Page 37 of Always Meant for You
I chuckle. “The old Young sisters are pieces of work. An Elverna institution. Now, don’t tell them everyone calls them the old Young sisters. Nobody says it with malice. It just feels like they’ve been old my entire life. But they’re the backbone of this town. Elders, if you will.”
I pause. Christ. I’m having a full-on conversation with a cat.
But that’s the thing about cats. They don’t want much. A warm spot to sleep. A splash of cream now and then. Unlike this town—which wants a miracle—I can make a cat happy.
I pull into the diner’s lot across from the dusty bus depot. The asphalt’s cracked and faded. The old brick building stands like it always has, with sun-warped window frames and a green-and-white striped awning that’s lost most of its fight against the wind. The faded sign still reads “Elverna Diner,” though the paint’s peeled enough to show the metal beneath. I take off my ball cap, rake a hand through my hair, and flatten the mess of unruly strands before heading inside.
“Stay put, Mabel,” I mutter, leaving the windows down.
I scan the diner instinctively, looking for a ghost. An old habit I haven’t been able to shake.
Usually, Margaret’s weaving between tables with a coffeepot in hand, Betty’s stationed behind the register, and Sally’s holding court with customers at the counter, swapping stories or sharing someone’s daily horoscope while straightening theplastic flowers in chipped pink vases. They wear the same tan diner uniforms they’ve had for decades—collars starched, aprons soft from hundreds of washes, orthopedic shoes squeaking on tile. But right now, the sisters are clustered near the coffee maker, heads bowed, shoulders tense.
That kind of break in routine means trouble.
I push open the door. The bell above me chimes, but the old Young sisters stay huddled.
“I can’t believe it,” Margaret says, keeping her voice low.
“Believe what?” I ask, leaning on the counter.
The women spin around wide-eyed.
It takes a hell of a lot to catch the old Young sisters off guard.
“I’m here to pick up something for Mr. Muldowney,” I say, studying the women.
Margaret tilts her chin toward the booths. “It’s over there. Back corner.”
Sally clutches her chest. “I can still barely believe my eyes.”
Betty doesn’t move right away. She peers over Margaret’s shoulder, squinting with sharp interest, her lips pursed.
What on earth has gotten into the sisters?
“Back corner?” I repeat, frowning. I crane my neck, but I can’t see past two burly guys camped out in the front booth.
“Mm-hmm,” Betty hums, giving me her usual reply. That’s about all you ever get out of her. Of the three sisters, she’s the quietest by a mile. But that hawk-eyed stare of hers misses nothing.
I’m ninety-nine percent sure I’m here to pick up a casserole. But in all my years of stopping by the diner, I’ve never gotten a reception this peculiar.
Outside, the squeal of brakes cuts through the low hum of conversation. I glance out the window as one of the buses pulls away, coughing exhaust into the street.
Probably headed back to some big city.
Good riddance.
“Well . . .” Margaret says, eyeing the corner booth.
I follow her gaze. But I still can’t make out what they’re looking at.
Then one of the men slaps the other on the shoulder and steps back. The second grabs his hat, mutters something, and they turn toward the door. Their boots scuff against the tile as they walk off, cutting through the quiet with slow, heavy steps.
The back corner booth comes into view. The air thins. I grip the counter, and my knuckles turn white. The voices, the low clatter, the scent of coffee and casserole drops away.
I don’t breathe. Don’t blink. I can’t even move.
She’s back.
