Dancing Shoes and Honky-Tonk Blues (3 page)

After taking a deep breath I frown at my reflection in the bathroom mirror looking for something to pluck or slick down, but I’m about as polished as I can get. Even though pretty soon I’ll smell like a walking French fry I decide to splurge with a liberal spray of White Shoulders perfume but then I wrinkle my nose at my uniform wishing that I could wear something more flattering. It’s the old-fashioned white button-up style with the hankie pointing up out of the top pocket. Mama likes to keep a retro look in the diner for the tourists and even though it’s kind of dorky I usually don’t mind. Besides, if they don’t like it, well, they can kiss my grits!

“Oh, crap, it’s getting late,” I mutter after checking my watch. While the lunch and dinner crowd has been down due to lack of tourism, breakfast is still busy with locals. As I hurry down the back steps that lead to the kitchen I can hear Mama attempting to joke with Pete Jenkins, the crusty old cook who looks as old as dirt because of his two-pack-a-day habit. While Pete might be on the grumpy side, he bakes light-as-a-feather biscuits that melt in your mouth. His bacon is always crisp, his eggs fluffy, and his grits creamy so we put up with his sour disposition. Once in a blue moon Mama can coax him into a creaky, wheezing fit of laughter, but not often.

The heavenly scent of freshly perked coffee fills my nose, making me crave a cup. Starting the morning brew is my job and I hate being late for anything, especially work, so I feel a little guilty as I enter the kitchen. Pete’s face is actually crinkled up in a smile from something my mama just said, but when they look up and see me they both straighten up and stop talking, meaning that I’m the topic of conversation. This has been happening a lot lately and I can’t say that I like it.

Mama frowns at me. “Babycakes, why are you dressed like that?”

I glance down at my uniform expecting to see a ketchup stain or something. Mama won’t tolerate anything but a pristine white uniform . . . not an easy task in my line of work, not to mention that I’m a bit on the clumsy side. “What do you mean?”

“You’re in your uniform and that fancy television man is coming.”

“Mama, I’m still gonna work.”

“Well, I suppose.” She purses lips that are lined and glossed a deep red and it strikes me how impeccably groomed Mama is even at this early hour of the morning. Her very big auburn hair is tamed into a classy French twist that’s tight in the back but puffy on top. She looks as fresh as a daisy when most people are still rubbing sleep from their eyes. How she does it, I’ll never know. She frowns at me and says, “I just wish we could dress y’all up a bit.”

“I’m fine like this. After all, Jesse said that they wanted a waitress for the show and, well, here I am.” With my palms up I do a little spin in a circle that ends in a wobble.

“Sure ain’t no dancer,” Pete points out with a little wheezing chuckle.

“I will have professional instruction,” I remind him and would have given him an unladylike gesture if Mama hadn’t been standing right there.
No
, I’m not giving him the finger . . . I’m too well raised for that! But I’m not above sticking out my tongue.

“We’ll see about that,” Mama tells Pete a bit sharply while she arches one perfectly plucked eyebrow, shutting him right up.

Dang, I wish I were as put together as my mother. In a little while I’ll be blowing loose locks of hair out of my face while waiting tables, but Mama will somehow remain stain-free, sweat-free, and with each and every strand of her hair swept back from her fine-boned face. Although Mama is soft-spoken and tiny she’s a steel magnolia through and through, capable of both southern charm and intense intimidation. To put it simply: don’t mess with my mama.

“You’ll do just fine,” Mama assures me as she slices open a box of coffee creamers with a razorblade knife. I was removed from this particular task after a couple of misfortunate mishaps requiring stitches. “With those long legs you’re built to be a dancer, Abilene. Not only that but you’re a hard worker and a quick learner. You just might surprise yourself.” She gives me a warm smile and then turns around to get the small bowls for the creamers.

Pete snorts and since Mama has her back to me I resort to sticking out my tongue and he chuckles. Okay, so I’m not the most graceful of people. Jesse and I both inherited our daddy’s height and I’ve always had longer arms and legs than I’ve known what to do with. The locals know this and hold on to their water glasses and coffee cups when I serve them. Mama’s right, though, that I am a hard worker and a quick study. I just hope that my dance partner has a lot of patience . . . and a healthy sense of humor.

