At Wick's End - Tim Myers [33]
I said, “I’ve never ridden in one of the new Bugs. How is it?”
She lifted the plastic red rose out of the built-in bud vase and pretended to smell it. “It’s wonderful, absolutely perfect for what I need.”
As she drove toward the pizzeria, I said, “Do you mind me asking how well your store does? I’m new to all this, and I’ve got nothing to go by.”
Heather scolded me. “Harrison, there are three things you must never ask a woman: her age, her weight, and her income.”
“Sorry, I was just curious.”
Heather grinned. “Okay, I’ll share it with you, but you can’t tell a soul. Do you promise?”
“You have my word,” I said.
“Last year I cleared seven figures,” she said solemnly.
From selling rocks? I was in the wrong business. Headier waited a beat or two, then added with a smile, “If you don’t count the decimal point, and put two of the zeros after it.”
“That’s cute,” I said. “Mind if I steal it?”
“It’s yours for the taking,” she said.
I said, “Remember, dinner’s on me,” as we pulled into the crowded parking lot.
“Hey, I asked you. I should get to pay,” Heather said.
“You bought lunch yesterday, I’ll buy tonight. It’s not like this is a date or anything.”
Heather’s face tightened for a split second, and I knew I’d stepped into it again.
“Not that I wouldn’t enjoy dating you sometime,” I added lamely.
It took me a second to see the smile on Heather’s face. “Of course this isn’t a date.” She added mischievously, “I’m sure you’ll take me somewhere much nicer when we start officially going out.”
I started to backpedal again when she slapped my shoulder. “Harrison, you are just too easy. I’ve got to stop teasing you.”
“I wouldn’t know how to act,” I said.
It looked like Belle had given me a great deal more than a business and a building full of tenants. She’d given me something much more important; a group of people who could easily become new friends.
Chapter 8
A Slice of Heaven was hopping with customers. Since it was Saturday night, I expected the place to be swamped by teenagers, but I was surprised by the range of folks there enjoying a night out. The booths were all black vinyl, the carpeting an industrial gray, and the walls painted an audacious red. Vintage music from the jukebox barely made a dent in the clatter of conversations. Bill Haley and the Comets were rocking around the clock one minute, then Patsy Cline was belting out “Crazy” the next. The smells coming from the kitchen were no doubt part of the reason for the place’s popularity. It was worth the trip even if you didn’t eat anything, just to catch a whiff of that aroma.
Heather guided me to one of the only open booths, a spot far away from the jukebox, and said, “Wait right here. I’ll be back in a second.” She took three steps, paused, then yelled back, “What do you like on your pizza?”
“You decide. I’ll eat just about anything.” Heather nodded, then came back a few minutes later after fighting through the crowd to place our order.
“So what are we having?” I asked.
“I ordered us a garbage pizza.”
I smiled gently. “This place might be doing great, but they should probably work on the names of their specials.”
Heather laughed, showing dimples I hadn’t seen before. “Okay, they call it the Heaven Scent, but it’s got everything on it they don’t throw away, so I call it a garbage pizza. It doesn’t sound very appetizing, does it?”
“Are you kidding me? I can’t wait.” The music in the background shifted to an old Frank Sinatra tune, and I said, “The musical tastes around here are eclectic, aren’t they?”
Heather said, “You can request a new record for the jukebox with every tenth pizza you buy. There are only a couple of conditions, but they’re written in stone. Your pick has to be from the ‘50s or ‘60s, that’s the only music the owner, April May, really likes, and if you don’t renew it every two months, the song gets pulled if it hasn’t fallen out of the rotation by then.”
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
Heather said, “It’s the truth. I had The Purple People Eaters on last month.”
“I’m not talking about the music.