48

Tamsyn Lee balanced a tray holding five plates of steaming turkey breast, mashed potatoes, and green beans on her arm, waiting for the diners to clear space on the table for their Thanksgiving meals. Her arms ached and she snuck a glance at the brass clock hanging over the inside entrance of the Village Grill. Only four?

“This looks delicious,” the dark-haired father said. His wife, and mom to the two cuties under ten with her shade of teal blue eyes, helped the children with their napkins while Grandma shifted the salt and pepper shakers to make more room for the plates Tamsyn set down. A drop of hot gravy splashed Tamsyn’s wrist but she bit the inside of her cheek and smiled through the pain.

“It smells like home,” the mother said, distracted by the youngest boy fidgeting on his seat as he reached for a fluffy biscuit and almost toppled his water. “Sit back, hon.” Mom righted the glass. “Let me help.”

Crisis averted. Tamsyn eyed the table—slabs of real butter, extra napkins, silverware. The noise level in the restaurant rose as the hostess, Nina, seated anther family in the opposite booth. Tamsyn lowered the empty tray to her side. “Anything else for you?”

“No,” Grandma said with a pleased air. “This is perfect.”

Perfect. The happiness in the older woman’s voice made Tamsyn long for her own family. So not happening this year.

Tamsyn dared a look at the front door and bit back a groan—the line for turkey dinners spilled out into the festive streets of their beachside downtown. Why weren’t these people eating spiral ham and green bean casserole at home? In comfy pants, stretched out on the couch to watch Holiday Inn while finishing pumpkin pie…

“Enjoy your meal.” Tamsyn grinned as the older boy swiped his finger through the mashed potatoes. “I’ll be back to check on you. And don’t forget to leave room for pie. A slice comes with the turkey special.”

Tamsyn’s family owned an Italian restaurant in New York, but they’d always closed on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Family used to mean everything. She brought her tray to the drop-off station, her energy flagging.

“How’s it going, Monica?” Three waitresses handled thirty tables, including the bar-grill next door. The two buildings were connected by an interior hall. Ruby’s section was on the bar side farthest from the kitchen which meant she had to really hustle—Tamsyn watched the petite blonde pile a tray with turkey dinners, the tie on her apron trailing behind her back.

“Fine. But I was smart enough to take a half shift today.” Monica, thirty to Tamsyn’s twenty-six, turned toward the kitchen’s warming area and gathered plates for her next order. “Of course, I’ve been at the Village three years and I know how crazy the holidays can be.”

“The tips are good,” Tamsyn said, looking for the bright side. “Just like Michael promised.”

“You’ll need the money to buy a foot massage.” Monica rolled silverware into a napkin. “Live and learn. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine.” Tamsyn’s plan had been to suck it up for a lonely Thanksgiving in Florida and then fly to her family home in New York for Christmas, but her parents had decided two weeks ago that a divorce was more important than the holidays. After forty years of hanging stockings together? How could they?

“Tamsyn—table three is ready for their drink order as soon as you drop off the lobster clubs at table two,” Michael said.

“Got it.” Tamsyn headed toward the waiting plates as she met her manager’s harried gaze. “Thanks.”

Michael wore a splash of cranberry sauce on the cuff of his white shirt. Tamsyn made a note to tell Nina so that the hostess could bleach it before throwing it in the wash. Nina and Michael had been living together for six months and they were such a cute couple it made Tamsyn almost wish for a boyfriend.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join me and Nina for turkey later?” Michael asked as they passed each other in the aisle. “Monica will be there. Lucien. Maybe Nikki.”

The restaurant world was a small community made even smaller in a town of less than five thousand people. “Thank you, but no. Stop worrying about me.” Tamsyn knew that Michael couldn’t help it, which is what made him such a great manager.

Tamsyn smiled to show that she appreciated his offer, but she wasn’t coming. She had to prove to herself that she could be alone. That alone was fine.

“What are you going to do?” he pressed, catching her by the elbow.

“Go to the beach, drink some wine, and read a good book.”

“That is not Thanksgiving.”

“No. Thanksgiving is about family, and mine is broken.” Her chin lifted.

“Tamsyn…”Michael said.

She pulled free and headed toward the warming area where Lucien had put her orders, refusing to think about home. Tamsyn dropped off the lobster club sandwiches to the two local women celebrating the holiday. “Can I get you ladies anything else? Another glass of wine?”

“No, thanks,” the blonde with red-framed glasses answered while the brunette shook her head.

“I’ll come by in a few minutes with your bill.”

The friends went back to their conversation, and Tamsyn made her way to the front podium where she greeted the waiting foursome. “Welcome to the Village.”

After that, she sat two couples in their mid-fifties. A family of six. A father and son. Between taking orders, delivering food, and clearing tables, it was six o’clock when Tamsyn next checked the time. Waitressing was physical labor but she made more in tips than she did with her part-time job at the library.

Her last table of the night was a lone guy about thirty, with longish brown hair that curled over his ears. Salon-styled. He wore a dark chocolate-colored suit that exuded money, shiny brown leather shoes and silk argyle-patterned socks. Attractive in a high-maintenance kind of way.

“Hi! Welcome to the Village.” She held her ordering pad. “Can I get you something to drink?”

He looked up from his cellphone, his green eyes brilliantly set between dark brown lashes. Electric. Tamsyn took a step back, then decided she must be more tired than she’d realized.

“A Harp.”

