—John Green
Served
I'm sitting at a window booth in The Main Diner watching the passing parade of townsfolk. Somehow it figures this burg has one diner and it's on Main Street.
Small towns are so imaginative...yeah, like never in my experience, but this place is peculiar, I'll give it that much credit.
I think it's the people—they're so different. They look like sophisticated New Yorkers from the 1950's. And no one has a string tie or cowboy hat or looks like a Yahoo.
I don't see any open carry or pick-up trucks with Confederate flags and rifles strapped to the back.
I'm used to Canadian culture where only the police have guns and they're holstered and you don't see them. Anything else, just gives me heartburn.
"You like to people watch, don't you?"
It drifted out of nowhere, a lovely, yet mysterious female voice, warm and mellifluous. I turn to see the owner and my heart stops.
The possessor of the voice is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. She reminds me of a cross between Lois Chiles who played Jordan Baker in The Great Gatsby and Elizabeth Taylor in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.
But her mischievous smile tells me I've stared a moment too long, but I don't care—I could stare all day and not get enough.
"You do talk, don't you Mr. Rowan?"
The fact she knows my name catches me completely off guard.
I gasp in surprise and give a puzzled grin, "How on earth do you know my name?"
"I make it my business to know who's who in Middleton," she purrs.
"You're not a detective, are you?"
"Well, your car is illegally parked—the meter has expired."
"Oh," I mutter, getting to my feet, "I'm so sorry—I didn't have change. Most meters where I live take credit cards."
"That's all right," she chuckles softly, "I put in enough coins to keep you from paying a fine, but now you owe me a coffee."
"Yes, of course! Won't you please join me?"
"Are you trying to bribe an officer of the law?"
I stare at her like deer in headlights.
"Well, if that's the case," she frowns, "at least add some lemon pie to my order."
She smiles demurely at me, immensely enjoying my confusion.
I sit back, speechless, while she gives her coffee and pie order to the waitress.
Then, she turns back to me. "May I ask where you're staying?"
I shrug, "I have no idea—Hardy Ames, my boss, looked after those details."
"So, are you going to sleep on a park bench tonight?"
"No, of course not—he said I had to visit the realty office for a temporary rental."
"Andie Simpson, at your service," she laughs.
"You're a realtor?" I croaked.
"I prefer to call myself a property agent—I am definitely not a police woman, but I do have high standards."
"I can see that," I laugh, and then colour realizing what I just said.
"I am definitely not a high-priced escort either, Mr. Rowan, but I will show you around town and make sure you're satisfied."
I want to sink into the floor. I'm feeling that socially awkward and totally out of my depth.
But on the plus side, she is arresting and the thought of spending time with her would certainly not be a penalty.