Page 93 of Love, Second Chances and Other Nonsense
It’s more than I deserve, and exactly what I need to keep hoping.
32
Chapter 32
Adam
I spot Mr. Sullivan the moment he walks through the restaurant door, his thin frame stooped slightly as he navigates to his usual booth with careful, measured steps. His weathered face brightens when he sees me, and I can’t help but smile back. Mr. Sullivan is one of our regulars. He’s sweet as pie, and about as decisive as a weather vane in a tornado. I grab a menu and make my way toward him, already mentally preparing for the marathon of indecision that lies ahead.
“Mr. Sullivan,” I greet him, setting down the menu. “Good to see you today. How are things?”
“Adam, my boy!” His voice carries across the half-empty dining room, drawing a few glances from the lunch crowd. “Sit down, sit down. Just for a minute.” He gestures at the bench across from him, eyes twinkling behind wire-rimmed glasses. “I saw a most remarkable bird this morning. Right in my backyard.Blue as the sky with a crest like a king’s crown. Must have been passing through. I don’t think we get many of those around here.”
I slide into the seat, knowing from experience that Mr. Sullivan’s stories are the price of admission before any actual ordering can begin. “A blue jay, maybe?”
“No, no.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Bigger than that. More majestic. Though maybe it was a jay. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be.” He taps his glasses. “Had these updated last month and still can’t see worth a darn.”
I nod sympathetically. “Can I get you something to drink while you look over the menu?”
“Coffee, black as midnight,” he says decisively, then immediately reconsiders. “No, wait. Is it too late for coffee? What time is it? Maybe just water. Or maybe an iced tea? My Ellie was particularly fond of iced tea.”
“We can get you an iced tea,” I confirm, making a note. “And it’s never too late for coffee if that’s what you’re in the mood for.”
“Let’s do both,” he decides with a firm nod. “Coffee and tea. I’ll see which strikes my fancy when they arrive.” He opens the menu, squinting at it through his glasses. “Now, what looks good today?”
I leave him to contemplate the menu, which I know he’ll read through completely at least three times, despite having ordered from it hundreds of times before. It’s quiet right now; the lunch rush is mostly over, and the dinner crowd won’t start trickling in for another few hours. I get Mr. Sullivan’s drinks and deliver them to his table, where he’s still frowning at the menu.
“Decided yet?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“I’m thinking the patty melt,” he says, then immediately shakes his head. “No, that’s too heavy for lunch. Maybe the club sandwich? Do you still make it with good turkey, not the processed stuff?”
“We do,” I confirm. “House-roasted turkey breast, just like always.”
“Good, good.” He nods, then takes a sip of his coffee, making a face. “Bit strong today. Let me try that tea.” He sips the tea and smiles. “That’s nice. My Ellie loved tea. Did I ever tell you about how we met? It was at a dance hall in 1962. She was wearing a blue dress that matched her eyes, and I knew the moment I saw her that I’d marry that girl.”
I’ve heard this story at least a dozen times, but I smile and nod as if it’s the first. “She sounds wonderful.”
“She was,” he agrees, a wistful smile crossing his face. “Best thing that ever happened to me. Forty-seven years we had together.” He looks down at the menu again. “I think I’ll have the soup and salad combo. What’s the soup of the day?”
“Barley beef,” I tell him.
His face falls. “Oh. Ellie never cared for barley. Said it reminded her of the porridge her grandmother used to make her eat. What else do you recommend?”
“The club sandwich is always good,” I remind him. “Or the BLT. You seemed to really enjoy it the last time you were in. And Charlene picked up some excellent tomatoes this morning.”
“BLT,” he repeats, brightening. “Now that sounds perfect. Light, but satisfying. I’ll have that with fries. No, wait. The salt isn’t good for my blood pressure. Maybe the side salad instead?”
“Side salad it is,” I say, jotting it down. “Dressing?”
He drums his fingers on the table, considering this as if it’s a life-altering decision. “What are my options again?”
“Ranch, poppyseed vinaigrette, red-wine vinaigrette, bleu cheese, or green goddess,” I recite.
“Red-wine vinaigrette,” he says with certainty. “No, wait. Ranch. No, the vinaigrette. That’s healthier, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I agree, managing to keep the amusement out of my voice.
“Then vinaigrette it is.” He closes the menu with a satisfied nod, handing it back to me. “And Adam, could you ask Peter to make sure the bacon is extra crispy? I like it when it shatters like glass when you bite it.”