His cheeks were slightly flushed, and she figured it might not be his first drink of the day—or maybe the stress of the holiday was catching up. She could commiserate. “Are you visiting,” she asked, “or here for business?”

His full mouth thinned with annoyance. “Neither. Can you take my food order now, too? I’m not big on chit-chat.”

Jerk. What a waste of gorgeous green eyes. “Sure.” She kept her smile in place. “What will you have?”

“The Thanksgiving special.” He lifted the paper menu that had a list of the day’s offerings. “If it’s any good? I hate dry turkey.”

If she was a mean person, she’d stick his plate of amazingly moist turkey under the broiler until it was turkey jerky. However, Tamsyn was nice and Lucien was too good of a chef to ruin his meal. She nodded once. “I’ll be right back with your dinner.”

***

Evan Hawke watched the waitress walk away with a twitch of her long, brown ponytail. Probably not a good idea to be an ass to the people who handled your food, he heard his ex-girlfriend say as if she was sitting right next to him.

Teresa had been right about a lot of things, including the fact they didn’t fit together for the long haul. He sometimes missed her witty observations, but not enough to pick up the phone and ask her back into his life.

Pathetic. Or was it apathetic? Evan tapped the question into the notes section of his phone. Either way, he’d apologize to the waitress for being rude. He moved aside the salt and pepper shakers, hoping for a packet of crackers. Nothing.

Hurry, waitress, hurry. Evan noticed her trim figure in an abstract way. Black pants, white shirt. Perky smile. Probably wouldn’t know the difference between pathetic or apathetic.

The last girl he’d dated had given vapid a new name. Evan was part of the Internet generation, but he believed in proper punctuation, damn it. His editor told him there was a revolution against double quotes within a paragraph, when single quotes would do—easier, some claimed, to use without hitting the shift key.

Lazy, one-fingered typing was no reason to change punctuation as directed in the Chicago Manual of Style. He closed the notes section and placed his phone on the table, taking a drink of water from the filled glass. His empty belly protested.

As if thinking of his editor had brought her to life, Alena Watson fired off three quick texts wanting to know where he was, if he was alive, or if she needed to call the cops.

Food. He needed food. Evan put the water glass down, sopping the condensation with a napkin, and ignored the phone messages.

The waitress, Tamsyn, according to her nametag, walked toward him carrying his plate of food on a small round tray. Maybe she wasn’t the kind to hold a grudge.

“Harp, and the turkey special,” she said. “I had them keep your plate under the heat lamp.”

Evan bristled until he realized she was joking. The all-nighter he’d pulled had zapped his sense of humor, and her dead-pan delivery was right on. “Listen, sorry about that.”

“No worries.” She centered his golden draft beer on a coaster, her ponytail sliding over her shoulder, and he caught a whiff of coconut shampoo. Was he so hungry that everything reminded him of food? “Would you like more water?”

He shook his head, his mouth watering in anticipation. “No, thanks.”

“I set aside a piece of pecan pie, unless you’d prefer pumpkin?”

“I don’t eat sweets.” The green beans with slivered almonds shimmered with butter. What was the last thing he’d eaten?

“It comes with the special,” she said as if that would change his mind.

“No.” The answer came out curt so added, “Thanks.”

“I can box it up—maybe you’ll want it later.”

She was being a terrific waitress when all he wanted was to eat his damn dinner. Breakfast, two days ago? Yeah, he’d stopped to get an egg white omelet after working out at the gym. His stomach clenched.

“Pecan pie with coffee in the morning?” She spoke as if offering a treat. “I love it with a dollop of whipped cream.”

“Sounds awful.” He swallowed, worried now that he’d let himself get too hungry. An airplane packet of pretzels was not sustenance. The thought of something sweet brought a wave of nausea.

Her brown eyes flashed. “Fine. No pie.”

“No.” Evan unfolded the paper napkin and put it over his lap. “It’s been a long day, and I don’t mean to take it out on you.” Thin slices of turkey, crisp herb crust. Would she leave, so he could eat before he embarrassed himself?

Her shoulders relaxed.

“I’m a lousy flyer,” don’t justify, just apologize, “and I probably should have stayed at the condo instead of coming out to eat.”

In a fit of desperation, he’d gotten the first flight out of New York and rented a condo overlooking the beach. He’d written his bestseller here at the Village, four years ago, at a table in the back by the bar.

“There’s always delivery if you can’t be trusted to leave the house.” Tamsyn offered a half-smile as if to suggest she was teasing. They both knew she wasn’t but he didn’t take offense. He’d earned the remark. Evan picked up the knife and fork.

She brought the bill from her black apron pocket. “Can I get you anything else?”

Ditch the attitude, Evan. “No. Thank you.”

“We’re closing in fifteen minutes.” Tamsyn stepped away from the table and gestured toward the front.

Evan sat at a table for two with his back to the door so he didn’t bother turning around. His phone blinked the time. 6:45.

“But don’t rush—enjoy your meal. You can pay at the door on your way out.”

Evan, so hungry his belly knotted at the savory aroma of gravy, swirled the tines of his fork through the white mound of potatoes as soon as she left. Fluffy, buttery goodness exploded across his tongue as he put the bite in his mouth. Had food ever tasted so amazing? Green beans, cranberry sauce. Tender turkey he cut with the edge of his fork.

By the time he was through with the potatoes he could think clearly again.

His writing career was in the tank, but he, Evan Hawke, Mystery Writer, would chase that bitch of a muse down and do whatever it took to get his magic back.