“I’m with you so far.”
“He has a huge smoker. Commercial unit. He used to take it to music festivals and agricultural fairs, but that business is mostly in the late summer and early fall. He says he got tired of all the driving. So, he parked the smoker in the little industrial park there. Last year, he started making ribs every Saturday, ‘just to keep his hand in’. No website. No store. No socials.”
“Just word of mouth?”
I nod. “No advance sales either. You’ve got to go down there and line up, first come first serve. I think it worked because he started in July and people could smell the ribs when they were at the beach. They followed their noses from thebeach parking lot, and ended up getting dinner on the way home.”
“And then he added wings, and then he added chickens,” Sylvia says with a nod. “What else is on the schedule, just so we know?”
“I don’t think anything else. He works three or four days a week, sells out every night in an hour and likes what he does.” I shrug. “There are worse ways to make a living.”
“Then that explains the chickens.” Sylvia nods. “Merrie did wonder why it was so hard to get the three-pound ones that she wanted.”
“Junior must buy a lot of them every week.”
“Are they good? His chickens?”
I nod. “Very. Probably different from Merrie’s. I think he brines them, then they have his secret barbeque sauce on them.”
“Ah, the marketing power of the secret sauce,” she says, her eyes sparkling.
I could stare at her all night long. “Go with what works,” I manage to say.
“What time does he start selling?”
“Four.”
She winces. “Maybe I can head down and get one for Merrie before we get busy with dinner service one Thursday. She’ll want to try it.”
“I could try…”
“Mike.” She’s adorably cross with me. “You do too much for everyone.”
“But I owe you.”
“No, you don’t. I’m just glad you’re feeling better.” She smiles at me. “I’ll give you a rain check on that sandwich.”
“I’ll take it.” I probably sound too glad of crumbs from hertable, but I don’t care. (Just so you know, I’m still hoping for the forehead kiss.)
“Do you have another set of sheets? I’ll make up the bed before I go.”
I tell her where they are, and suddenly feel very tired. It’s more than physical exhaustion. Maybe surviving the plague removed my tolerance for any kind of garbage. There’s a barrier between Sylvia and me, and I want to tear it down. I want to win her trust again. I want to be without secrets. I want…Sylvia. Not for now, but for good.
She’s halfway out the kitchen door when I ask.
“What was in the letters, Sylvia?” I know immediately that I shouldn’t have asked, not just by the way she goes still, but what’s done is done.
And I want to know.
It’s time to get to the bottom of this.
She turns in the doorway, folding her arms over her chest, her expression guarded. “You really never got them?”
I shake my head.
Something changes in her expression. Is she disappointed? “So, you assume I’m lying about them.” Ah, that’s it.
“No, I don’t, but it makes no sense. If a couple of letters were lost, why are you so angry with me about them? Why didn’t you just call?”
