The Hideaway

I picked up Bert’s ingredients at Grimmerson’s Grocery, then paused on the sidewalk. Paint chips hung in the window of Grant’s Hardware across the street, practically begging me to dive right into my job at The Hideaway, but the diner next door advertised fresh-squeezed lemonade. The day had grown warm, and my thirst won.

I took a deep breath to steady my nerves before opening the door. The last time I stood outside the diner, Mags had bumped into me from behind.

“What are you standing out here for?” she’d asked. “The lemonade is inside, not out on the stoop. I’m sweating through my shirt. Let’s go in.”

But I couldn’t make myself grab the door handle. My parents had been gone less than a year, and my nerves were still raw and exposed. The diner was their place. I’d been afraid to see someone other than my mom manning the register, someone other than my dad slinging plates of catfish and coleslaw across the counter.

In the end, I backed away from the door, bumping into Mags in the process. Red-faced and sweating, and not from the summertime heat, I escaped around the corner and found a bench outside Sandifer’s Music Shop. A few minutes later, I felt Mags’s small hand on my shoulder. I looked up and there she stood, holding a huge Styrofoam cup of lemonade. Her bird’s-nest hat sat askew on her head, one of the birds dislodged from its nest and holding on by a string. With two fingers, she pulled her shirt away from her skin and flapped it back and forth in a lackluster attempt to create a breeze. She kept her other hand on my shoulder, the heat from it radiating into my bones. After a moment, she pointed the straw toward me and offered me a sip.

I didn’t make it into the diner that day, but this time, a bell dangling off the doorknob announced my entrance. The cash register sat in the same place, although the counter now sported wood pallets and metal sheeting, giving it a modern, industrial look. It didn’t fit with the country décor in the rest of the diner, but it was a step up from the old red laminate counter. The place was quiet with only a couple other customers. I found a booth by the door and scanned the menu sitting on the table. On the back of the menu was a note in memoriam:

DEDICATED TO ED AND JENNY JENKINS, THE ORIGINAL OWNERS OF JENNY’S DINER. WE LOVED THEM AND WILL KEEP THEIR MEMORY ALIVE.

“Miss Jenkins?” The voice came from the other side of the diner. I scanned the room until I saw a vaguely familiar man holding a hand up in greeting. He heaved himself out of his booth and lumbered toward me. It wasn’t until he stood by my table that I recognized him as Sammy Grosvenor. I smiled, but it was short and tight.

“Condolences for your loss, Miss Jenkins.” He wiped his hands on a napkin. Cornbread crumbs dotted the front of his shirt just under the Middle Bay Land Development logo.

“Thank you.”

“I remember your grandmother well. Was she still living in that delightful little bed-and-breakfast on the bay?”

“She was, and I’m the owner of the bed-and-breakfast now. Although I feel certain you already know that.”

He nodded. “Ah yes, that’s right. I do remember hearing that ownership had changed hands. Now would be a great time to sell, you know. Property values in Sweet Bay are on the rise. I’m sure you’d find a willing buyer if you were to ask around.”

“Let me guess. You’d prefer if I started with you.”

“Only if it strikes your fancy.” He smiled sweetly.

“I’m not selling, Mr. Grosvenor.”

“I don’t give up easily, Miss Jenkins.”

“Neither do I.”

He balled up his napkin and tossed it in the trash can on his way out the door. I released my breath and sat back in my seat.

“Sara, is that you?” I turned to see Mrs. Busbee, the new owner of the diner, walking toward me, tucking a dish towel into the apron tied around her waist. She hugged me, her doughy arms smelling of fried chicken, and set a glass of lemonade on the table in front of me.

“It’s good to see you,” she said. “Don’t you worry about ol’ Sammy. He’s always blabbering on about something or another. My opinion is it’s always best to just ignore him.”

“That’s my plan.”

“I was so sorry to hear about your grandmother. She was a big part of life around here.”

“Thank you. We got your chocolate pie at the house.”

“Good, good. Are you here for long, or will you be heading back to New Orleans? I’d sure love to get over there one day and see your shop. I bet I’d find a million things there I’d just have to have.”

It was a funny thing about small towns. People knew too much about me when I lived in Sweet Bay, so I left. Years later, people still knew my business, but now I didn’t mind as much. It was kind of nice to hear the pride in Mrs. Busbee’s voice.

“I’m sticking around for a bit. I’m doing some renovations at The Hideaway that’ll keep me in town for longer than I expected.”

“That’s wonderful. It’ll be nice to see your face around here again. I wasn’t sure if you’d ever want to come back in this diner. It must hold a lot of memories for you.”

Another customer waved at Mrs. Busbee. She tapped my menu with her finger. “Let me know if you want to order anything else.” She turned and, after grabbing a tea pitcher off the counter, made her way to the thirsty customer.

A small picture of my parents accompanied the memorial on the back of the menu. I’d never seen this particular photo before. They stood next to each other behind the counter, red aprons around their middles, my mom holding a metal spatula. Smiling, heads tilted toward each other, they looked satisfied with their life of running a small-town diner, living with a young child, and checking in on the family matriarch and her dusty old house.

They didn’t need much extra money—which was good, because the diner didn’t bring it in—or prestige, even though they had a lot of that. Everyone who came through Sweet Bay—especially tourists on their way to Gulf Shores—stopped at Jenny’s for a bite to eat. Everyone knew them. Everyone loved them.

I was staring into nothing, thinking about my parents, when the bell rang and a group of boys rushed into the diner, all laughs and jeers. They pushed each other around, joking about a teacher. One of the boys came too close to my table and bumped it. My lemonade tipped, and before I could grab it, the sweet liquid spread over the table.

“Oh . . . sorry,” the boy mumbled, before sprinting to his group at the counter.

I scooted to the side, but not before some of it dripped onto my lap. I moved farther over and tried to wipe the liquid from the seat.

“You don’t seem too upset about it,” said a voice from the edge of the table. I looked up. Crawford Hayes stood next to my table, eyes crinkled and smiling.

“Not much I can do about it now.” I pulled at the napkin container to keep him from seeing the pink flush creeping up my cheeks, only to find one napkin left in the box.

“Here, let me help.” He swiped a box from a neighboring table and dried the table, then grabbed a clean towel from Mrs. Busbee. “For your pants.” He handed it to me.

“Thanks. I can’t be too mad about it. Aren’t kids always jumpy after being cramped in school desks all day?”

He smiled. “Yeah, I remember that. You probably do too.”

“Not really.” I glanced at the boys now congregated at a booth in the back. “I was more of a homebody. Even though my home was—well, you’ve seen it.”