Someone for Everybody Pt. 01

Apparently not hearing her, her flipped open a menu and scanned it quickly. "I hear everything is great here, so this may take a while,"

"Well, while you are deciding, I have to keep busy. I'll be back in a minute," she said, putting a small glass of ice water and some paper napkin-wrapped utensils in front of him, and hurrying off.

After delivering six breakfasts and taking six more orders, Lillian made it back to the sheriff's seat by the register, and flipped out her order pad again. "What will it be sheriff?"

"Three eggs, scrambled; two sausage patties; a small order of home fries; a large OJ, and a coffee, black, no sugar."

She nodded, checking off the items with a flourish. She appreciated a customer who used her time economically during the rush and didn't dither over menu choices. "Be right up." She allowed herself a token friendly smile, but hurried off when he started to beam in return. The last thing she wanted to do was encourage him.

Five minutes later she slid the plates onto the counter in front of him, and set down the ketchup. He looked up at her in horror, causing her to take a step back. "What's the matter?"

"Put ketchup on a work of art like this? I'd rather dye my hair pink." Then he broke out a boyish grin that seriously threatened to penetrate her forced nonchalance.

"Are you going to pull my leg like this every morning?" she shot back defensively.

He picked up his utensils and neatly sliced up a sausage patty. "If I pull the leg hard enough, does the rest of you come with it?"

At a loss for words, Lillian shook her head, but before she could think of a suitably crushing retort, she noted Doug in his booth, smirking like a Fraternity brother told to guard a door during homecoming behind which legs - and other things - were being pulled. Lillian didn't need a mirror to know what color her cheeks were. "Pull too hard and I'll smack that hand with a ladle." Before he could respond, she swooped away to check everyone's water.

The next ten minutes Lillian used every excuse to stay away from the register, and dropped off the sheriff's check when he turned to greet Johan Crowley, the Funeral Director, as he came in.

The sheriff said to her back, "Have a good day, Lil."

"You, too, Cameron," Lillian responded, rolling her eyes at the wall. The bell on the door jingled, and she counted to ten before turning around. The patrol car was just backing out of its parking spot. Shaking her head slightly she bussed the counter, noting automatically that he was a neat eater, that he had considerately stacked his dishes, and that he wasn't cheap - neither leaving a miserly tip, nor a cheesy extravagant one trying to buy favor. Then she did a double-take, staring at the side of the register.

There was a tiny glass vase with a single, small, pink carnation.

She looked around, wondering where it had come from. In the first booth by the door, Mrs. Gallagher caught Lillian's eye and startled her by giggling like a little girl.

"Did you put this here, Mrs. Gallagher?"

Genevieve Gallagher's wrinkled face actually blushed, "Certainly not, dear."

"Did the sheriff leave it?" Lillian asked suspiciously.

"I didn't see anything, dear. Is my Belgian waffle ready?"

"What? Oh, I'll check." With a quick glare at the innocent little blossom, Lillian went into the kitchen.

The sheriff strode into the diner at 12:15, and sang out quite cheerfully, "Hi, Lil. Day looks good," as he folded his long legs under the counter at the stool right next to the register.

"That's Lillian - Cameron."

"That's Cam, Lil," he volleyed the conversation cheerfully, picking up a menu.

After studying his expression for a moment she prompted him grudgingly, "Thanks for the flower."

He folded the menu with a flourish and looked at her with an obviously theatrical expression of puzzlement. "What flower?" His tone was so perfectly innocent that Lillian could have closed her eyes and seen a little boy sitting there with wide, teary eyes - and a mouth smeared with the remnants of forbidden chocolate cake.

"That one," she said, pointing to the tiny glass vase by the register less than an arm's length from his stool.

He looked at it, and she could barely detect the twitch of a smile. "That? I assumed that was from a secret admirer." Then his boyish expression went through puberty very rapidly and he grinned and raised an eyebrow. "After all, the most beautiful woman in Hollister probably has the beaus lined up and taking numbers."

