Seasons Change: A Romantic Thanksgiving Story
and I look up as he leads me inside the restaurant. “Because everyone needs a free Thanksgiving dinner at least once in their life,” he explains.
“Oh no, I couldn’t,” I mutter as we step inside a cozy little wonderland twinkling with strings of white lights and oozing with soft, funky jazz and the air swimming with the aroma of spices and gravy and aromas galore. “I’m not destitute… yet.”
I pause, just inside the door because… the bland, generic storefront doesn’t do the eccentric little diner inside justice. In fact, it’s nothing like a diner, although that’s what the name painted in the window says, “Dale’s Diner”.
There are little dark leather booths along the wall, flickering candles on each table, and five or six tables scattered throughout. Deep, dark, hardwood floors compliment the rust orange paint he’s chosen for the walls and the wooden Buddha heads and Asian inspired art that lines them.
“What… why didn’t you tell me it was like this?” I ask as we step inside and he turns the “Open” sign to “Closed” and turns the keys inside the heavy glass door.
“Like what?” he asks, still standing by the door as I inch forward, admiring the tiny lights and the ambiance and the Asian-fusion wall art and the funky vibe that oozes from every inch of every corner in the joint.
“Like… awesomely and totally amazing?”
Tyler looks around, frowning, as if seeing it for the first time. “You must be the only one who thinks so,” he sighs, moving forward through the restaurant to a small service bar in the far corner.
He opens a bottle of red wine and slips the stems of two glasses between long, pale fingers. The quickness of his efforts, the sureness in his hands, makes my stomach flicker with an unfamiliar glow, like the flame of a candle I haven’t bothered to light in a very long time.
I blush as he sets the wine down at a table near the back of the diner and slides out a chair for me. “Really,” I croak, voice tight with emotion. “You don’t have to do all…”
Then my voice breaks and I let my words trail off, tears just south of waterfall mode. He lets me work it out and, quietly, pours the wine. “I want to,” he says, handing me the glass before sliding down in the opposite chair. “That’s what Thanksgiving is about, right? Showing gratitude, giving thanks, giving back, breaking bread, sharing grace…”
I shake my head, the tears finally falling. Shamelessly, heavily, steadily. “I just… this isn’t how I’m supposed to end up, you know?” I sputter. “I’ve worked so hard, for so damn long. I was on my way, and now…”
He nods, not pushing it, not getting too familiar or cozy, not saying anything stupid or trite or phony, just sitting there, quietly, the tears turning the white lights strung all through the restaurant into little cascades of shimmering light.
They warm and comfort me and when I go to reach for my purse he hands me a linen napkin instead. I use it to dry my eyes, shaking my head. “Bet you didn’t think you had a nut job working next door this whole time, did you Cliff?”
“You’re not a nut job,” he croaks, voice emotional as well. “You just worked for one.”
I nod, and take my first sip of wine. “Holy god,” I sputter, senses on overload at the rich, dark, oaky dryness that has just cascaded over my tongue. “This. Is. Incredible.”
He nods, blushing a little. “It’s a cab, merlot and malbec blend,” he explains as I notice the fullness of his lips and the cute shape of his pug nose and the two day scruff he’s sporting across his lean, handsome face. “I figure we might as well drink it,” he sighs. “Since no one else is…”
I finish my sip and put down my glass and fix his eyes with mine. “You keep saying that,” I point out. “What… what’s going on here? Why are you closing for Thanksgiving? Why is there no one here?”
“If I knew the answers to those questions,” he chuckles between sips of wine, “I’d still be in business.”
“You’re out of business?” I blurt, sitting up.
“Not yet,” he chuckles, waving me down. “But if this keeps up, I’ll be gone before the New Year.”
“And then?”
“That shoe store you were joking about?” he asks, pouring us more wine. “One already made an offer on the place. Not a great one, by any means, but… it will just manage to keep me out of the poor house.”
“No,” I wag a finger decisively, jaw clenched. “Nuh uh, no way Cliff.”
He smirks. “What are you gonna do about it?” he teases. “I’ve been here a year and you’ve never even stopped in.”
