Something Missing_ A Novel - Matthew Dicks [57]
That promise lasted less than a week.
As promised on Alan Clayton’s television screen, the next day was also filled with scattered rain showers, but Martin’s mood was still so good that he didn’t mind a bit. It was Housekeeping Day, a day on which Martin didn’t visit a single client, devoting his time to tasks that were critical to his business. He normally dreaded these days, but he left his home that morning with a surprising spring in his step.
A to-do list (also written in French) was stuffed into his coat pocket, listing the tasks that he had scheduled for the day. In addition to his customary early morning visit with Jillian, he had listed lunch, a trip to the dry cleaners, and a client referral follow-up. But it was the last item on the list that had buoyed Martin’s spirits, an item that had been handwritten (the others were typed) and was oddly nondescript. The word “Alan” sat at the bottom of the page, appearing almost as an afterthought, a late addition to an already carefully constructed agenda. Yet it was this errand, which Martin would save until the end of the day, that had him so excited.
The Quaker Diner, Martin’s usual breakfast stop, was an old-fashioned diner in every sense of the word. Set on the corner of Quaker Avenue and Park Street, the diner was built like a boxcar and cast the smell of fried eggs and bacon into the neighborhood streets for more than a block around. Music from the 1940s filled the greasy air, and an ancient pay phone stood beside the rear door, occasionally ringing as if to remind the customers of a time now past. Martin entered through the front door and made his way down the counter toward his favorite stool, directly across from the grill, where he could watch his meal being prepared without obstruction. Though eating at the counter meant he often had to sit nearly shoulder to shoulder with a stranger, Martin had found that he was able to spend more time with Jillian if he took up a position on one of the stools. It was a sacrifice he made for his girl, and it made him feel good to know that he was going out of his way for her.
Jillian spotted him immediately and shouted out a friendly “Good morning, Martin!” She tossed a lock of her curly blond hair from her eyes as she waved.
“Good morning, Jillian!” he replied as cheerfully as possible. It was an excellent response, he thought, for a couple of reasons. First, it indicated that he was listening intently. A person not paying attention to Jillian’s greeting might have just mumbled an arbitrary and disingenuous “Hey!” or “How’s it going?” By repeating the “Good morning!” that he had just received, Martin was demonstrating that he listened to and cared about what Jillian said.
Just as important, his response also indicated to Jillian that he approved of her choice of words. Out of all the possible greeting options available to him, he had chosen to use the same one that she had used. If this didn’t send her a clear message, Martin didn’t know what would.
Martin’s favorite stool was occupied by Bob, a middle-aged man who came to the diner quite often. Though Martin had refrained from ever conversing with the man, he knew that Bob enjoyed pancakes a great deal and had once worked for NASA, though in what capacity Martin couldn’t be sure. It seemed as if Bob enjoyed dropping the name of the nation’s space agency whenever he could, but didn’t like to get into great detail on the subject. For this reason, Martin didn’t trust the man.
Martin took up position on a stool two away from his favorite (still providing a decent view of the grilling surface if Freddy didn’t cook his eggs on the far left side) and waited for Jillian to properly greet him. Less than a minute later she obliged, dropping a cup of coffee in front of him and kissing Martin on the cheek, followed by a “How’s it going today, honey?