Counting on Starlight (20 page)

“Coffee?” The pert server, her name tag reading Suzie, wore a simple navy blue polo shirt over black pants.

“Yes, please. Ice water, too.”

“Do you know what you'd like to order?”

He smiled at the twang in her voice. “I need a few minutes.”

“Sure enough. I'll be right back.” She turned on her heel and sashayed off.

Rick looked back down at the menu in simple black-and-white. He'd start with the pork barbecue sandwich, Kansas City style, or so the menu proclaimed. “Cleo's special recipe,” it also said. A side order of sweet potato fries would go nicely, at a dollar more instead of regular steak fries—hand-cut.

Suzie returned with his coffee in a simple brown ceramic mug, the ice water in an opaque plastic glass. “You decided?”

“The Kansas City pork barbecue sandwich and a side of sweet potato fries, to start.”

She wrote it down. “To start, huh?”

“I brought my appetite.” He smiled at her.

She giggled. “Good thing. This place is the best. I'll go put this right in.”

Off she went toward the kitchen, pulling a ticket off her order pad.

So Tamarind's place wasn't electronic. Not a good way to track costs and sales history. She'd have to be extra careful with her budget. Not having a good tracking system could cost her thousands. If things went well between them, maybe he'd convince her to upgrade. That's if things went well, of course. Rick took a sip of the coffee. Not bad.

He studied the dining room, and his gaze connected with an older woman at a booth diagonally across the room from him. Her red hair was blown into a style his mother would love. Lydia Mantovani had hers set and styled every week, and was probably about this lady's age. The redhead's eyes narrowed, ever so slightly. Then she glanced at the older, balding gentleman sitting across from her and started talking.

Tamarind had told him once that where she lived in Texas was different than most Texas towns. Close to the Fort Hood military base, Starlight and its neighboring towns drew people from all over the world. They were used to strangers. So what was with this lady's expression, if that were true?

Never mind. He opened his notepad and starting making notes about the menu. For one thing, Tamarind had thirty—no, thirty-five—lunch and supper items. Rick forced himself to quit thinking about ways to “fix” Tamarind's restaurant and on his own reasons for being here. He looked at his phone. Ten minutes now since the server had left with his order. A couple entered the restaurant and did as he'd done a few moments ago, scanning the room for a free spot.

At least three tables had been vacated since he'd entered, and they still held plates, silverware, cups, and soiled napkins. His server emerged from another area of the restaurant, lugging a gray plastic tub. She started clearing the closest table.

Rick took that to mean his meal wasn't up yet. He studied the well-used vinyl booths, the sturdy yet old tile floor. The walls were a cheerful shade of terracotta. Prints from the Texas countryside alternated with vintage kitchen utensils on the walls.

His server disappeared with the full bucket of dishes after wiping down the now-empty tables. Rick glanced across the dining room again. The redhead was eyeballing him again. This time, the man sharing her booth glanced in his direction.

Did they know him, somehow? He couldn't imagine how.

Here came the server, carrying a simple melamine plate that held Rick's sandwich and fries. “Sorry about the wait. We're a little shorthanded this morning.” She set the plate in front of him and placed the paper ticket face down at the edge of the table. .

“No problem.” Rick's mouth watered as he inhaled aroma arising from the fresh pulled pork sandwich.

“Need any hot sauce?”

He shook his head. “This is fine. But hold on. While I've got you here, I'd like half an order of your baby back ribs, a quarter-pound of your slow-smoked beef brisket.”

Her eyes widened, and she started a new ticket. “All righty.” She left him to take his first bite.

Rick opened his mouth and chomped down on the pork sandwich. Tender, meaty. The pork's texture was soft enough that it melted, but not mushy. He let the spices and sauce slide across his palate. Tangy, spicy. Cleo's specialty, huh? That would be Tamarind's dad, a towering wall of an African American, graying hair and a booming voice that reminded Rick of the actor Michael Clark Duncan. He'd met Cleo Brown, once. Tried not to squirm like a kid when they'd shaken hands at a barbecue competition somewhere in East Texas.

He should have ordered all this food to go, so he could sample and taste and take notes in the privacy of his own duplex apartment. He could have sworn there was cinnamon in the sauce. Or was that pungent spice cloves instead? Rick wrote
Cloves?
on his notepad.