that he’d waved and said goodbye, but he was currently treading water in those eyes.

“Tabitha tells me you’re a farmer.” Penelope began, throwing her napkin over her food and turning to face him. She leaned an elbow on the counter and propped her head on a closed fist. 

“Sorry, feel free to finish your meal first.” He said, gesturing toward her plate awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s ok!” She assured him, “Harry here treated me to a milkshake right before you came in.”

She thumbed over to Harry. He wore the same dumbstruck look on his face that Oliver was pretty sure matched his own.

Oliver smiled and chuckled. “Well, you haven’t visited Silverspring unless you’ve had one of Harry’s famous milkshakes.” He raised his hand to Harry in hello, and Harry waved back. A small measure of something like trespass crossed the old man’s face briefly before disappearing. He’d get over it. At least he had a wife to go home to. A car and kids and a picket fence and love to keep away the cold night air. 

“So, what brings you into town?” Oliver asked, hoping conversation would be a good enough distraction.

She smirked and replied coyly. “The wind.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You float here or something?”

She held his eyes, and he felt a bead of sweat forming at the small of his back. 

“Or something.” She said, picking up a fry and taking a small bite from the end. She let the smile stay put, deliberately chomping down so her teeth remained the focal point. They were perfect.

Oliver felt another bead of sweat greet the first.

His brain was mush. He’d felt so confident only a moment ago, yet he felt her will pressing against his. It was enormous. Majestic.

Intoxicating.

“Soo,” she said, correctly guessing that she’d short-wired his circuits. “You’re a farmer?”

Was he? He couldn’t remember who he was, let alone what he did for a living.

“I am.” Oliver heard himself blurt, then decided to let this version of himself lead the dance. “I have a small patch of grass about five miles that way.” He pointed west. “Been tilling it since I was old enough to stand.”

She nodded, impressed.

“Nice!” She took another small bite of the fry. “Run it by yourself?”

He only noticed the drawl in her voice now that his brain was starting to work in tandem with his mouth. The “by” came out “bah,” and “self” sounded like the letter y had been casually nestled between the middle letters, like a light splash of Coke in a glass of silky-smooth bourbon.

“Sounds like you got an accent on you,” Oliver noted aloud. He raised his hands in apology when he saw the mild annoyance reach those beautiful eyes. “Not that we got any problem with that! Old Jed at the end of the counter there was from Muscle Shoals, Alabama, before he came up to Wyoming.”

He pointed at the end of the far edge of the counter, where a skinny fellow in a bright yellow shirt stared listlessly into his plate of Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes. 

Penelope followed his finger, nodding in confirmation that she’d located him. “He looks tired.” 

Oliver snorted, then leaned close and whispered. “He’s drunk.” He leaned back, suddenly hyper-aware of his lack of hygiene. “Though for what he does, we give him some grace.”

“What’s he do?”

Oliver sighed. “There aren’t a lot of us up here—populations only about two hundred or so, all in all— so a lot of us do double duties.” He hitched a thumb back at Jed. “Old Jed’s both our town garbage man and roadkill scraper.”

She winced. “Yikes.”

Oliver laughed. “Yikes, indeed. So, when he’s done with the morning shift and he’s patrolled the highways, Harry here gets him a beer for the trouble.”

He raised his voice so Harry could hear him. “You mind getting one for him, Mr. Harry? It’s on me today.”

Harry burst into motion, moving with a lithe grace Oliver had never seen in the old-timer, and he knew the old coot had been eavesdropping.

“You got it, Ollie.” Harry said quickly as he popped the top on the beer and sent it down to Jed.

Ollie?

You ass. Oliver thought. The old bastard had done it on purpose, he was sure of it, but Penelope didn’t even seem to notice.

Her eyes were fixed on Oliver, and the only word that came to mind as he watched the woman trace his whole frame was probing.

“Something the matter?” He asked, worrying he’d said something wrong.

She leaned back from him slightly, now trying to take in the whole picture in lieu of pieces. “What’s your purpose here, Oliver?”

He didn’t understand the question, but also didn’t want to seem like an ignorant bumpkin. “You mean besides farming? Well, I’m also the town blacksmith and I dabble sometimes in—”

“No, sorry,” She said, sitting upright, shaking her head and her hands, “that’s not what I meant.” She scooted her chair closer to him, then, leaning into his ear, she whispered. “What I meant was, what is your purpose on this earth?”

Her voice, so close to him, made him think of fireflies; of bottling a bit of starlight before the world stilled.

He felt a low moan welling at the base of his throat and choked it back before it escaped as a profession of love. “You mean,” he asked quickly, brushing past the squeak his voice made, “Why do I exist?”

She closed her eyes, and she looked as if she’d just smelled warm jasmine on the wind. “Mm.” She hummed. The sound of it was long, sultry, and meant just for him…He knew it.

“Oliver, that’s exactly what I mean.”

He felt the beads everywhere now and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He made a noise somewhere between a laugh and blowing raspberries and immediately felt his ears redden. “Well, I’m not sure what to make of that question, Mrs. Penelope.”

“Miss.” She corrected, once again smiling coyly. “It’s Miss, remember?” The look on her face said if she were a wolf, then Oliver would have been succulent slices of thick-cut deli meat. 

He raised his glass of sweet tea and sipped slowly; in part to wet his suddenly dry mouth, and partly to buy a little time to ponder the question. Finally, having thought of nothing, he tried to answer as honestly as he could. “Well, I guess my purpose would be to do the best I can for the people around me. To love as wholly as I can the people that love me likewise, and to feel like I made a difference in the world, even in a place as small as this one.”

Her eyes said that had been the answer she’d been looking for. 

Her lip curled at the corner, and she raised an eyebrow. 

“How far away do you live from here?”

HOPE YOU ENJOYED! THE NEXT CHAPTER LANDS NEXT TUESDAY. IF YOU ENJOYED, LEAVE A LIKE AND A COMMENT. ALWAYS OPEN FOR CRITIQUE AND SUGGESTIONS