The Strawberry Hearts Diner(13)

“And that is?”

She glared at him. How dare he stroll in her place of business and try to buy their recipe. Lord, what next? Was someone going to come in and offer to set her up as the madam of a brothel? She’d had an offer for her property, now her recipe. All that was left was her body.

“Two. Most of the time only one goes out the door and it’s for when a guy proposes to a lady or when a couple have a big anniversary,” she said with a coldness her flushed cheeks definitely didn’t share.

“Well, then could I please have two of these to take with me?”

“Proposing or celebrating an anniversary?” she asked as she popped two small boxes into shape and put a tart in each one.

“Neither. I just know that when I get back to the shop, they’re going to ask me about them and I’ll want to let them see for themselves.” He smiled brightly. “They are something else. I’d love to sell them in my shop. Maybe even ship them out to specialty places around the state.” He laid a fancy business card on the counter. “If you ever change your mind.”

“I won’t.” She tucked the card into her back pocket.

“Then I guess I’ll have to make a trip up here every week or two to satisfy my sweet tooth.” He settled his hat on his head, tipped the brim toward her, and said, “Y’all have a good day, now.”

Vicky couldn’t take her eyes off his swagger as he walked out the door, got into a big white crew-cab truck, and drove away. She wasn’t even aware that Jancy had joined her at the counter until the girl giggled.

“If he was twenty years younger, I’d have the same look on my face.”

“He’s the devil. He wants to buy the tart recipe. Even took two with him, but he won’t figure out the secret that makes them so good,” Vicky declared.

“The devil in blue jeans like in that old song ‘Somebody’s Knockin’.’ Downright temptin’, ain’t he? But don’t pay no attention to me. I’m the worst person in the whole state, maybe the whole world, when it comes to figurin’ out a man,” Jancy said.

Vicky grabbed a white bar rag and went to work cleaning up the booth. “You’re not old enough to know that song. I wouldn’t know it if Nettie hadn’t played it when I was a kid.”

“My mama liked jazz. I heard y’all arguing about the recipe for the tarts.”

“Not even pillow talk would get me to give him the recipe,” Vicky said.

Nettie poked her face up to the order window. “Which she can’t do anyway because she doesn’t know what all I put in the filling or the crust. Is that a bad-luck thing or a good-luck thing for the summer?”

“Luck thing?” Jancy asked.

“Vicky hates summer. It’s the time of year when luck, either bad or good, comes to her in threes. Been that way since she was seventeen. How about your good-luck/bad-luck stories, Jancy? You got any? Maybe we’ll uncork a bottle of cheap strawberry wine some evening and have a girls’ night in when Emily gets home,” Nettie said.

“As in Boone’s Farm?” Jancy asked.

“As in one of the few bottles left in the cellar that my mama and Nettie made back in the day,” Vicky answered.

“You go wipin’ the dust off one of them bottles, you better be sure Emily is home for one of them girls’ nights,” Nettie said. “Here comes the first of the lunch run. I bet we don’t take a single tart home tonight. And I mean it about that wine, girl. I won’t have y’all sneakin’ a bottle out without tellin’ me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of poppin’ the cork without you there to tell us the story of how you and Mama nearly put in a winery instead of a diner.” Vicky picked up four menus and headed toward the booth where two couples were settling in for an early lunch.



Woody took his place behind the podium that evening at exactly eight o’clock. He looked out over the packed firehouse room and frowned. “I don’t want our town to be turned into a bedroom community for Tyler folks who don’t want to live in the city. And I sure do not want us to become a divided town because of rumors. Out of fairness, we will let Mr. Carlton Wolfe say his piece to all of us at one time instead of meetin’ with us individually. It’ll make it so that we aren’t hearin’ rumors and we all know what everyone is thinkin’ on this matter. So we’ll let him talk first, and then he can answer all our questions.”

Vicky had chosen a seat near the back, and Jancy sat beside her. Nettie, God love her heart, plowed right up to the front row so she could look that developer in the eye. Vicky just hoped that was all she’d put in his eye. With her temper, he might get a good sharp fingernail or even a poke with the little pink pearl-handled knife Nettie carried in her purse.

The hall was attached to the side of the metal building that housed the two fire trucks and a small office that made up the volunteer fire department. Ten years ago Woody had written a grant along with the help of Gary Drummond, a lawyer who’d come home to Pick when he retired twenty years before. They’d gotten enough money to build both the fire building and a town hall at the same time. It wasn’t fancy, but there’d been lots of anniversaries, birthday parties, and meetings held in the building, and the residents of Pick were grateful to have it.

That night folding chairs had been set up in rows with a center aisle. When Woody introduced Carlton, he appeared from the back corner, out of the shadows, and strutted up the aisle like a banty rooster. He carried his arrogance to the podium, where he adjusted the sleeves of his dark-gray suit, a different one than what he’d worn to the diner the day before. His shirt was bloodred, and his gray-and-white paisley tie had a splash of red.