More Than Anything (Broken Pieces #1)(16)

Still, it seemed like wasted potential. A town like this could benefit from a decent restaurant.

She was still ruminating over that when she entered MJ’s. The name of the place did give her a childish kick. If she were going to open a diner, she’d probably name it MJ’s too. Or possibly TJ’s. She considered that, then shook her head. Nah, MJ’s definitely sounded better.

She was somewhat surprised by how packed the place was when she entered it. It also had a television blaring in the background. Ralphie’s wasn’t the only place blasting the rugby today.

The restaurant had the ubiquitous small-town, shabby-diner decor. Red-and-white checkered tablecloths, little oil lanterns on each table. Condiments in wooden holders, with the laminated menus stuck between bottles of ketchup and mustard.

She spotted Libby in the back, close to the kitchen, the farthest distance away from the TV.

“This place is busier than I expected,” Tina said as she took her seat. She glanced down at Clara in her baby carrier, which had been placed on a sturdy chair, but thankfully the infant seemed oblivious to the noise. Tina rested her elbows on the table and wrinkled her nose when she realized that the tablecloths were actually plastic. And a bit tacky to the touch. Ugh.

A harried-looking server came up to their table and, despite obviously being rushed off her feet, gave them a warm smile.

“Good afternoon—my name’s Suzie; I’ll be your server today. Would you like anything to drink?”

“Hi, Suzie, just orange juice for me, please,” Libby said.

“I’ll have a double cappuccino, please,” Tina requested.

“I’ll have that for you shortly,” the woman said with a nod. She left with another smile, and Tina cast her eyes around the place. Really, it had probably been quaint like thirty years ago. Now it was just completely outdated and a little shabby.

“What do you think of this place?” she asked Libby. The other woman, who had been wiping drool from Clara’s face, looked up in surprise.

“I mean, it’s not the best place I’ve ever eaten at. Not the worst either. It’s just . . . meh. Their menu is super outdated; I doubt it’s been changed since 1985. Who still serves prawn cocktails, for God’s sake?”

Tina stifled a fond laugh—Libby was such a food snob. To be expected from a trained chef. She glanced around the restaurant again; everybody seemed to be having an awesome time, and they were clearly enjoying both the atmosphere and the food, but they had probably been coming here for years, and it was as familiar to them as their own homes.

“How would you change this menu, if you had the chance?” she asked Libby, and her friend frowned, obviously taken aback by the question. She glanced down at the sticky laminated menu again and shrugged.

“I don’t know. You know me—I’d start with the desserts.” Of course she would—she was a pastry chef. “But entrees and mains, I don’t know. I’d probably minimize and update. There are so many superfluous things on here I shudder thinking what their freezers must look like. I doubt some of these things have been ordered in years, but they’d have to keep the ingredients in stock. Their wastage must be enormous.”

Tina nodded, her eyes running over the place again, the people, the menu, and an idea started to percolate in the back of her mind. A new start for her . . . and possibly one for Libby too.

Three Months Later

Harris’s phone buzzed, and he dragged it out of his pocket, grateful for the distraction from work. It was a call from Smith Jenson, one of his best friends. The guy usually texted, so Harris answered the call immediately, fearing an emergency.

“Hey, man, I have to bail on our game tonight,” Smith said without preamble as soon as the call connected. Harris’s eyebrows rose. He and Smith had a standing arrangement to play tennis every Wednesday night after work. The Jenson family had an indoor tennis court on their family estate, and Smith and Harris had been playing there just about every week for the last fifteen years. They were both extremely competitive and almost evenly matched. Harris, having height and weight advantages, had won just a couple of games more.

“Why?” Harris asked. “You scared your lazy, out-of-shape ass can’t compete?”

“Please, I was looking forward to watching you wheeze your way around the court trying to keep up with my speedy returns.” Smith was fast, and—win or lose—Harris was always guaranteed a great workout.

“Shit, I was looking forward to blowing off some steam tonight,” Harris muttered.

“What’s up? Greyson still being an asshole?” Smith asked sympathetically. He was the only other person—aside from Tina—who knew about Greyson’s unfounded and unfair accusations.

“He’s being stubborn. He knows he’s that baby’s father. I know he does. He refuses to admit it, and I doubt he’ll ever apologize. I thought maybe he’d come to his senses once he stopped drinking himself into oblivion every night, but he’s been sober for nearly three months now, and still nothing! At least I know Libby is doing well—she’s happy working for her former mentor. Clara is growing fast, and she’s so damned beautiful. My brother is a fool to have so carelessly tossed away the best thing to ever happen to his stodgy ass.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure what’s going to happen with Libby, bud,” Smith said cautiously, and Harris’s brow lowered.