“That’s because you called a duck a chicken,” I gush, standing with my wine glass and pacing while I lecture him.
He sits there, shaking his head. “I called a who a what now?”
I chuckle. “You’re advertising yourself as fried chicken when you’re really crispy duck in an Asian-infused sweet and tangy mustard sauce.”
He nods, but his eyes still look a little confused. “Look at this menu,” I say, snatching a printout off a nearby table. It’s a special Thanksgiving menu, featuring a six-course meal. I list off the items, one by one, fighting the urge to drool as I do so: “Apple and brie fondue, goat cheese and thyme crusted pecan salad, mustard braised medallions of turkey breast with sage and sausage stuffing, sweet potato waffle wedges with nutmeg butter…”
My eyes are wide by the time I’m done. “This… this is not diner material, Cliff. This is poetry, pure poetry. This is something that, if I’d known about it, I would have hauled all my poser friends in here and spent $60 a pop chowing down on.”
He stands, nodding, wine in hand, drifting into the kitchen. “You think?” he calls through the open window overlooking a small prep station full of spotless square white plates and matching bowls in all kinds of funky shapes and sizes.
I pick up a tea cup and ask, “Why does this have Asian symbols all over it?”
He chuckles, peering through the window, his face fresh and cute in the bright kitchen lighting. “It was a sushi restaurant before I bought it. Cheap. I guess that should have told me something. The plates and cups came with the deal.”
“And the wall art?” I ask, leaning against the counter and admiring the wooden Buddha etchings that are such a pleasant contrast with the white lights and harvest pumpkin colored wall paint.
“And the wall art,” he says, nodding as he cuts and chops and swirls and bastes and tastes. “Sit,” he tells me, waving me away from the little window. “Sit and sip and I’ll be there in a few with your first course.”
I sip, but I don’t sit. I stand and linger on the wall art, the table tops, the succulent dinner menu and the corner location, my mind spinning with the possibilities. When at last he emerges from the kitchen, tray in hand, heaped with dishes from his special Thanksgiving menu, I tell him, “I’m going to help you.”
“That would be great,” he says, sliding the tray on the table closest to ours. “I couldn’t fit the waffle wedges or nutmeg butter on here, so…”
I cluck my tongue and slip into the kitchen behind him, finding the wedges and butter on the spotless counter. When I return he has plated everything around the table, a veritable dinner buffet for two.
He pulls my chair out again and I slide in, explaining, “I didn’t mean help with the serving, Cliff. I meant… I’m going to help save your restaurant.”
He waves a hand as he dishes up some fresh green apples and a long, slender fondue fork. In the center of the table sits a small white bowl filled with melted brie, a votive candle flickering beneath to keep it warm.
I dip a slice in, swirl it around, take it out and stick it in my mouth, where heaven melts on my hungry, unsuspecting tongue. “Holy crap!” I exclaim, going in for more. The crunchy apple, the bittersweet fruit, the tangy cheese… good lord but it’s good! “You do not let a talent like this go to waste, Cliff.”
He shakes his head, blushing some more. I look over at him, fork sliding softly into another fresh apple slice. He’s taken off his apron and, beneath, hi
s striped T-shirt is soft and clinging to his young, athletic frame.
I blink impure thoughts from my brain and continue, “Do you know how many social media campaigns I’ve run for gross, bland, boring, stupid restaurants in this town? Dozens, Cliff,” I exclaim, before he can answer. “Dozens on dozens. If I can help those dung heaps blossom, I can spread a little cheer your way, Cliff.”
He sits back, regarding me curiously. “You hardly know me,” he says, voice tight, green eyes flickering in the Christmas lights. “Why… why would you help me?”
I shrug. “What else am I gonna do?”
“But… I can’t pay you, Tyler.”
I wave a hand, smearing homemade nutmeg butter on a sweet potato waffle wedge. After savoring its delights with multiple orgasmic sounds I allow my eyelids to flutter open and wave a hand. “That’s fine, Cliff. I have… I’m good until December and then, if you’re still around, we can talk about something.”
“We don’t have to wait until then,” he smirks, sliding over a bowl full of sage and sausage stuffing. “My last waitress just quit because there was no business. You could… you could replace