The waitress—a damned good-looking woman with jet hair, clear skin and a retro fifties’ tight bodice and flared skirt—entered the kitchen, cutting off his view of her.
She had purple eyes. No, to be more accurate, he’d say violet, purple softened with a hint of gray. He’d never seen a color like them.
Or maybe he had. Elizabeth Taylor had purple eyes. As a boy, he used to enjoy watching old movies with his mother, but he’d never seen such an unusual color in the flesh before.
Were they real? Could they be contacts?
His fascination with the woman overcame his pique with his daughter’s incessant, grinding resistance.
Chelsea slumped low in the booth across from him.
Sure, divorce took its toll on kids, but it had been a full year since he and Tiffany had signed the papers, and more than a year and a half since Tiff had said, “I’ve met someone else. I want a divorce,” gutting Sam.
Standing, he sighed. Nineteen to twenty months wasn’t nearly long enough to process betrayal and greed. Tiffany’s, not his.
While his daily mantra ran through his head—success is the best revenge—he hung his hat where the waitress had indicated, then returned to his table, nodding to the old guy two booths away eating meat loaf and mashed potatoes.
The man, ancient and wrinkled, eyed him suspiciously.
This diner and the bar at the end of the street called Honey’s Place were the only eating establishments as far as he could tell.
Guess they were stuck with diner food with corny names. World’s Best Cheeseburger...
The diner could have been picked up and plunked down in any fifties’ town. He was surprised there weren’t Elvis and Chuck Berry songs blaring from jukeboxes.
Deep red leather banquettes framed gray Formica tables. Red-and-white-checked cotton place mats sat at the ready.
The paintings on the wall came as a surprise. He expected nostalgic black-and-white photos but instead saw rustic, wild landscapes. Were the artist and scenery local? He couldn’t deny they were good. He also couldn’t deny the scenery around this little town was spectacular.
“Why can’t we use our own names?” Chelsea picked at her peeling nail polish. He wished she’d quit with the unrelieved black. “Why do we have to pretend to be other people?”
“Shush.” Sam shot a glance around the diner. No one seemed to have heard Chelsea’s remark, thank goodness. “We have to be Sam and Chelsea Michaels so I can determine what’s going on about the rodeo.”
“Why don’t you just ask?”
She’s still so young, he reminded himself, and so naive.
“I don’t trust people to be honest.”
“Maybe you should. Maybe we aren’t all the creeps you think we are.”
He stilled. “You actually believe I think you’re a creep?” he whispered, unable to mask the hurt that coursed through him. Hadn’t he proved his love all of the times in her childhood he’d held her and told her how much he loved her?
She shrugged. Love her or not, he’d come to hate her shrugs as much as her eye rolls. Double for the word duh. And d’oh.
The waitress returned. Black eyeliner tilted up at the corners of her eyes and deep red lipstick emphasized lush lips. She fit right in with the decor. Did she have to dress in that fifties’s fashion?
The style suited her spectacular figure, emphasizing generous hips, a tiny waist and full breasts. The lush proportions worked, reminiscent again of Elizabeth Taylor.
Give your head a shake. For Gramps’s sake, it wasn’t wise to find her attractive. She was one of them. Once he determined how the women resurrecting the local fair were ripping off his grandfather, he would shut them down and move back east.
The sooner he could get back to New York to set up his next business venture, the better.
Careful, his rational, less emotional side cautioned. You need to first determine if they are indeed cheating him. But that one-dollar lease disturbed him.
The waitress put his plate in front of him and then Chelsea’s in front of her. He couldn’t smell onions on Chelsea’s burger, but that meant nothing. There were so many scents in the diner he wasn’t sure he would be able to.
Chelsea peeked under the top of the hamburger bun. A tiny, mean-spirited smile that usually meant trouble formed at one corner of her mouth.
Sam braced himself. Where had his sweet daughter gone and who was this stranger now in possession of her body? Apparently, once a girl turned thirteen, demons took over.
He glanced at the waitress. “You wouldn’t happen to know where the closest exorcist lives, would you?”
Violet smiled—even, white teeth framed by cherry red. “We’re plumb out. We burned the last one at the stake with all of our witches a hundred years back.”
Sam stared. She’d gotten his joke! His ex-wife’s reaction had always been a frown because she hadn’t understood his humor. Chelsea used to get his jokes but had become too cool to laugh or even smile. He’d grown used to their negativity. The waitress’s willingness to play along was pure pleasure. He perked up.
She jerked her chin toward his daughter. “It’s surprising what a good cheeseburger will do to expel demons.”
Chelsea took her time looking over the waitress insolently. Apparently, once she’d become a teenager, she’d lost all of the good manners that had been drummed into her throughout her short childhood.
“You dress funny,” she said with a snicker.
“Chelsea!”
Violet leaned one hand on the table and rested her other on her hip. “So do you.”
Chelsea scowled. “You’re only a waitress. You can’t talk to me like that.”
“When you are rude to me, I can respond in any way I please. If you don’t like it, you can leave. Are you going to eat your meal or should I take it away?”
“I’ll eat.” Sam detected grudging respect in Chelsea’s tone.
The waitress straightened away from the table. “Take the silver spoon out of your mouth first so you don’t choke.”
A grudging smile bloomed on Chelsea’s face.
How did the woman know they had money? To fit in, Sam had dressed down in denim and a plaid shirt, along with cowboy boots and hat.
Chelsea wore black punk. What about them said money? Nothing, as far as he could tell. He had to be more careful. The woman’s intuition disturbed him and he struck out at her.
“I asked you to load her burger with onions.” He hadn’t really wanted the waitress to, but Chelsea had many lessons to learn and Sam had no patience left for teaching them. Every stop on this ill-conceived trip, every mile of highway traveled across country and every single black inch of asphalt navigated had been littered with heartache for both of them. When all roads had steep uphill pitches, all you wanted was to roll backward and give up.
He wished he could turn back time and start over with his daughter.
Violet flipped her violet gaze on Sam. “Do you want her to eat or not?”
“At this point, I don’t much care,” he groused. Tired, hungry and out of patience, he wished he was back home in Manhattan where he belonged.
“Mom says I shouldn’t eat too much,” his child piped up. “She says I’m too fat.”
“You’re