My dad was a good man and a good father, but he’d struggled to juggle everything, and since the diner had kept a roof over our heads, it had won out. I probably would’ve been the same in his position, but that didn’t mean it was easy being in my shoes.
Dad’s attention zeroed in on me. “Of course. Do we have an issue with our suppliers?”
I’d been taking over more of the ordering this past year and Dad hovered like a mother hen. He trusted me, but he also had a hard time letting go.
I picked up the short stack of stapled paper I’d printed off at the library this morning. Who had a home printer these days? Ink was a racket. My hand trembled as I stood and handed them to Dad.
“It’s about a potential new supplier, actually.”
Dad’s curious expression turned guarded. I’d missed a step right out of the gate. Dad would happily work with the same suppliers until the end of days. I glanced at the sign over the swinging doors to the dining room.If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. If it is broke, grab the wrench.That sign had been there as long as I could remember and was stained from decades of restaurant activity.
“A supplier for what?”
“Artisan cheese. It’s me, actually.” I hurried into the next part. “I’ve put together a proposal to use my cheese in a special or two to start out while gauging response. Ideally, we’d rotate it onto one of the regular burgers and into the mac and cheese. I also think adding a nut, cheese, and meat plate to the appetizer menu would be a hit.”
When I’d gone to college, Dad suggested that a business degree would be the best way to prepare me to take over the diner. I agreed it was the best option for me. I knew what I needed to do to prepare a proposal and sell an idea, but the fact that it was Dad complicated things.
Dad glanced at the papers in the same almost cursory way he had when I’d shown him the brochure for an expensive private college in Virginia.
He frowned. “We can’t put homemade food on the menu and sell it. Especially dairy.”
I knew that would be his first argument. “Dad, I know that. I’ve already gotten the proper license. Don’t worry. I’ve followed all the rules and regulations.” I didn’t tell him that I’d been thinking about selling it at a farmers’ market, but I worked too many Saturdays for that to be feasible anyway.
Dad’s bushy eyebrows rose. “You have?”
“Yes. I enjoy making cheese, and I’m taking this seriously.” I stopped myself from saying more, even though I could fill a book with all my complicated feelings about the diner and the future that had been chosen for me.
My hope lifted when Dad flipped through the pages.
“You’ve done a good job, son. That degree paid off, huh?” His lips curved up in a way that reminded me of Matty’s smile. I wished he were still here. He might be running the diner with Dad while I supplied the cheese. Maybe he would’ve been theone to help Dad take more chances. I knew he had it in him, but I wasn’t equipped to convince him of those things.
“Thanks, Dad. It’s a good plan.”
“I’m proud of you, kiddo.” His smile held the familiar placating kindness I’d seen when I suggested we upgrade our paper ordering process to tablets and a digital system.
“Our menu is solid, and we’re not getting any complaints. What would I tell the people who have been selling us cheese for years? If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
I nearly mouthed the last line along with him.
“But let’s revisit this next year. Make sure you’re still sticking with this hobby before we get the menu involved.”
My gut sank to the floor. It was the response I’d expected. To my memory, the only changes Dad had made to the menu since taking over were updating the prices and adding The 27 Milkshake in honor of my childhood friend Ethan’s professional hockey number.
It could’ve gone worse, but I’d been foolishly optimistic and expected to be surprised. After Amos’s reaction, I’d let myself get swept away by that damn four-letter word. Hope.
Dad clapped me on the shoulder and paused as he turned to leave. “You really do make great cheese. You should bring some of that chive Havarti to Thanksgiving. I could eat my weight in that.”
I managed a small smile. “Sure thing, Dad.”
Fortunately, I didn’t have to wallow in self-pity for long because Aunt Ingrid called me out to help with the tourist rush.
The entire time I slung milkshakes, pie, and french fries to hungry tourists asking questions about the diner rivalry the bus driver had told them about, I found myself wanting to text Amos and tell him what happened. I wanted his comfort, and that was a very dangerous thing.
ELEVEN
AMOS
I glanced at my phone as I approached Special Blend twenty minutes early to my meeting with Mickey and Bo, not that I was eager or anything. When I’d left Sparky’s after helping during the breakfast rush, Sage had commented on my leaving extra early, but I’d brushed it off as wanting to get out and walk around a bit. Get some fresh air.