Freezing, Lillian stared at him. She could feel her face glowing like sunburn on a merciless desert. Emotions - anger, regret, frustration - warred inside her. The deep breath rattled in her throat and throbbed painfully in her chest. She managed not to scream at him, some tiny fragment of rationality was yelling that throwing something at the sheriff in broad daylight in public would make her the subject of town gossip for the next month, and possibly get her arrested. The expression on his face shouted that he was bracing himself for anything, and that he hadn't expected the intensity of her body language. The little yell in the back of her mind hurried to add that he wasn't from here, that he didn't know what she'd been through, and was probably just trying to make time for a free dessert or something typically police.

Swallowing hard with a visible gulp she managed to say in a voice which wasn't too shaky, "Don't say things like that. I'll will have Adele take your order in a minute." Having managed to force that declaration out in a non-hysterical tone, Lillian turned, her back stiff enough to iron curtains on, and fled into the kitchen.

Lillian took refuge in her tiny office and closed the door before the tears came. She had been. She had been the most beautiful girl in Hollister. She had been Miss Strawberry Festival. She had gotten to the state pageant finals. She had been Homecoming Queen. At 27 she had been the last unmarried girl from her graduating class in high school. She'd had the three most handsome guys in the county nearly at blows over her, and had enjoyed every second of the attention lavished on her. And then it had happened; a lousy decision which had shattered her life like a cannon shell through a picture window. John, Colin and Sean had melted away like yesterday's ice cubes, and she bought the diner from her great aunt and hid here. It was safe and hers and no one bothered her - until he came along.

She managed to staunch the tears and hastily repaired her makeup, and went back out into her diner, pointedly ignoring the sheriff as much as possible.

From that day Lillian found that her comfortable, well-worn routine had been replaced by the sheriff's new routine. He would enter the diner promptly at 6:15 every morning, the old regulars would greet him and he would greet them as he sat down. And he would invariably sit at the counter on the stool right next to the cash register, making his presence in her life as unavoidable as it was unwelcome. He continued to call her, Lil, which was a maddening irritation as minor as it was annoying, like an itch on her back which was just out of reach of a good scratch no matter what she did. Her only revenge was seeing him wince slightly whenever she called him, Cameron; which she did as often as she could.

During the course of his meal, he would find some way to compliment her; though he stayed away from the word 'beautiful,' going so far as to remark how efficient she was one morning. He would also make some casual remark about some town event, and equally casually ask her if she would like to accompany him to it. Lillian would parry the compliment as gracefully as possible, and then politely and firmly decline the date.

And she avoided, at all costs, touching him. She had learned that quickly. On his second morning in the diner, he had handed her the money for his meal, and she had taken it without thinking. His fingers had grazed hers and the tremor had run up her arm like an electric shock and then had dived into her heart like a wildfire before a gale. Only the matching throbbing ache in her chest kept her focused enough to keep from dropping the coffee pot in her other hand. Her reaction startled the sheriff, and he had raised an eyebrow when she had carefully slid the change across the counter; but at least he hadn't commented.

Even more maddening was the flower. Every morning, sometime between the sheriff entering the diner and his leaving, the flower would be changed out. Each morning was different; a violet, a daisy, a sweetheart rose, a sprig of forsythia - something which made it obvious that the flower had been changed.

And she could never catch him making the change, nor see where he hid it before he made the change. One morning she went so far as to walk all the way around him, pretending to check the door, the sign in the window, the bulletin board on the wall, and the back of the register, to see if he was keeping anything on his back, or tucked in his belt or shoe, even. He had blithely ignored the inspection and eaten his breakfast, and, in the three seconds it had taken her to get back behind the counter, the flower was different.

And every morning, just after the door closed behind the sheriff, her customers would chuckle and not look her in the eye for the next fifteen minutes. When she tried asking someone about the flower, they would look at her and say something inane like, "What flower?" Usually they were grinning like school kids being asked to rat out their best friend in a school prank.

CHAPTER 3 -- May I cut in?

After three weeks she realized that the diner was a lot more crowded between 6:00 and 7:00 am, and between 12:00 and 1:00, than it had been before, and on occasion people would have to wait to be seated. Her annoyance at the sheriff was beginning to get inflamed as the entire town seemed to view their repartee as a spectator sport.

