Remember The Gift

Untitled Part 1

Copyright 2015 by Fawn Moran

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic, photocopy, and recording, without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

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Sojourn Publishing, 471 West College Av, #314, Santa Rosa, CA 95401.

ISBN-13: 978-1511402897

Book & Cover Design by Fawn Moran, www.fawnmoranblog.com
Cover images courtesy of morguefile.com

Sojourn Publishing
471 West College Av #314
Santa Rosa, CA 95401

For Brandon, who embodies the future, and my adult daughters, Christy and Marakesh, who embody mine

CHAPTER 1

I pulled up next to the pink Olds and checked out the diner. Someone had scrawled The Blue Star Café on its front window with a bar of blue soap. The Blue Star looked well past its sell-by date, but the scent of bacon got me out of my SUV. I hesitated, wondering what culinary fate might lay ahead, until hunger won out.

I stepped inside. It was the first of June and the Christmas lights above the windows were still lit.

"Hello?" I shouted.

A woman in a crisp white apron stepped through the kitchen's swinging doors. She beamed at me over gold-rimmed glasses, offered her newfound customer a grandmotherly smile and waved me in

"Have a seat," she said warmly enough and pointed to an empty booth.

I slid carefully across the torn red vinyl and grinned bravely at all the empty tables. The place was immaculate.

"Got a menu?" I asked, hoping for breakfast sausage and pancakes. Runny eggs, dry toast and a pat of margarine in gold foil were more likely.

"I'm the menu," she said flatly. "Only serve BLTs and eggs. You can have the eggs with a side o' bacon or a piece o' toast, or both."

"How about a BLT?" I asked, amazed at how people stay in business when there was so little business to be had.

"Comin' right up." She slid a stars and stripes place mat and paper napkin in front of me and disappeared into the kitchen. Minutes later, she delivered my order on a serving tray with a flourish lost on me and the empty diner.

"Here you go," she said with a practiced smile and placed a hand sanitizer next to my elbow.

"Excuse my three-day beard and scruffy clothes. Been on the road a while."

"No worries. We get all kinds...my name's Beth, by the way."

Beth looked about seventy. She had a cherubic smile and wily gray hair that defied her attempts to restrain it. She headed for the kitchen and returned with a dozen salt and pepper shakers and filled them in the booth behind mine. I bit into my sandwich. The bacon was crisp and the tomato fresh enough, but then it was hard to mess up a BLT.

The microwave dinged. Maybe that was my coffee. Beth dashed to the kitchen and returned with a limo-sized piece of steaming apple pie topped with a scoop of molten vanilla ice cream. The crust must've been half an inch thick.

"It's on the house. Be careful. Plate's hot. Ice cream's homemade, by the way."

"How'd you know?" I asked, my mouth watering.