Page 14 of Breaking the Ice
I do, however, hear Shirley May’s response. “Don’t worry, hon. I won’t say a thing.” She winks at me and adds, “A little mystery is the key to any good relationship, am I right?” Ellie’s complexion turns hot pink—ostensibly by the implication that we’re an item.
Shirley May leads us to a booth in front of the window. Putting the laminated menus on the table, she announces, “It always slows down after the lunch rush. If you’d come two hours earlier, you’d probably have had to sit at the counter.” Then she walks away.
As soon as Ellie and I are settled across from each other, I ask, “You come here often?”
I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but her cheeks go even pinker than before. “It’s the best breakfast and lunch in town.”
“Better than the restaurant at Hawk River?” From the way Troy talks about his restaurant you’d think the chef had received a Michelin star or twelve.
Ellie looks up from her menu. “I don’t eat at the lodge very often.”
“That bad, huh?”
Her head drops to the side, and she glares at me like she’s inspecting a particularly gnarly insect under a microscope. “It’s expensive. Not everyone can eat out and not worry about the cost.” And just like that, she’s mad at me again.
“Ah.” I don’t know what else to say. Picking up my menu, I ask, “What’s the best thing you’ve had here?”
“I like everything but the Monte Cristo, but that’s only because I don’t like sweet mixed with savory.”
“I’m with you,” I tell her. “My mom thinks a marshmallow crust on mashed sweet potatoes is gourmet fare. I’ve never been able to appreciate the combination.”
“Do your parents still live in Michigan?”
“They sure do. As much as we’ve all tried to get them to move out west, they’re still in the house we grew up in.”
She seems surprised to hear this. “You’d think with such successful sons, you’d want to improve their lifestyle.” She makes it sound like my folks moving closer to their sons wouldn’t be any improvement at all.
“We’ve made sure to upgrade everything for them,” I tell her. “Troy paid for new siding and a new roof, my twin Mac bought them a hot tub, and Jeffrey and Jacob built a guest house at the back of the property that my mom uses as an art studio.”
“What did you do?” she demands none too nicely.
She clearly doesn’t think I’ve done anything, so I particularly enjoy telling her, “I bought them a house in Barbados so they can escape the brutal winters.” Take that.
“Oh.”
After the waitress fills our water glasses and writes down our orders—I get the cheeseburger and Ellie gets a bowl of soup with half a sandwich—I say, “You don’t seem to think highly of me. Why is that?”
Ellie squirms slightly in her seat. “Most people don’t think much of you, do they?”
Until recently, I’ve been regarded as a pillar of society, or so I thought. I stare at her intently while taking a sip of my water. Then I put down the glass. “You’re talking about my recent press.”
When she nods her head, I ask, “Do you believe everything you hear?”
“Of course not.”
“But you believe everything being said about me.”
My lunch date suddenly looks uncomfortable. “Why would Yolanda Simms lie?”
“So, you’re upset about Yolanda and not the earlier allegations that I don’t give enough money to charity?”
“Neither puts you in a good light.”
I nod my head slowly. “When you get to where I am in life, Ellie, you discover there are people who love nothing more than to tear you down.”
“And where are you, Zach?” she sneers. “Far away from all the poor ordinary folks who make the world go ’round?”
This woman has got a chip on her shoulder the size of which I cannot fathom. What did I ever do to her but rent her cottage, wash her windows, and take her to lunch? “I think you’ve gotten the wrong impression of me.”