Runaway Mistress by Robyn Carr

the diner. She had a cup of coffee and piece of pie on her mind. There were no customers present. She found Gloria seated on a stool at the counter and Buzz standing opposite her. Adolfo was in his booth at the far rear, newspaper spread out in front of him.
    “Well, a person would think you’d had enough of this place for one day,” Gloria trumpeted.
    “I was remembering that apple pie,” Jennifer said. “And the Sunset doesn’t have TVs in the rooms.”
    “I been meaning to get a TV for this place,” Buzz said. “But then Gloria would never do a lick of work.”
    “Probably true. Sit up here, girl. Buzz, get the girl a cuppa.”
    “You don’t ever go home, do you, Buzz?” Jennifer asked as she climbed on the stool.
    “There ain’t anyone at home,” he answered, giving her a cup. He poured coffee into both hers and Gloria’s, then he pulled a silver flask out of his pocket and held it over Jennifer’s cup. She shook her head no, but Gloria tapped her cup with her spoon.
    “Ah,” Jennifer said, catching on. “Happy hour.”
    “Something like that,” Gloria said.
    “I go to my family at supper,” Adolfo informed her from the back of the diner. “My Carmel, she is a better cook than even me. We eat an early meal, then I come back most nights. But Señor Buzz, he can manage if I have need to be home. He doesn’t like anyone to know, but he can cook.”
    “We trade off pretty good,” Buzz said. “I like it here. Always liked it here. This old diner is a whole lot friendlier than my house. You want ice cream on that pie?”
    “Please,” she said. It was kind of nice not to think about the calories for once. This was a big change for her, and she genuinely hoped she wouldn’t grow into her baggy pants. Her mouth was watering before she could dig her spoon into the delicious dessert.
    She was so busy eating that she never heard the soft knocking at the back door. Adolfo got up to see who was there, and with the door partially open revealing a man in an old and worn coat, he called, “Señor Buzz. Someone here for you.”
    “Let him in, Adolfo. I got just the thing.”
    Buzz went back to the kitchen and came out with a steaming bowl and basket of rolls while Adolfo let an old ratty-looking man into the diner. The old guy was in need of a shave, and he shuffled as if his ankles were tied together with a foot-long rope. Without saying a word, the man took the seat at the end of the counter and Buzz put the soup and bread in front of him. He then served the man a cup of coffee and poured plenty of cream in it.
    The only person who didn’t understand what was going on seemed to be Jennifer, who watched the man out of the corner of her eye while she ate her pie.
    Adolfo came out of the pantry in his coat, cap on his head. “I’m away,” he said to Buzz. “Señora, Señorita—hasta mañana.”
    While Buzz was busy with something in the kitchen, Gloria talked about her husband, Harmon, who had had a stroke four years before. She found him on the garage floor, near death. Somehow he pulled through, but with fewer than half his former capabilities. He couldn’t communicate very well, but she claimed to do all the communicating for him. He went from bed to wheelchair to bed and could only be left alone for periods of a couple of hours at a time, so when she worked or ran errands, her neighbor looked in on him and called Gloria’s cell phone if she was needed. “To tell the truth, I work for a break. You have no idea how hard it is to take care of an invalid. Hard on the heart, too.”
    The man at the end of the counter stood up and shuffled out the back door without a word, without a thank you or a goodbye.
    “Is he homeless?” Jennifer asked.
    “Oh my, no. He lives a couple of blocks away. Widower. We don’t see too much of him, but Buzz always reminds him that by the end of the day there’s usually food that’s going to get thrown away, if he’s interested. Once in a while, he comes down