November 3
The wait staff at the only restaurant in town that's open for dinner knows me well enough to have a fresh cup of decaf on the table, with cream, when they see my car pull into the driveway. Funny how the ownership of the place has changed more times than I have fingers to count but the help seems to always stay the same and the food never surpasses just plain good, no matter what's on the menu or who the chef is. But as anyone who cooks will tell you, food always tastes better when someone else makes it.
So a couple nights ago, feeling not like cooking or defrosting leftovers, I called Pam and invited her to have supper out. Just after six o'clock I closed up shop and enjoyed a slow stroll up the road to the restaurant.
On my way in, as most area folks do, I grabbed a pair of dry logs from the woodpile as my contribution to that evening's fire. I was setting them beside the stone fireplace that was ablaze good and strong, when a smartly dressed woman at a nearby table asked if I would bring her more sour cream when I was done with the wood. I just answered sure, not wanting to embarrass her.
I fell in step beside Peter, the only waiter in the house, who had just come from the kitchen and was balancing a large tray of appetizers. "The woman at that table is looking for some sour cream," I told him. "I can bring it to her."
"Great. You know where it is?" he asked as he stopped at the coffee machine.
"I can find it." I told him and turned toward the kitchen.
"If you can't, Petria's in there. Ask her."
In the kitchen Petria was with another waitress, a lifer named Helen. Together they were restocking salad bar containers.
"Evening ladies." I said as I walked past. "Just need to get some sour cream."
"Careful Alice or we'll tie an apron to ya." Helen joked but didn't give me a second thought as I hoisted open the heavy silver door of the walk-in refrigerator. I looked around the metal shelves for the small dishes that I would recognize as sour cream.
With the compressor humming inside the large cold compartment I could barely hear Petria and Helen behind me but found myself straining to listen after Helen emphasized how thoroughly convinced she was that Charlie, a local electrician, was in love with Renee, the third grade teacher.
"Nah. They're just friends" Petria disagreed.
"C'mon" quipped Helen. "This past summer he painted the front of her house, stacked a winter's worth of wood, and caught her mice."
"But..." Petria could not respond before Helen interrupted her.
"But nothing. C'mon. Be honest. Don't that sound like love to you?"
Having found the sour cream, I shut the cooler door and returned to the dining room.
"Here you are." I said, placing the small bowl on the table. The woman thanked me and I don't think noticed when I took a seat at a table beside hers.
Pam appeared and slipped into the chair across from me. "Sorry I'm a little late. I ran into Fred Crandall at the gas pump. I swear that man can talk for a day straight about nothing."
"Thought that was his truck I saw parked in your drive last weekend." I told her.
"Yeah, he fixed my porch steps. One wobbled like a teeter-totter. Would have been a real leg-breaker in snow or ice."
"You hire him to fix it?"
"Nope. He just volunteered to do it.
"That was awful nice of him."
"Guess so." she agreed nonchalantly as she spread her napkin in her lap. "I used up the last of my Cortlands and put together a pie for him since he wouldn't take any money for doing it."
I wrapped my fingers around the warm cup of coffee that had magically appeared on the table while I was hunting for the sour cream. I took a sip and wondered, did love always resemble a kind man with a ready hammer or a slice of cheddar atop a warm piece of pie?
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