Turning toward the main dining area, I paused in the doorway, seeing all twenty-two tables and twelve barstools filled with professionals, families, tourists, and locals. According to Phaedra, table thirteen even included a bestselling author and her assistant. I leaned over, compensating for the extra weight of the tray, and winked in thanks to Kirby as she opened the stand next to the table where I would set my tray.

“Thanks, lovey,” I said, pulling the first plate.

I set it in front of Don, my first regular and the best tipper in town. He pushed up his thick glasses and settled into his seat, removing his trademark fedora. Don’s khaki jacket was a bit worn, like the dress shirt and tie he wore every day. On slow afternoons, I would listen to him talk about Jesus and how much he missed his wife.

Kirby’s long dark ponytail swished as she bussed a table near the wall of windows. She held a small tub full of dirty dishes against her hip, winking at me as she passed through to the kitchen. She was gone only long enough to drop off the pile of plates and cups for Hector to wash, and then she returned to her hostess podium. Her naturally wine-stained lips turned up at the corners as a light breeze blew through the glass entrance door, propped open by a large geode, one of hundreds Chuck had collected over the years.

Kirby greeted a group of four men who’d walked in as I attended to Don.

“Would you cut open that steak for me, handsome?” I asked.

Don didn’t need a menu. He ordered the same meal at every visit—a house salad swimming in ranch, fried pickles, a medium-rare New York strip, and Phaedra’s turtle cheesecake—and he wanted all of it at the same time.

Don complied, tucking his tie between the buttons of his shirt, and with his shaking thin hands, he sawed into the juicy meat on his plate. He looked up and offered a quick nod.

While he prayed over his food, I left him for just a moment to swipe the pitcher of sweet sun tea off the bar counter. When I returned and picked up his cup, I held the pitcher sideways, so plenty of ice poured out with the light-brown liquid.

Don took a sip and let out a satisfied sigh. “As I live and breathe, Falyn. I sure love it when Phaedra makes her sun tea.”

His chin was attached to the bottom of his throat with a thin flap of loose skin, and his face and hands were dotted with liver spots. He was a widower, and he’d lost weight since Mary Ann passed.

I offered a half smile. “I know you do. I’ll check on you in a bit.”

“Because you’re the best,” Don called after me.