Girl Out of Water(73)

He saves me from my internal tailspin. I nod in gratitude. We have hours left to drive. I can tell Lincoln about Eric later, once I’ve found the right words. “Definitely food.”

All the talking dried out my throat. The sun is high, and my stomach is grumbling.

We are smack dab in the middle of nowhere without any of those helpful highway signs that tell us which town has what food, so we get off at a random exit and hope for the best. At first, our attempt seems like a fail. We drive past two miles of empty land, minus a storage complex and what looks like a dilapidated airplane hangar, which reminds me of Ashfall. But then, as we’re about to give up and turn to go back to the highway, I shout, “Look there!”

A log cabin style restaurant sits off in the distance. A single white sign with black lettering reads, “Cook House.” A few cars are in the parking lot, the only evidence that the place hasn’t been closed for decades.

Lincoln pulls in, tires bumping over the gravel. The windows of Cook House are old and dusty, so we can’t really see the inside. As we get out of the car, I have second thoughts. What if this is some kind of mafia drop bar like in Detective Dana’s Bloody Money? Or worse, what if it’s just a local restaurant filled with unfriendly locals? We should probably get back on the highway and find something familiar, like a McDonald’s or Subway.

Lincoln looks at me and holds out his hand. I hesitate, then take it. He threads his fingers through mine. He keeps doing that. Like he has an internal alert system that says, Anise is freaking out. Touch her and she’ll feel better. I glance up at him, and he smiles. “Come on,” he says. “I’m level eighty hungry.”

Inside, the first thing that hits me is the sound of three squeaking overhead fans. Otherwise, the restaurant is silent. That’s probably because the handful of customers are all staring at us. I squint in the dim interior. The two small booths by the door are already occupied, and a heavyset woman sits at the front counter.

I want to tug Lincoln by the back of his shirt and hit the highway. Before I can do so, Lincoln swaggers over to the counter like he’s been coming here every day since he was born and plops down onto one of the wooden stools. He turns to the woman next to him, extends his hand, and says, “Hey there, I’m Lincoln. What’s good to eat?”

If this were Detective Dana’s Wicked Feast, the lady would grin maliciously, say you, and then proceed to murder and cannibalize us. But this isn’t a novel. This is the middle of nowhere, and the woman smiles and says, “Hi there, Lincoln. I’m Marybeth. Y’all passing through?”

I approach the counter. Clearly Lincoln is here to stay and eat. I sit next to him, grateful that his bulk hides most of me. But then Lincoln pulls out his stool so we’re both sitting more side by side, and I’m very much in view of Marybeth. He wraps an arm around me and pulls me close. “Sure are,” Lincoln says. “On the way to Cal-i-for-nia from good ole Nebraska.”

I have no idea why he’s putting on this ridiculous accent. But it does make this unfamiliar place a little less daunting and a lot more ridiculous.

“Ah, I miss the traveling days myself. Used to be a bit of a vagabond after growing up in the South. Up and down the East Coast, then shot straight out west, dillydallying all over these here states for a decade or so.”

The story reminds me so much of my mom that I bite my lip and look away. I wonder if my mom is also sitting in some diner in the middle of nowhere, telling a pair of teenagers her own wild vagabond tales. I hate that it’s easier to imagine that than imagine her sitting on our own living room couch, telling me about her most recent adventures.

“Really?” Lincoln asks and leans forward in interest. As he does, the waitress, a squat woman wearing what looks like a hand-stitched uniform, enters from the kitchen.

“Know what you want?” she asks.

I’m about to ask for a menu when Marybeth interjects. “They’ll take two Tuesday specials, extra slaw on the side, fizzy lemonade, and a slice of pecan and boysenberry pie.”

I’m curious what the Tuesday special is and why you’re allowed to order it on a Thursday, but my mouth stays shut. “Sounds great,” Lincoln says. “And if you don’t mind putting a bit of a hurry on it, we’d appreciate it. We need to get ourselves to that big ole green state by tonight.”

The waitress nods without interest and moves away. “Why you in a rush?” Marybeth asks. “Wandering the country ain’t fun when you can’t do any wandering.”

“Well,” Lincoln says. “This beautiful gal of mine has an engagement she needs to make. I keep telling her to stop and smell the roses, but you know how feisty gals can be.”

Marybeth laughs. “Oh, that I do. The men I’ve tucked under my thumb.” Marybeth gives us a wink, then goes on for five minutes about a string of interesting men in her life. Lincoln starts to ask her where exactly one guy had that dolphin tattoo when Marybeth says, “Ooh! Here comes the food!”

The waitress emerges from the kitchen with two steaming plates of Tuesday Special. As the plates get closer, I recognize the fare—meatloaf, mash potatoes and gravy, and corn soufflé. I wonder if the meatloaf has been sitting around since Tuesday, but I decide that’s still relatively fresh considering the expectations I came in with. Marybeth stares at us expectantly, so I grab a fork and dig in.