Page 41 of You, Again
The grief was all-consuming and left wreckage none of us were prepared for. My quick visit became a temporary move to help my mom out at the diner. I assumed, after a month or two, that Ronnie and Mom would take over, but Ronnie had been busy at the rink and needed help with Mary-Kate. And Mom struggled with severe depression in the wake of Dad’s death.
I’d pushed my return to California back three times before acknowledging I was stuck in Elmwood. I’d told my friends it was just a matter of time till I returned, but here I was…
And you know, it wasn’t so terrible now.
Look at this place.
Elmwood Diner was a freaking gem. I’d kept the log cabin exterior when I remodeled the restaurant a couple of years ago, but I’d made sure to open the ceiling and add a wide bank of windows. I stuck with classic touches like emerald-green leather booths, a long counter with swivel barstools, and black-and-white tiled flooring, but the ambience was definitely modern. Sophisticated pendants lit the refinished bar area while modern starburst chandeliers hung from the rafters in the dining room.
The real draw was always the food. We served burgers, fries, and shakes using the same recipes my great-great grandparents had perfected years ago, but JC had added a few culinary masterpieces to the mix, and the new menu was a hit.
“Bonjour.” I shut the kitchen screen door behind me, nodding a greeting to the chef. “How’s it going?”
Jean-Claude, or JC as he was known here, lifted his fingers out of the doughy mixture in the bowl in front of him, and gave me a thumbs-up. “Tres bien. The menu is on the board if you are interested. If you are not, don’t tell me…I am sensitive today.”
I chuckled.
JC was our French-Canadian chef—a stocky man in his late thirties with twinkling green eyes, thick reddish hair, a contagious laugh, and a broad Quebecois accent. He was also the most self-deprecating, occasionally grumpy, and accidentally funny person I’d ever met. He was the kind of guy who told you more than you needed to know about everything from his feelings about world affairs to the state of his digestive tract.
Needless to say, he was very entertaining. Good boyfriend material too. For a little while, anyway.
Whatever we’d had was a heat of the moment, alcohol, and sex-infused thing. We shared a love of food, hockey, and we were both gay. That wasn’t enough for forever, but it was a good start, right?
We’d met at a bar in Montreal. I was with a group of college buddies and notorious bad influences. Needless to say, I was schnockered. A one-night stand led to a second, and a third. And I wasn’t ready to say good-bye. So on a whim, I’d offered JC a job.
And to my surprise, he’d accepted.
He’d needed a change, and my offer had come at the right time for him to make one. A temporary one. We’d originally agreed to a two-or three-month consultation where he’d put together new menu options, work with our cook, and meet with local sources. His input was invaluable. Three and a half years later, JC had pretty much taken over the kitchen. No one minded. Even Haskell, the old fry cook my grandfather hired in the seventies, liked JC.
The boyfriend part ended after a year, but we’d become good friends and honestly, it was nice to have someone to lean on who couldn’t claim they’d known me since birth.
So…win-win.
“I’ll be gentle with you,” I teased, stealing a sliced carrot from the cutting board island.
JC glowered, pointing a knife the size of a small machete at me. “You play dangerous games.”
“Sorry. I’m just…starving.”
He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head as if noticing something new. “You are smiling.”
“I always smile,” I bluffed.
“Different kind of smile. I know that smile. You have a man.” He set the knife aside and scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Who?”
I hiked my thumb in the general direction of the diner. “Later, JC. I’m going to check out the menu and—”
“Is it the hockey dad you said was cute but too short?”
“Who—never mind. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
JC’s chuckle was low and knowing. “You are a terrible liar. Why lie anyway? He’s divorced,non? Have all the sex you want with the dad—”
“I’m not having sex with anyone’s dad, ya weirdo,” I whisper-hissed.
“Then who? I am only curious. There are four gay men under fifty in Elmwood…me, you, a boring banker, and a know-it-all barista. Another question: how do you find the time for a liaison? You work, you coach, you—” JC paused abruptly. “Mon Dieu.”
“What?”