I’m taking the tray of saltshakers around to the tables when the first customers come in. Of course as luck would have it we’re extra busy on the one and only day when I’m wishing for a lighter morning rush. When I see Mama pouring a steaming cup of coffee to a distinguished-looking man with slate-gray hair, tanned skin, and perfect teeth I gather that it’s Mitchell Banks from Comedy Corner. He’s wearing a soft-looking dark blue sweater with a starched collar peeking out of the neck, neatly pressed gray slacks, and shiny brown loafers with tassels, making him stand out from all of the truckers, construction workers, farmers, and a smattering of tourists. Quite frankly, I was expecting someone young and California hip, not some older gentleman who appears to be . . .
flirting with my mama
. . .

And she appears to be flirting right back! “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” I whisper. Clutched in one hand is her coffeepot and her other hand is waving in the air in an animated fashion while she chats. Now, don’t get me wrong, my mother is a fine-looking woman and in my opinion doesn’t look her age of forty-eight years. She gets hit on all the time, but in the twelve years since my daddy’s passing I have never even seen her glance twice at another man . . . until now. One might think that she might be kissing up but my mother’s not like that at all. When she turns and motions to me I realize that I’m standing in the middle of the diner gawking at them. Taking a deep breath, I walk over to the booth and paste a smile on my face.

“Abilene, I’d like you to meet Mitchell Banks from Comedy Corner.”

I grasp his hand when he politely stands up. “How do you do?” His handshake is firm and he gives me a warm smile, making me relax a bit. His eyes are a gorgeous shade of light blue accentuated by his deep tan and I can see why my mother is smitten.

He gestures to the bench seat that’s cracked and patched with duct tape, reminding me how important this interview really is. “Please join me, Abilene.”

“I’ll leave you two to discuss your business,” my mother tells him. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Banks.”

“My pleasure,” he responds in a deep voice that has Mama all a-flutter. She blushes a pretty shade of pink that makes her appear young and sort of . . . wistful. My throat closes up when it occurs to me that my mother has been such a rock for Jesse and me and deserves to enjoy the softer, sweeter side of life.

As I slide into the cool vinyl seat, I notice that Mitchell Banks watches Mama walk away from the table, not in a leering kind of way, but with male appreciation. What makes me smile, though, is that my mother has just a hint of sway in her hips that I’ve never noticed before. “So, Mr. Banks, tell me about this ballroom dancing competition.”

“You can call me Mitch,” he says before taking a sip of his coffee. “Wow, this is good.” He seems surprised, making me guess that fancy Starbucks is his usual choice.

“We use one hundred percent Colombian beans, real cream, butter, and fresh eggs here at Sadie’s Diner,” I inform him with a measure of pride. “Mama is a firm believer in using the real thing. She never cuts corners or sacrifices quality in order to turn a profit.”

“Smart woman,” he says with a smile.

I give him a serious nod but I’m feeling a bit foolish about my little speech. I’m not quite sure why I just told him all that other than the fact that I still don’t really like that Misty Creek is going to be made fun of.

“You’re proud of this town, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am,” I admit to him even though I’m not sure where he’s going with this.

“And you’re not too keen on being laughed at.”

With a slight hesitation, I nod again, realizing that I may have just given the wrong answer.

“But the chance of winning fifty thousand dollars is too good to pass up.”

Feeling the color rise in my cheeks I give him an honest nod of my head.

“Do you ever watch Comedy Corner, Abilene?”

Crap
. “I don’t get the opportunity to watch much TV,” I tell him, which is pretty much true. I decide to leave out the part about not liking or understanding some of the shows. “My brother is a big fan, though,” I quickly add, trying to remember some of the buzzwords Jesse used yesterday.
Oh yeah
. . . “He enjoys the political satire and the . . .
um
. . . parodies and spoofs on pop culture.” I give him a serious frown and lean forward to show my sincerity. I notice that his lips twitch and I wonder if I pronounced one of the words wrong . . . I do that sometimes. “Did I say something amusing?” I ask but then almost clamp my hand over my big-ass mouth. Oh,
why
did I have to go and say that?

