“As much as I hate to say it, it’s a good idea. The town will love this.”
Sunlight beamed through a shop window and lit Amos’s curls. It made me forget what I was going to say next.
“Even if it means working together?” He gave me a questioning look. “Are you really okay with that? Will your family be okay with it?”
As I considered his question, a memory came to me from when I was probably seven or eight. I’d accompanied Grandpa on a couple errands in town, and I noticed a poster for a special sundae on the window at Sparky’s. When I asked if we could get one, he’d told me “Brewers don’t eat at Sparky’s. We’re better off avoiding the Flynns.” I’d never stopped to assess how my family talked about Sparky’s and Flynns—it just was. But since Halloween, I’d reflected on the feud. Though my family wasn’t directly antagonistic about them behind closed doors, there was still an unspoken pressure to avoid them.
“Anything to make Red’s look good.” Dad would consider my having to interact with Amos as a necessary evil toward something to help the diner. “What about yours?”
“Same. They’ll love the spotlight on Sparky’s.”
I leaned back in the chair. “So, what do we do next?”
Amos’s cheeks puffed as he blew out a breath. “I guess we need to do some recipe research and make a menu.”
“I remember Mom giving Dad a Christmas gift of all sorts of family recipes bound in a book. She’d had someone make it look like the vintage Betty Crocker-style cookbooks. You know, those ones with the red-and-white checkered covers?”
“That’s a really thoughtful gift.” Amos smiled sweetly.
“She’s great.” My parents divorced while I was in college, and it was a difficult adjustment when she moved away. Looking back, I was surprised they’d lasted so many years after Matty had died.
Did Amos even know about their divorce since it happened after he left Maplewood? I wasn’t sure how often my family came up in conversation among his, especially outside of work.
As I thought more about it, most conversation involving Sparky’s happened at Red’s with the customers usually bringing it up. I’d never really bought into the feud, but that was probably because it kind of pissed me off back in school that I had to avoid Amos. He’d always seemed like the center of everything, meanwhile I’d had to orbit on the outside looking in on all the fun. Since then, I’d stayed in my lane and focused on what I had to do at Red’s and tried not to worry about what went on at the other end of downtown.
When I’d gone out this morning to pick up supplies for my side hustle and meet with the owner of the commercial kitchen I used to make my cheese, I hadn’t expected to end up sitting across from Amos Flynn and drinking coffee.
I lifted my mug to take a drink, but it was empty. I glanced toward the counter and considered getting another, but I wasn’t sure I should stick around long enough to drink it.
“You’ve probably got plans to get to. I won’t keep you. I guess we should do some recipe research, then connect again?”
Guilt gnawed at my gut. “That sounds good. I?—”
“Mickey Brewer and Amos Flynn? Together? This’ll be the biggest scandal onMaplewood Matterssince Bobby Miller’s goat got loose and ate Janet Gonzalez’s prize-winning dahlias.”
Suppressing a groan, I turned toward my—our—high school chemistry teacher.
“Hi, Mrs. Appaline. It’s good to see you.”
“Hi, Mrs. Appaline,” Amos said with his trademark charm.
She still dyed her hair black, but it no longer looked natural like it had when we were kids. One of her wrinkled hands clutched a pastry bag, the other a cozy mystery novel. She grinned at us like she’d stumbled on the scoop of the century.
“Why are you two together?” She narrowed her dark eyes.
Mrs. Appaline never was one to beat around the bush.
On one of my chemistry tests, she’d written a note along the lines of, “I know you can do better, so do better next time.”
“We’re helping out with a Holiday Hoopla event involving both diners.”
“Oh, that’s lovely. Always a joy to see Red’s and Sparky’s supporting the community.” She turned her attention to Amos. “I hear you’re doing well in Boston. Are you on vacation visiting your family?”
Amos shifted and darted a glance at me. “Yup.”
Mrs. Appaline tilted her head. “Didn’t I see you at the diner a month ago? Do you have one of those fancy jobs with unlimited time off? I wish I’d had that before I retired, so I could’ve stayed home on the hot days when all you kids stunk up the halls.” She wrinkled her nose. “I swear, there should’ve been a class on proper hygiene and deodorant.” Her laughter had a scratchy quality from decades of smoking.
I instinctively—and not subtly, given the twitch of Amos’s lips—angled my head toward my armpit and sniffed.
