On my other side, Jack had involuntarily hunched his shoulders, and he was grimacing.
This time, my mental "wow" was for a whole different reason.
"So. Tell me about Beau's," Jed finally said, patting my arm in sympathy, but bypassing any further discussion of singing.
"Beau's Diner is the only sit-down restaurant in Dead End," I told him. "If it's open today—"
"It's open," Jack said. "We drove by it earlier. Packed."
"As you'd expect. People want to gather in challenging times," Jed said.
"Or boring times. Or any times, really. Gossip is Dead End's most important commodity," I muttered.
Jed laughed. "Times really don't change, then."
Jack had to park a block away, making me wonder if we'd even get a table, but I shouldn't have worried. When we walked in the door, Lorraine was there to greet us.
"About time," she said. "This way."
For half a century, except for a brief stint during the flood when she was the mayor, Lorraine had run the diner like it was her own personal fiefdom. She wore a pink starched uniform and a white apron, told us where to sit and—only when we really needed to hear it—how to live our lives. She had short silver hair and stood maybe five feet tall in today's hot pink orthopedic shoes, and she was the undisputed queen of Beau's.
The place was packed, all right, and everybody started shouting questions at us. Jack held up his hands for quiet.
"We'll tell you what we know. Give us a minute," he promised.
A few disgruntled people shouted more questions, but mostly everybody returned to their conversations while staring at us the whole time. I smiled and waved and got a lot of smiles in return, though, which made me feel better. We wouldn't get mobbed, at least.
Lorraine pushed her way through the crowd with the sheer force of her personality and put us at a table for four in front, by the window, and sat down with us, which almost never happened. She reached across the table and held out a hand to Jed. "Lorraine Packard. If you're anything like your grandson, here, then you are very welcome, despite the mess you've landed us in."
He shook her hand, a little stunned. "I—"
"But how exactly do you now appear to be half the age you were when you stepped out of that statue? Are you really Jedediah Shepherd? Is this a Fae trick? We are tolerant folk in Dead End, but we don't put up with outsiders coming in and putting our people in danger," she said sternly.
"I—"
Jack held up a hand. "Lorraine. We'll answer all your questions, but can we order some lunch?"
Lorraine wagged her finger at him. "Don't make me set you to washing dishes, young man. I've done it before, and I can do it again."
Jed threw back his head and laughed, and a lot of admiring glances came his way, even from tiny old Mrs. Frost.
Oh, boy. These Shepherd men were a menace in more ways than one.
She jumped up. "What do you want? Never mind, you're getting the special. We're only serving one thing today, considering the situation. You'll get fried chicken, potatoes, corn on the cob, biscuits, and chocolate pie."
Jed's smile got bigger and bigger as she spoke. "Fried chicken is my favorite food," he said reverently. "My Sarah used to make …" A flash of sadness crossed his face, despite his smile.
Lorraine's expression softened, and she patted his shoulder. "Eat first. Then we can talk. It must be strange to be so far from your own time."
He put his hand on hers and squeezed gently. "Thank you for your kindness, sweet lady. Yes. It is. Do you need help beheading the chickens?"
22
Tess
After Lorraine declined Jed's offer to chop chicken heads off, I decided it was time to make a statement. I stood, pushed my chair back, and took a deep breath.
"Okay, gang. Here's where we are so far." I summed up the situation to date, leaving out the speculation about Mickey Young and the details about Logan Mackenzie.