“No, not at all,” he assures me smoothly with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle. “I’m just enjoying your southern drawl. I love how you give words extra syllables.”

“I do?”

He chuckles. “You doo-oo.”

“Yankees love makin’ fun of how we talk,” I say with a sigh. “They think that having an accent means that you’re stupid.”

He takes another sip of his coffee and then says, “I’m not making fun, Abilene. I’m enjoying it. There’s a big difference.”

“Okay,” I tell him with a shrug. “No offense taken.”

“None intended. Listen, on Comedy Corner we poke fun at just about everything, sometimes just for laughs but more often than not to prove a point.
Dancing with the Rednecks
is supposed to be a spoof on reality television and how insane our culture has become. But you have to be willing to laugh at yourself, too.”

“I understand.” I want to tell him that I’m no stranger to being laughed at but I don’t.

He rubs his index finger over the rim of the coffee mug and looks at me thoughtfully. “But while we’re poking fun at reality shows, this in effect
is
one . . . unscripted, so who knows what might happen? Sure, there will be humor but . . .” He shakes his head. “Then again you might be better than anticipated and show the audience a thing or two about Misty Creek, Kentucky. You just never know . . .”

Oh, I
know
all right that we’re gonna suck, but I give him a serious nod like I’m buying into his scenario. I suddenly picture Travis Tucker or Betty Cook twirling across the dance floor and have to swallow the laughter that bubbles up in my throat. Luckily he’s unzipping a fancy-looking leather case so he misses the amusement that’s nearly choking me.

“Here is a packet of information for you. Please read it over carefully. I’ll need everything signed and returned to me within the next thirty-six hours. The dance instructors will be arriving any day now and we hope to start rehearsals by the weekend. We’ve had a crew at Rabbit Run Lodge stocking the kitchen and setting things up.”

“Isn’t this moving kinda fast?” My heart starts doing a tap dance in my chest.

“Yes, but we need to film this show while the whole ballroom dancing craze is still hot. Yesterday’s news isn’t funny.” He gives me a level look with those amazing blue eyes. “You do want to do this, right, Abilene?”

“Yes!” I quickly nod. “Oh, and pul-ease call me Abby. Mama is the only one who calls me Abilene . . . well, unless Jesse’s mad at me and does it just to get my goat.”

He smiles at my unexpected candor. “Your brother is a talented young man. His essay had me laughing my head off.”

“Really? Jesse’s usually so . . . reserved.”

“Well then, he’s got a hidden talent. With a little polish I could see him going places in this business.”

Wow, I think to myself. Who knew? Of course Mama and I’ve been so consumed with keeping this diner afloat that life has been passing us by . . . including Jesse’s childhood. What a sobering thought.

“Are you okay, Abby?” He sets his coffee cup down and gives me a concerned look.

“I must admit that this is all a bit overwhelming, but why do you ask?”

“For a moment there, you looked as if you had the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

I shrug but I’m a bit unnerved that this stranger is reading me so well.

“If you’re worried about your mother, well, she seems like she can handle things in your absence.” He reaches over and pats my hand. “This will be an adventure, Abby. Fun.
Exciting
. Soak it all up and enjoy yourself.”

“Okay,” I answer with a smile. Mitchell Banks has somehow managed to calm my nerves and get me looking forward to this crazy thing I’ve gotten myself involved in. I notice that his gaze has shifted from my face to over my shoulder, and sure enough my mother appears with a coffeepot that she handles like it’s an extension of her hand.

“Would you like a refill, Mr. Banks?”

“Yes, please. Your coffee is delicious . . . smooth and rich. My compliments.”

“Why, thank you kindly,” she responds with a proud smile. “I would have refilled your cup earlier, mind you, but I didn’t want to interrupt.” She fills his cup with a flourish. “May I bring you breakfast? On the house, of course.”

“That would be most excellent,” he says with a wide smile that shows off perfect teeth. I must admit that he’s pretty danged hot for an older dude. “But on two conditions.”

Mama arches one elegant eyebrow. How she manages to be a southern belle while waiting tables is beyond me. “And what might those be?”

“One, that you call me Mitch. And two, that you allow me to pay for my meal.”