That afternoon the sheriff had come in at 12:30 instead of 12:15, though by 12:25 at least three people had mentioned to Lillian that he had had to take care of a tandem truck which had gotten off the wrong exit of the Interstate and stopped just a few yards short of an overpass bridge that was at least a foot too low for it. He smiled as usual, called her 'Lil' as usual, and winced only slightly when she called him 'Cameron' - as usual. He ordered a turkey club, but before Lillian could walk away he added, "And I would like some information on the side." He smiled and his eyes gathered hers up again, effortlessly. Lillian, surprised and wary, noted sourly that his eyes should be registered weapons, as least as far as women were concerned.

"The pavilion in the town park is huge. Where did it come from?"

Unsure as to where he might be going, Lillian slid the order slip onto Judy's in-tray and turned back. Her eyes swept the rest of the customers. No one was clamoring for anything and Adele had the floor under control, so she had a minute or two for pleasantries. "There was a couple, the Kremers, who retired to the town about 40 years ago, and loved it here. Nobody suspected the size of the nest egg they retired with until they passed away and left a lot of money for the town to build that pavilion in the park. People can book it for events at the town hall."

Lillian nodded. "More than enough for the junior/senior prom, or the biggest anniversary party, or the occasional wedding. I cater about half the events."

"There are posters up about an event tonight."

Lillian fought a smirk. She knew where this was going now, and she was going to be ready with her, 'No.' Feeling one up, she smiled back. "Every second Friday of June, July, August and September there's a town dance, rain or shine." When he wasn't being... intrusive... he was quite easy to talk to; and, unlike most guys, paid attention during a conversation. She reminded herself he was a police officer and a guy, and she now knew where it was going, and that anything she said might be used against her; so she was being very careful of what she said.

"You cater those?"

"No," she responded, checking again to make sure that she had no impatient customers. She was slightly irked that the nearest customers were ignoring their conversation attentively. "Everyone brings something to share; sort of a potluck. But I organize the refreshment table." He smiled. Here it comes, she thought.

"Order is up," he said, pointing to the counter behind her.

"What? Oh." Distracted, Lillian turned to pick his order off the counter below the kitchen window. When she turned back, she matched the sheriff's smile with an exasperated frown. "Maybe I'll see you there tonight," he said, casually, as he started to eat the sandwich.

Lillian kept a wary eye on the sheriff through lunch, wondering when he was going to ask her to the dance, or at least ask her for a dance. But he ate quietly, thanked her politely, paid and tipped exactly as usual, and left without a single proposition. For some obscure reason she felt vaguely -- disappointed.

Lillian went to the dance in the park just like she always did, because that was what everyone did; everyone who wasn't bedridden or terminally angry with someone else sure to be there. Someone had to look after the refreshments, and it was the perfect opportunity to make connections for catering jobs. Todd Henderson was sure to be there. He owned the Pub on the Square, the only restaurant in the town, open for dinner only. So, secure with her business case, she parked her truck in the municipal lot and Judy helped her carry the makings of the punch over to the refreshment table. She hugged her father, the high school math teacher, and mixed the punch and put in the sherbet scoops to keep it cool. The townsfolk wandered over, at first a trickle, then a flood.

Each family brought an offering for the table; Todd brought a bowl of chocolate-covered pretzels; Evan, the owner of the Iron Plow Bar, put out a bowl of honey roasted peanuts next to the stand where he sold cold beer at a dollar a cup; Colleen Enders brought a basket of what she called 'honey sticks,' which would be empty before the band even started; and Sally would bring fresh fruit and a yogurt dip, always forgetting the ice to keep it cold - though Lillian always remembered. Three years ago, the venerable and revered Mrs. Sturtevant, keeper of the table since time out of mind, had, without warning or fanfare, stood aside and told Lillian to take over. It had been her responsibility ever since. Not that Lillian complained; it got her out of the house and around people and if she chatted enough she could look at all of the dancing couples with no more than wistful regret. As each bowl and plate of food was presented to her, she placed it on the table.

Looking up, she saw the sheriff. Even without a uniform he was easy to recognize, standing well above the crowd, and looking slightly uncomfortable in khaki slacks and an open neck shirt. Casually, and as unobtrusively as possible, she turned her back and rearranged the bowls slightly and considered her handiwork, wondering if he had brought anything, or if he...

