“Here you are,” Dorothy said, setting several plates in front of him.
Walter’s breath caught. A steaming bowl held barley soup with bits of carrots. A pile of well-stuffed pierogi gleamed on an oversized dish, while a dollop of beet salad with horseradish provided a splash of brightness. Two thick slices of rye bread filled a small plate to the side. “Wh-what?” he stammered.
“The special,” replied Dorothy with a smile.
He blinked hard several times, half expecting the food to fade like a mirage. But when his vision cleared, the meal remained, smelling even better than he’d remembered.
“Is something wrong?” Dorothy asked.
“I…. No. It’s only…. My babcia used to make these things for me.” His mother’s mother, Magda Sokolowksy, had emigrated from Poland when she was a young woman. She used to pinch his cheeks and tell him he was too skinny, and she’d died while he was overseas.
“I hope ours are almost as good as hers,” Dorothy said before sailing away.
He lifted his soup spoon for a first, careful taste. Oh God. It was as good as hers. He remembered sitting at her kitchen table—he was so small, he had to perch on phone books—and nibbling on cinnamon cookies as he watched her bustle around the crowded little space. She’d listen to him prattle on endlessly about school or the last movie he’d seen, and she’d refill his milk glass and call him robaczku—little bug.
Almost before he knew it, and still awash in memories of his grandmother, Walter ate everything in front of him.
Dorothy beamed when she came to clear the table. “Everything was good?”
“Wonderful. Are… are you Polish?” He didn’t think her accent sounded like his grandmother’s.
She laughed kindly. “No. I just like to, well, collect recipes. Now, how about a nice slice of loganberry pie?”
He’d already eaten far too much, but he didn’t want to leave yet. This was such a good place. Besides, he had no idea where to go next. “I’d like that,” he told her.
She brought him an enormous slab with a huge scoop of ice cream melting on top. When he started to protest over the cup of coffee she’d set down, she shook her head. “Decaffeinated,” she said. He couldn’t refuse that.
He was still lingering over a refill an hour later. Night had fallen, and several more customers now sat in the café. They all seemed to know one another, and they ate a bewildering array of foods, but although they stared at Walter, he didn’t sense hostility.
Dorothy came to the table. “More coffee?” she asked.
He sighed. “I guess you probably want me to clear out, huh?”
She flapped a hand. “You stay as long as you want.”
“Can you recommend a hotel nearby? Someplace not too expensive.” He’d spent a few weeks working at the paper mill a couple hours away in Albany, so he had a little cash, but not much. And who knew when he’d earn more, especially now that his inability to tolerate the ocean meant he had to abandon his plan to find a job at a lumber mill down the coast.
“Well, there’s the Ester Lee in Taft. It’s a bit of a drive from here, but the ocean views are lovely.”
He winced. “I, uh, don’t really like the ocean.”
She didn’t laugh at him or act like he was a lunatic, which he appreciated. Instead, she patted his shoulder. “Wait.”
Walter didn’t know what he was waiting for, but he remained in his comfortable seat by the window, sipping the cooling remains of his coffee and toying with the little vase of flowers. He startled when the man from the motor court smiled and waved from the other side of the glass. A few seconds later, the man was inside, taking a seat opposite Walter.
“Martin Wright,” he said, holding out his hand.
Martin’s grip was firm and uncallused and perhaps lingered a moment longer than the norm. “Walter Clark.”
God, Martin was gorgeous. Thick eyelashes framed the palest blue eyes Walter had ever seen. A long, narrow nose. Lush lips. A cleft chin. It was hard to gauge Martin’s age—at first glance, he’d seemed close to Walter’s thirty. But his eyes were older somehow, much like Walter thought his own must be. Maybe Martin had been a soldier too.
Walter did his best to act normal. “Thanks for the dinner suggestion,” he said.
When Martin smiled, he suddenly looked like a teenager. He could have been mistaken for an angel. “You had the special?’
“Yeah. I didn’t think I’d ever eat those things again. At least, not like my babcia used to make them.”
For some reason, Martin seemed as satisfied as if he’d conjured the wonderful meal himself. “Dorothy says you’re looking for a hotel but you don’t care for the ocean. You’re not a tourist?”
“No,” Walter replied, not wanting to share his story, even with a handsome stranger.
“I have a room available next door.” Martin gestured toward the motor court.
“The sign says no vacancy.”
“I’m just selective in who I rent to.”
“That’s a hell of a way to run a business,” Walter said, scowling.
Martin simply shrugged.
It was probably some kind of a swindle. But Walter was sleepy after the huge meal and weary after all his travels, and he couldn’t wrap his brain around what Martin might want from him. Hell, whatever Martin did want, let him have it. It wasn’t as if Walter had much to lose—a little money, a battered jalopy, a life going nowhere.
“Sounds good,” Walter finally said.
While Martin returned to the motor court, presumably to ready a room, Walter paid for his meal. It cost less than he expected, and as he walked to his car, it occurred to him that he hadn’t seen money change hands with any of the other customers. Dorothy hadn’t gone near the cash register until she gave Walter his change. Maybe the café worked on credit for locals. Unsound business practices might be a local tradition. Walter’s father had worked his way from the poverty of the Depression to a thriving construction business. He would heartily disapprove.
Walter retrieved his military-issue duffel bag from the trunk of the Ford. It brought back far too many unsettling memories, yet when he’d packed his things in Chicago, he’d chosen the duffel instead of a suitcase. He didn’t know why.
Martin watched from the motor court office as Walter crunched across the gravel. His light eyebrows were drawn together in a slight frown that eased as Walter drew closer. “I’m giving you unit three,” Martin said, dangling a key from one finger. “It’s the best cabin.”
“Thanks.” They hadn’t discussed costs, but Walter wasn’t in the mood for caution. He wanted… well, very surprisingly, not a stiff drink. Over the past few years, he’d always wanted that, but this evening the need was light on his shoulders. Which was good, considering Kiteeshaa didn’t appear to have a bar. No, what he wanted now was a quiet room, a comfortable bed, and a night of oblivion unhaunted by nightmares.
Each of the motor court units was a tiny white-shingled building with a red roof. Red posts framed the minuscule front porches, but the porch on number three was a bit larger than the others—just big enough for a single patio chair. Martin unlocked the door and stood aside so Walter could enter.