I stand there on the sidewalk glowering back at these knuckle-heads. I want to send them a clear message, too. They don’t scare me. And never will.

Finally, my one-way staring contest ends. They start to whoop and holler, flash a mix of gang signs and one-finger salutes my way, then peel out.

“I see your fanboys have returned,” Marlene says as I reenter the truck. “Why didn’t you go over and drop off something for them? Like a cup of hot grease?”

I ignore her violent yet attractive suggestion and check my watch.

“Why don’t we open up a little early. I’ve got some more … errands to run this afternoon,” I say.

Marlene says, “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

I say, “Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course I can,” she says.

“Good for you,” I reply, and she tries to kick me like yesterday, and I jump back.

Sure enough, our first few hungry patrons soon appear—locals who share social media notes and texts when our truck is spotted—and are delighted to find us already open. The shift gets busy, fast—until about twenty minutes before closing time, when I notice Marlene has stopped calling out orders and buttering corn bread. Instead, she’s having a little chitchat with someone outside, who I can’t see.

“Hey, Mar,” I call out teasingly, “more slathering, less blathering!”

“Oh, excuse me,” she sasses back. “You’re allowed to flirt with Miss McKeon, but I’m not?”

Hang on. Is Marlene really talking to Vanessa? My ex-wife chatting with a woman who’s grabbed my attention, and more?

I step back from the stove to get a better look.

Yep, there she is. Wearing an aquamarine dress, chunky tortoiseshell sunglasses, and her trademark luminous smile.

For one very brief moment, all is right again in the world.

CHAPTER 26

Wiping my hands on a dishrag, I join Marlene at the service window and flash our visitor a tired but happy grin.

“Vanessa, what’s wrong?” I ask. “You’re here while we’re actually still open.”

“Ha ha ha,” she says, looking up at me. “Everyone’s just fine, thank you. Now let’s see … I think I’ll have the crab gumbo with grits … and the crawfish boudin with dirty rice.”

She plucks two Big Shots from the cooler: one cola, one watermelon.

“And these, too, please.”

“Two entrees, two drinks,” I say curiously. “Who’s your lucky dining companion?”

Marlene jabs her elbow into my ribs.

“You don’t interrogate customers, Caleb,” she reminds me. “You cook for them. Now chop, chop!”

With a smirk, I obey—and put a little extra love into the order, too. I ladle the gumbo from the very bottom of the pot so it’s chock-full of crab meat. And I keep a close eye on grilling the crawfish sausage, making sure its char marks are perfect.