CHRISTINA BRASWELL HAD already had enough of Monday, but it was only eight o’clock and the breakfast rush was in full swing. Finding her inner peace in the chatter and bustle that filled the combination camp store, marina and no-frills diner at the Otter Lake Campground was impossible.
Her inner peace had always been elusive like that. She focused on the view through the window. Otter Lake gleamed outside. The campground was situated in a quiet cove of the lake, a shadowy forest and the steep rise of Yanu Falls forming a serene landscape.
Which was almost the perfect contrast for the controlled chaos of the busy diner.
“I missed my favorite waitress this weekend,” Woody Butler said as he yanked up his camo ball cap and smoothed down a healthy shock of white hair.
“Your wife steal the keys to the truck again?” Christina flipped over the porcelain coffee cup and poured black coffee to the rim. She was his favorite; Woody would swill coffee for hours and talk her ear off along the way before always leaving the same five-dollar tip.
Typical day ending in Y around here.
If he’d ever caught any of the fish he liked to tell her about, he’d done it before she started working behind the counter.
“Naw, you know better’n that, Chrissy,” he said with a grin. “That wife of mine don’t care what I do, so long’s I stay out of her hair.” He waggled his eyebrows. “That’s why I like to hang out here with you.”
Right. Christina had often wondered what lucky lady had married Woody right after Noah unloaded the ark, but they had discovered the key to long-term marital bliss: lots and lots of space.
Woody spent most of his hours telling waitresses fish stories. All in all, his hobby was harmless.
“You want the usual?” she asked out of habit. The menu was limited here, but the food was good enough to appease the tourists staying at the campground and enough locals from Sweetwater to keep a steady crowd coming through the place.
“Well, now...lemme see.” Woody squinted at the two pages of menu and Christina tilted her head back and rolled her shoulders. Someday she would snap. The menu never changed. He had it memorized. Just about every person through the doors had been here often enough to recite the thing from memory, and still, this “lemme see” moment. There was no doubt in her mind that she was half a step above the world’s worst morning-shift waitress, but now that her best friend had left town and taken Christina’s car with her, this job was critical.
“I’ll have me the pancakes with two eggs, over easy, and crispy bacon.” Woody slapped the plastic-covered menu down as if he couldn’t be prouder of himself for making that difficult decision. “You make sure Monroe gets the bacon crispy now.” He pointed a finger. “I’d hate to leave a bad tip.”
“Yes, Christina, I’ll have the usual. Thank you for asking.” How hard was that to say?
Christina snatched up the menu, plopped it down on the leaning stack at the end of the counter and stuck her head in the window. “Short stack, two over easy, burn the bacon.” The kid manning the griddle waved his spatula. Monroe didn’t say much, but around here, Christina considered it a blessing. Until the rush started, she, Monroe and Luisa barely spoke. Every morning they enjoyed the warm glow of sunrise spreading across the lake. It was the only real perk of the job.
And of all the jobs she’d had, the Otter Lake Campground was her favorite, even with the annoyance and noise customers brought.
“You sure are looking nice today. Real...” Woody paused as he stared up at the ceiling, searching for the right word. Whatever adjective he picked, it was bound to be a doozy. “Swimsuit model–like.”
Christina rubbed the center of her forehead in the effort to soothe the throb that had kicked up. If she thought about what that meant for too long, the throb would spread. He was proud of it and never meant to hurt her, but why couldn’t she ever inspire “first grade teacher–like” or even “girl next door.”
Then she would have blended easily with the good citizens of Sweetwater, Tennessee, something she’d never managed to do.
No one had ever disagreed she was pretty; few had ever called her nice.
When her cell phone rang, Christina pulled it out of her tight jeans pocket and checked the caller ID.
Her best friend. She didn’t want to talk to Leanne. She wanted to shout at Leanne.
Woody leaned forward as if he could read the number across the counter, but Christina turned away and answered the call.
“I’m at work. I can’t talk.” Christina walked down to the quietest corner, where she could