“Divorce is always hard.”
Their consolations ranged from “too bad you couldn’t work it out” to “he was a worthless drunk anyway, you’re better off without him.”
She’d been separated from Robert exactly four days and everybody in Pine Cove knew about it. And they couldn’t just let it lie. Why didn’t they let her go through the process without running this cloying gauntlet of sympathy? It was as if she had a big red D sewed to her clothing, a signal to the townsfolk to close around her like a hungry amoeba.
When the second tray of glasses hit the floor, she stood amid the shards trying to catch her breath and could not. She had to do something — scream, cry, pass out — but she just stood there, paralyzed, while the busboy cleaned up the glass.
Two bony hands closed on her shoulders. She heard a voice in her ear that seemed to come from very far away. “You are having an anxiety attack, dear. It shall pass. Relax and breathe deeply.” She felt the hands gently leading her through the kitchen door to the office in the back.
“Sit down and put your head between your knees.” She let herself be guided into a chair. Her mind went white, and her breath caught in her throat. A bony hand rubbed her back.
“Breathe, Jennifer. I’ll not have you shuffling off this mortal coil in the middle of the breakfast shift.”
In a moment her head cleared and she looked up to see Howard Phillips, the owner of H.P.’s, standing over her.
He was a tall, skeletal man, who always wore a black suit and button shoes that had been fashionable a hundred years ago. Except for the dark depressions on his cheeks, Howard’s skin was as white as a carrion worm. Robert had once said that H.P. looked like the master of ceremonies at a chemotherapy funfest.
Howard had been born and raised in Maine, yet when he spoke, he affected the accent of an erudite Londoner. “The prospect of change is a many-fanged beast, my dear. It is not, however, appropriate to pay fearful obeisance to that beast by cowering in the ruins of my stemware while you have orders up.”
“I’m sorry, Howard. Robert called this morning. He sounded so helpless, pathetic.”
“A tragedy, to be sure. Yet as we sit, ensconced in our grief, two perfectly healthy daily specials languish under the heat lamps metamorphosing into gelatinous invitations to botulism.”
Jenny was relieved that in his own, cryptically charming way, Howard was not giving her sympathy but telling her to get off her ass and live her life. “I think I’m okay now. Thanks, Howard.” Jenny stood and wiped her eyes with a paper napkin she took from her apron. Then she went off to deliver her orders. Howard, having exhausted his compassion for the day, closed the door of his office and began working on the books.
When Jenny returned to the floor, she found that the restaurant had cleared except for a few regular customers and a dark young man she didn’t recognize, who was standing by the PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED sign. At least he wouldn’t ask about Robert, thank God. It was a welcome relief.
Not many tourists found H.P.’s. It was tucked in a tree-lined cul-de-sac off Cypress Street in a remodeled Victorian bungalow. The sign outside, small and tasteful, simply read, CAFE. Howard did not believe in advertising, and though he was an Anglophile at heart — loving all things British and feeling that they were somehow superior to their American counterparts — his restaurant displayed none of the ersatz British decor that might draw in the tourists. The cafe served simple food at fair prices. If the menu exhibited Howard Phillips’s eccentricity in style, it did not discourage the locals from eating at his place. Next to Brine’s Bait, Tackle, and Fine Wines, H.P.’s Cafe had the most loyal clientele in Pine Cove.
“Smoking or nonsmoking?” Jenny asked the young man. He was very good-looking, but Jenny noticed this only in passing. She was conditioned by years of monogamy not to dwell on such things.
“Nonsmoking,” he said.
Jenny led him to a table in the back. Before he sat down, he pulled out the chair across from him, as if he were going to put his feet up.
“Will someone be joining you?” Jenny asked, handing him a menu. He looked up at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. He stared into her eyes without saying a word.
Embarrassed, Jenny looked down. “Today’s special is Eggs-Sothoth — a fiendishly toothsome amalgamation of scrumptious ingredients so delicious that the mere description of the palatable gestalt could drive one mad,” she said.
“You’re joking?”
“No. The owner insists that we memorize the daily specials verbatim.”
The dark man kept staring at her. “What does all that mean?” he asked.
“Scrambled eggs with ham and cheese and a side of toast.”
“Why didn’t you just say that?”
“The owner is a little eccentric. He believes that his daily specials may be the only thing keeping the Old Ones at bay.”
“The Old Ones?”
Jenny sighed. The nice thing about regular customers is she didn’t have to keep explaining Howard’s weird menu to them. This guy was obviously from out of town. But why did he have to keep staring at her like that?
“It’s his religion or something. He believes that the world was once populated by another race. He calls them the Old Ones. For some reason they were banished from Earth, but he believes that they are trying to return and take over.”
“You’re joking?”
“Stop saying that. I’m not joking.”
“I’m sorry.” He looked at the menu. “Okay, give me an Eggs-Sothoth with a side order of The Spuds of Madness.”
“Would you like coffee?”
“That would be great.”
Jenny wrote out the ticket and turned to put the order in at the kitchen window.
“Excuse me,” the man said.
Jenny turned in midstep. “Yes?”
“You have incredible eyes.”
“Thanks.” She felt herself blush as she headed off to get his coffee. She wasn’t ready for this. She needed some sort of break between being married and being divorced. Divorce leave? They had pregnancy leave, didn’t they?
When she returned with his coffee, she looked at him for the first time as a single woman might. He was handsome, in a sharp, dark sort of way. He looked younger than she was, twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. She was studying his clothes and trying to get a feel for what he did for a living when she ran into the chair he had pushed out from the table and spilled most of the coffee into the saucer.
“God, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “Are you having a bad day?”
“Getting worse by the minute. I’ll get you another cup.”
“No,” he raised a hand in protest. “Its fine.” He took the cup and saucer from her, separated them, and poured the coffee back into the cup. “See, good as new. I don’t want to add to your bad day.”
He was staring again.
“No, you’re fine. I mean, I’m fine. Thanks.” She felt like a geek. She cursed Robert for causing all this. If he hadn’t… No, it wasn’t Robert’s fault. She’d made the decision to end the marriage.
“I’m Travis.” The man extended his hand. She took it, tentatively.
“Jennifer-” She was about to tell him that she was married and that he was nice and all. “I’m not married,” she said. She immediately wanted to disappear into the kitchen and never come back.
“Me either,” Travis said. “I’m new in town.” He didn’t seem to notice how awkward she was. “Look, Jennifer, I’m looking for an address and I wonder if you could tell me how to find it? Do you know how to get to Cheshire Street?”
Jenny was relieved to be talking about anything but herself. She rattled off a series of streets and turns, landmarks and signs, that would lead Travis to Cheshire Street. When she finished, he just looked at her quizzically.