Page 47 of The Fix-Up

ALI: Are you kidding? This is the biggest deal since the Warrens’ cows got out and managed to make it all the way to town last month.

MAE: How’s it working out?

ELLIE: So far, he hasn’t dismembered me and hidden my body in the freezer.

ALI: That doesn’t seem like his style. Poisoning though? Yeah.

MAE: It is too early in the morning for this.

“You, young lady, have a date.” Ali pointed at me across the counter.

“I do?” I set a plate of the heart-shaped pancakes Jorge always made specially the week of Valentine’s Day in front of her.

“Yes, indeed. This is officially one of your three blind dates so you can’t back out.”

I groaned. “I totally forgot about that. Do I have to go?”

The last date I’d been on had been the day Gil showed up at the front door. Frankly, life had been hectic enough without dealing with my broken man picker.

“You are going. It’s next month so you even have time to get excited about it.” Ali pointed a finger at me. “Give him a chance. He’s my choice, but Mae approved. Fully employed with a very nice benefits package. He has an accent, the cutest dimple, and oh, the dreamiest eyes.”

“I’m sitting right here,” Theo, Ali’s husband, said. “You know that, right?”

Ali’s face split into a grin. “Nobody’s as dreamy as you.”

“That’s better.” Theo winked. Ali leaned in and whispered something in his ear that I couldn’t make out, but I swore I heard something about going on a “treasure hunt” and “x marks the spot.” Whatever that meant made Theo blush. And then they were kissing. Right there at the counter at the Sit-n-Eat. That was my cue to walk away.

Iris passed behind me. “Ugh, they’re insufferable.”

“I think you mean inseparable,” I said.

“Yeah, that too,” she said over her shoulder. “Love sucks.”

I made a mental note to ask Mae what exactly was going on between Iris and Aidan. Whatever it was sure wasn’t improving Iris’s attitude. She’d been a dark cloud the last couple of weeks, more than usual at least, and we’d had three customer complaints (which I filed in the garbage can). Iris played the tough girl but deep inside, she was all gooey marshmallow.

She’d slice me into a million pieces if she knew I even thought that about her.

A lull between breakfast and lunch hit around ten. I was working on refilling condiments, a job I detested for its tediousness, and Iris was handling the one table of customers, when Gil walked in. Instead of acknowledging me, he looked around the place, his gaze stopping briefly on a small grouping of photos that hung to the right of the cash register. After a moment of hesitation, he walked over and inspected them.

The photos featured the previous owners of the Sit-n-Eat, all from the Holder family. It had started in the nineteen thirties with Ollie’s grandfather, then it was passed to his son, Ollie’s father, and on to Ollie. Ollie was the last Holder anyone knew of. But there stood Ollie’s grandson, staring at those photos with an unholy focus, like he was trying to will the people in those pictures to come to life. I wondered what he’d ask them if he could. I suspected there would be yelling and angry words.

But Ollie, what would Ollie say?

I walked to stand beside him and pointed to one of the photos. “That’s Ollie in his twenties with his dad, Simon, and his mom, Margaret.” The man next to a young Ollie was about Ollie’s height with a big, wide smile and an arm around the shoulders of a tiny woman with wispy dark hair. “And that”—I pointed to the next photo—“is Sinclair Holder. He started the Sit-n-Eat back in the day.”

The photo of Sinclair was black and white, but he looked to be in his seventies and a carbon copy of Ollie around the same age. My gaze drifted from the photos to Gil. “You must take after your mom’s side of the family.”

He laughed without humor. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Except the eyebrows. That is unfortunate.” The heat from his glare smacked me in the face; I grinned. “So, what brings you here?”

“I own half of this place. I should do half the work, right?”

I gave his creased khakis and blue button-down a once-over and smirked. “Alright, then. I know you don’t cook.”

“I know how to make oatmeal.”

“Nobody wants that.” I tapped my chin with a finger. “What about taking orders? Ever been on a waitstaff?”

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