Page 15 of Sing Sweet Nightingale

Plastic laminated menus are on the table, and I pick one up and review the options.

“So, what’s good here?”

“Everything. Dottie’s son Jared is the chef here, and he’s amazing. Learned from a world-famous chef in New York. They only use locally sourced ingredients and fresh produce. We very much like the farm-to-fork movement here. There are a few farms just outside town; one raises pigs, cows, and chickens, which get sold at the butcher shop. If you’re a meat eater, they have some amazing steaks and bacon there.”

“I am. I can’t cook them for shit, but I do love to eat them.”

Laughing at my inability to grill meat, Ginger doesn’t even look at the menu, probably having memorized everything already. I read over my options and decide on a classic BLT witha side of tater tots and cherry Italian cream soda. If the bacon is fresh butchered, it’ll be delicious.

I’m also happily surprised to see an entire Italian section with spaghetti, pizza, lasagna, garlic knots, and various salads—not just garden or Caesar. Unfortunately, there is no sushi. I suppose beef and pork are easier to come by in Montana than fresh tuna.

We only wait for a few minutes before a woman comes bursting out of the double kitchen swinging doors, and she looks just like…

“Oh my God, you look just like Twiggy,” I blurt out before the woman even reaches our table to greet us.

“Why thank you,” she says in a sweetly appreciative voice, sashaying to stand at our table's side. “She is my idol,” she preens while patting her short blonde pixie hair.

She’s wearing large cotton candy pink and mint green acrylic daisy earrings that perfectly match her pink mod A-line dress and checkered mint green tights. Blending in perfectly with the décor of the diner.

I wasn’t expecting someone so bright and colorful, but it makes sense now that I think about it. Dottie looks to be in her late thirties but has skin as smooth as a woman a decade younger. I’ll have to make sure to ask Ginger later if she can tell me Dottie’s skincare secret for keeping so young. There’s barely a wrinkle on her face beyond the ones that appear at the corner of her eyes as a result of her wide smile.

“I’m Dottie, and you must be Lottie. Ha-ha, that rhymed. I’ll definitely not be forgetting your name.”

“Can I take your picture?” I ask, completely unable to stop myself. Holding up my Polaroid to show her what I mean.

Most people take selfies on their phones, but I don’t want that. I want one of her to put in my book. Or maybe on the wall in the cabin. I could start a little collage of my time here.

“Why, of course, you can, honey. Here, get my good side.”

She turns and poses in a very Twiggy-esque pose, with big, bold lashes, doe eyes, and a soft, relaxed mouth. I snap the photo, cementing the memory within four white borders.

Dottie slides into the booth next to Ginger across from me, propping her elbows on the table and resting her chin in her hands. She stares at me excitedly.

Desperately, I hope this fashionable woman doesn’t recognize me.

“I hear you’re stayin’ at Hunter’s cabin for a while. Does that mean I’ll be seeing you around town then?”

“Yes. I plan on being here for a few months.”

Concealing my nervousness, I fiddle with the strap of my Polaroid camera under the table, more concerned about meeting people in town now. I had hoped to remain unknown for a time. Blending into the forest and being ignored by most of the townspeople. Apparently, that’s not going to happen, which puts me at risk of being recognized far sooner.

I really hope Dottie listens to disco music to go along with her nineteen-seventies attire. Maybe she won’t know my music or name.

“Well, that sounds wonderful. It’s a great time of year to be visiting.”

“Why’s that?” I ask, curious now if I’ve unintentionally found myself in a destination spot only known by word of mouth.

“Because of the season change. The temperatures are starting to drop, and the leaves will change color soon. Hopefully, you stay long enough to see the first snowfall. It’s breathtaking.”

I let out a breath of relief. A season change I can handle. Not some hidden, well-kept secret music festival. That would be the worst.

“I hope so, too. Living in SoCal, we don’t get much snow, like, ever.”

We all laugh because the thought of snow in southern California is ridiculous. I’ve seen it over the grapevine that runs through the mountains north of LA, but nothing farther south.

Becca rolls up to our table to take our orders. Ginger orders a triple grilled cheese sandwich that I make a mental note to try at some point. Over the next couple of months, I’ll no doubt eat everything on this menu at least once.

It all sounds mouthwatering, especially since I’ve been on a strictly regimented diet for years. But I can’t overload myself with fried food and grease, or I’ll make myself sick. My favorite food is sushi, but it’s about as likely I’ll find sushi in Snowberry as a yeti walking through the front door.

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