Page 35 of The Spite Date (Small Town Sisterhood #1)

“Then I shall launch a campaign to have you reinstated. Thus far, all of my efforts to help you have been passive at best. Today begins a new strategy. Active endorsement and participation.” I sense a presence, and I turn to find a woman gaping at me from the service window.

“Hello, madame. How many burgers would you like today?”

“Are you Peter Jones?” she asks, her gaze also dipping to my torso.

“Only on television. The burgers here are quite tasty. My favorite in the States, in fact. How many for you today?”

“Does it come with an autograph?”

“Certainly, madame.”

“One, please.”

“Only one? There’s no one else in your life who would appreciate the world’s best burger? And I can vouch for the chips—sorry, sorry, fries —as well.”

She bites her lip and stares at my chest, completely oblivious to the way I’m also using my accent against her.

I slide a look at Bea, who’s glaring at the customer, which makes me smile broader.

“Two orders?” I ask the woman. “Or three? Coworkers? Friends who need a good burger?”

“Simon—” Bea starts, but she’s cut off as the woman blurts, “Two. Two burgers and fries.”

“Certainly, madame. And make sure to tip your cook well. She’s adopted one too many kittens, and one has special needs.”

“ Simon ,” Bea hisses.

I ignore her and hold the tablet out the window for the customer to pay for two burger baskets. “Do tell your friends that I shall be here all day.”

She nods at my chest.

Bea shoves an apron at me. “Two burgers and fries, coming right up,” she says. “And when the kids are turned loose for lunch, you’re putting your shirt on.”

“Why must you be so prudish about bodies? They’re natural.”

“Yours could cause car accidents,” the customer says.

“Why, thank you. Though I can hardly take credit. Most of this is genetics.”

“I did my dissertation on your mother’s artwork,” she says.

Well.

This has certainly taken an unpleasant turn.

Must my mother have been famous first in her own right? “How lovely.”

I wave at three people standing a short distance away from the food vans, seemingly contemplating which one they should pick. “Free autographs with burger purchases,” I call.

“ Simon ,” Bea hisses again from the grill, where several burgers are sizzling happily. “I’m just starting to make headway with being friendly with the rest of the food truck owners. Maybe don’t steal all of the customers?”

Bah. That’s easily enough solved. We shall simply sell out first, and then I’ll assist the rest of the food vendors.

Which I will tell her later. “You’re very particular.”

“I have to live here after you leave.”

“But do you? You could move closer to your middle brother and travel the country with him to explore new places. Or attend university anywhere you wish if that’s necessary for your goals. Or take a gap year and travel the entire world looking for unexpected adventures.”

“Gap years are usually for college-aged kids. I’m a little older than that.”

“It seems far more useful when applied to fully formed adults facing significant life changes though, does it not?” I ask her.

Our customer blinks at me. “You are so right. I should do a gap year when my daughter graduates high school.”

I smile back. “You’re welcome.”

The three people who seemed undecided a moment ago approach the window.

“Do you have any secret menu items today?” one of the two ladies in the bunch asks.

I lean back. “Bea? Secret menu items?”

“Fish on a stick.”

“Truly?”

“Yep. Limited supply. Ten orders total.”

“Brilliant.” I turn back to the window. “I’ll answer your question if you each agree to tell two friends that they need to have lunch in this car park today.”

“ Simon .”

“Are you aware if you chide me with my name three times, I only get worse?” I grin at Bea.

She fights a valiant battle but ultimately loses to the smile blossoming on her face.

“Can we really get autographs with our orders?” the lone gentleman inquires.

“Certainly.”

“Can we get selfies too?”

“With extra orders of fries. Which are truly their own reward, but as I’m here today, I may as well be a side benefit.”

I wait for the Simon to come, but Bea merely slides me an exasperated look.

Still with a smile.

“I told six friends you’re working at the burger bus today,” the third woman announces, holding up her phone.

“Brilliant. Fish and chips for you then?”

They all three order fish and chips, the gentleman with extra chips, so I pose for a photograph with him.

Bea bumps my hip with hers, and I step aside so that she can hand two burger baskets through the window to our first customer.

“My autograph?” she asks me.

Bea hands me a Sharpie, then returns to the grill.

Pinky appears with a stack of my headshots and a scowl aimed my way.

Good man.

He reads situations well.

“Bea’s cooking us a feast this evening,” I tell him.

“Only if I lose,” she calls from the fryer station.

“Thought we were having a quiet writing day,” Pinky says to me.

I smile at him. “Best laid plans, old chap. Bea, could you?—”

Before I can finish my sentence, she’s bumping me out of the way again and holding out a burger basket for Pinky. “I hope he pays you well.”

“Well enough,” Pinky replies.

“Oh, shit, this is your burger place?” the gentleman says to Bea.

She looks him up and down. “Surprise.”

He winces.

The two women with him square up and box him in. “You got a problem with Bea?”

“You know how much she’s done for her family and this community since her parents died?”

“She’s the reason my sons had busing in high school.”

“If it wasn’t for her, the PTA wouldn’t have survived the baked bean scandal.”

“She was also Margot Merriweather-Brown’s inspiration for her generous donation to the mathematics department, which she denies because she never takes credit for herself.”

“But if you want to listen to the rumors the Camilles are pretending they’re not spreading about her since Jake dumped her…”

“Which won’t get you any better roles with the community theater…”

I interrupt them by holding the tablet out of the window for payment.

The older of the two women taps a card to the reader with a very clearly dangerous look slid in the direction of her male companion.

And I continue to adore this town.

More so than even my continued inspiration, I adore my growing role in it.

“It really shouldn’t be about sides,” the gentleman says. “Good food is good food.”

“Does character matter in this debate?” I inquire.

He grimaces once again.

“Character always matters,” the younger of the two women tells me. “Especially when you realize it might not have always been what you thought it was. And we’ll be back.”

“Three secret menu baskets and an extra order of chips,” I call to Bea.

She doesn’t answer, though I’m certain she heard me.

I pretend I don’t notice her dabbing at her eyeballs with the edge of her apron before she ducks to grab the fish from the fridge beneath the prep counter.

Sometimes a person needs to know they’re appreciated.

It’s unfortunate that I’m only now understanding how little Bea realizes she’s appreciated by the entire community.

Not pitied for her situation.

But valued for her contributions and respected for the extra sacrifices she’s made to participate in the community.

And also fucked sideways by this break-up with Jake Camille, who seems to be one of those men who portrays himself one way in public, and an entirely different way in private.

Much like my parents.

There are things in this world that I can fix, and there are things in this world that I cannot.

This falls into the fix column.

And it shall be my next project.

“Don’t forget to offer the chef’s table,” Bea calls to me. “It’s twenty bucks to sit and watch us work for half an hour.”

“Marvelous. Consider it done.”