Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [10]
She eyed the booth he’d started to sit in. All manner of catastrophes befell any unsuspecting diner who dared occupy that booth after dark. During the day, it was all right to use it, but after the sun set you could bet something weird would happen. Trays might be dropped into the unfortunate person’s lap, or the bus-cart might careen into the table, sending a load of dirty dishes everywhere. Once, a flying plate had hit a man in the back of the head. No one had witnessed the ‘Frisbee toss,’ but everyone muttered suspicions.
“Less cleanup racket if we sit a few booths away.”Nice save. She patted herself on her back. “Now, let me fetch a piece of pie.”
As she passed the jukebox, it changed to “I Will Follow Him” by Little Peggy March. Asha stuck out her tongue at the temperamental thing.
Pushing through the swinging door to the kitchen, she went to the food locker, took out a pie and cut two slices. Jago hadn’t ordered dessert, but she figured he couldn’t watch her eat these plump berries with the strawberry glaze and not want a slice himself.
She returned and set both saucers down on the table, causing Jago to raise his sexy black brows. “Compliments of the house,” she said.
“Thank you—for both the pie and the company.”
“You’re welcome. I’ve been on the go all day. I can use a breather.”
And boy, could she! There was an odd, almost feral stillness about Jago Fitzgerald, a trait inherent to nature’s most successful predators. He unsettled Asha, on par with a white tiger wandering in and making himself at home in the middle of her restaurant. She cautiously studied him while he ate, every move deft, elegant, understated. Oh, this man intrigued her. Maybe too much.
“You manage all this?”
“This being the motel, swim club, the restaurant, laundromat and drive-in? Actually, I own them. The horse farm on the other side of the road is owned by my father and brother, but everything on this side belongs to me. When Mother died, she left me a quarter interest in the horse farm and half ownership of these businesses. I cut a deal with my father last year. Traded him my shares in the farm, and he made me total owner of The Windmill and the house on the river.”
“Odd place for businesses—out in the middle of bloody nowhere.”
“The horse farm was once part of a land grant from George the Third. During the War Between the States, it was a horse plantation. This building was the overseer’s house. As you can tell, this diner is grafted onto its side. When the landowner died in the late ’40s, there was a protracted and dirty fight amongst the numerous heirs. They were forced to break the property into five separate tracts and sell them at auction. Mac—my father—bought this one.”
“Valinor Revisited? Isn’t that an odd name for a horse farm?” Jago smirked in a teasing fashion, then took a sip of coffee.
Asha shrugged. “Mac is a big Tolkien fan. My grandfather knew him. I guess we’re lucky he didn’t name the place Bag End.”
“Okay, the farm I understand, “Jago sounded intrigued. “This is, after all, the heart of the Blue Grass State. Only, I’m puzzled by these other businesses in the middle of undeveloped farmland.”
Asha warmed to the subject, proud of the area. “The first business on this spot was an icehouse. People used blocks of ice for iceboxes back then. They needed a place centrally located, not too far away. Seeing an opportunity, the owner started selling beer and soft drinks by the case to boaters heading to the river for the day. Back then, this highway was the main artery for commercial travel from Michigan to Florida. We’re the halfway mark on the Blue Highway. Truckers required somewhere to get gas, to eat. Travelers needed a motel, a stop on their way to Florida. Mum renovated the overseer’s house into the restaurant, and then they built a small motel extension. The swimming pool was added for the motel guests’ pleasure. Later, traffic slowed when I-64 opened back in the early ’60s, so Mum changed it to a private