The massive hand with the long, strong fingers laid a plate on the table beside her. It was mounded with a neatly stacked pile of butterscotch swirl cookie bars; her favorite. Lillian successfully fought off an urge to try the confections, making her reaching hand pick up the plate instead and move it down the table. "These go with the desserts," she managed to say brusquely.

"I'll remember that," he chuckled. "It's nice to see you someplace other than the diner or hurtling down the street in your truck."

Waiting for him to ask her for a dance, she had a polite but definite, 'No,' all ready to fend off the request; then she realized that he had already moved away from the table. She turned, surprised, and saw him being maneuvered through the crowd for introductions by Jodi Belson. Annoyance declared war on relief and began a full scale battle in her heart. She was relieved he hadn't asked her for a dance, really, she was; but she was also disappointed he hadn't given her the chance to turn him down. It felt good to be asked, even if...

"Going to dance with the sheriff tonight?" Gina asked, stepping up beside Lillian, while tapping at her microphone and adjusting her singer's costume - a long pale green skirt with a rough-spun, cream-colored peasant blouse. Gina was the soloist for the community band. She had a pleasant voice which got everyone moving, but most entertaining for the crowd were her alternately outrageous flirtations and horrific putdowns she lavished on the band's percussionist - her husband of eleven years.

Starting, Lillian realized she had been staring after the sheriff like a lovelorn puppy, and hurriedly turned to give Gina a half-hearted scowl. "I don't want to encourage him. He flirts enough when he eats at the diner as it is."

"Tell me you don't enjoy the flirting," Gina murmured back, with just a trace of wry sarcasm, "and I might even believe you," then she added, "after more than a few beers, anyway."

Groping for a retort, and acutely conscious of her romantic shortcomings, Lillian barely managed to clear her throat before she noticed Sonya nearly tackle the sheriff in the milling crowd, and drag him toward her family. Her throat tightened some more around a sudden lump.

"Well," Gina continued, seemingly unaware of the conflicting emotions exploding inside her friend like the finale of a holiday fireworks display. "You may be right. Dancing with him, here, tonight, is too public. Though if you showed him what a terrible dancer you are, he might just lose interest."

Outraged, Lillian tore her eyes away from Cameron being introduced to Sonya's remaining extended family across the pavilion. The look of exasperation on Gina's face stopped her long enough for Gina to add, "Maybe if you went out with him, quietly, privately, just as friends, you could have a little talk, explain things to him, and send him on his way."

Having a vivid flashback of the first time they had met, and then a flashing series of memories of his smiles and flirtations, she drew herself up indignantly and said quietly, "A man like Cameron isn't looking for a quiet, platonic friendship; he's looking for a girlfriend... or a wife. And I've had enough of being hurt; one date would be one too many. I won't do that to myself."

"Oh, its a first name basis now, "Gina observed, infuriating Lillian further. "And I thought he preferred 'Cam' or 'sheriff'." Before her friend could protest the unfairness of the daily name duel, Gina smiled brightly and said, "I'm on. See you at the break."

Within minutes the band was in action and Gina was in full voice. The wall flowers gravitated to the tables along the sides to eat and drink and make merry conversation. The volume of the entertainment was perfect; loud enough to reach clearly to every corner of the pavilion, but not so loud that conversation was a frustration. The dancers moved as the spirit took them on the large open floor before the stage. The songs and the music spanned a century or more, and there was a great generational migration as different age groups claimed the floor to celebrate familiar tunes and attempt to recapture memories. After an hour, the band gave Gina a short break and was exploring 40's Swing. Not that she was watching, but Lillian noticed that the sheriff wasn't dancing much, and that only to be polite. At least, that was how it looked to her. Wondering when - if - he was going to ask her to dance, she kept busy and made sure that....

"You wouldn't happen to have a dance to spare for your old Dad, now would you?"

She turned and smiled skeptically. He looked like a shy boy at a school dance, an illusion only slightly compromised by his rapidly thinning grey hair. "You haven't danced with me since the Father and Daughter dance in my junior year at high school."