Home to Montana. Charlotte Carter
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“I’ll fix Rags a dish.”
“Thanks. And if you don’t mind, Mama. I appreciate your offer of supper, but I’d just as soon eat on the porch with my dog. Looking the way I do, I think I’d scare off your customers if I ate out front.” Being outside would also get him away from the reflections. Give him some space to breathe again.
Mama narrowed her eyes, appraising him. “Trust me, we’ve seen worse. But if that’s what you’d like, it’s fine with me.”
He made his way out the back door and walked halfway into the yard, his leg more painful than usual, before he could draw a comfortable breath of cool, fresh air. He supposed the prison chaplain who counseled him about his post-traumatic stress disorder would say it was a good thing he’d done. He’d gone into a kitchen without having a full panic attack like the one he’d had when they’d assigned him to prison kitchen duty. They’d transferred his work detail to the prison laundry in a hurry.
Good thing or not, he was still shaking on the inside.
Rags did a couple of circles around Nick. He knelt and wrapped his arms around the dog. A calming sensation eased his nerves. The tight muscles of his neck and shoulders relaxed. More than one night since he’d found Rags, the dog had awakened Nick before his recurring nightmare had a chance to send him screaming out into the cold. Instead, he’d buried his face in the dog’s fur, holding on while the bloody images faded.
“Your dinner’s on the way, buddy.” His voice was hoarse, his mouth dry. “Sorry it took me so long.”
The back door opened. Alisa stood backlighted on the porch with two plates in her hands, her slender figure revealed in silhouette.
He pushed up to his feet.
“You really could eat inside,” she said. “We get hikers and fishermen who’ve been out in the wilderness for weeks that look worse than you do.”
“I’m fine here, thanks.” He took Rags’ plate and put it down at the foot of the steps. “Here you go, buddy.” Tomorrow he’d have to find a grocery store and stock up on dog food. He didn’t usually take handouts, but he had to admit the paprika smell of the chicken was enough to make his mouth water. Rags didn’t have any objection to the chunks of steak on his plate, either.
“We do appreciate you fixing the dishwasher. I was afraid Mama was going to blow a gasket if we had to do without until our electrician could get here tomorrow.”
“Glad I could help.”
Alisa hesitated for a moment before handing him the plate of chicken. “Just bring your dirty plates inside when you’re done.”
He nodded and watched her walk back into the kitchen. An ache of loneliness rose inside him, and he wished he could follow her into her world. A world that used to be his.
He’d be a fool on any number of levels if he acted on that impulse. She’d be worse than a fool if she let him.
He bent over his plate, said a silent grace and dug into the chicken. The mixture of sour cream, paprika and garlic in the sauce slid across his tongue giving his taste buds a treat. He chewed the fork-tender chicken thoughtfully.
Mama Machak sure knew how to cook.
* * *
Alisa shook her head as she returned to the kitchen.
The man was a puzzle. Scruffy and unkempt, a drifter but well-spoken. A man who worried about his dog before eating his own supper.
Normally she’d find that admirable.
In this case, she’d put it down to her quixotic quirk that made her a sucker for the underdog.
“You get that young man his dinner?” Mama plated two chicken specials and added a serving of steamed julienne vegetables.
“He’s eating on the porch with his dog. Just like he wanted.”
“He’s a good man. I can tell.”
“Why? Because he fixed a switch on our dishwasher?” If she’d known what was wrong, she could have fixed it herself.
“No, it’s in his eyes. They’re honest eyes.”
Alisa thought they were intense eyes. Penetrating. Almost mesmerizing. She didn’t know about honest. And wasn’t about to volunteer to test Mama’s intuition.
“You think he’s looking for a job?” Mama asked.
“I doubt he’ll stay around that long.”
Mama slid the two plated dinners under the heat lamp where the waitress could pick them up. “What’s his name?”
“Nick. Carboni? Caloni? Something like that.”
Cocking her head, Mama frowned. “There used to be a family here. Carbini, I think it was. The mother was sickly all the time. The father worked summers at the mill and got drunk all winter. There was a cute little boy—”
Alisa gasped. “Nick Carbini! I remember him from third grade. He had a neat smile and told knock knock jokes and dumb riddles until we were all sick of them. But he couldn’t be the same—” This Nick rarely smiled. She doubted he was into telling jokes. There was too much sadness about him. Still, as she remembered her classmate’s eyes...
“When the mother died, the old man took the boy off with him,” Mama related. “I wondered sometimes if the youngster would be all right with his father. He wasn’t a good example for the boy.” She tossed two New York strip steaks on the grill, and they sizzled.
“Maybe,” Mama mused, “your young man has come home to stay.”
“He’s not my young anything.”
Mama pulled off her disposable gloves and tossed them in a nearby trash container. “You watch the steaks, sweetie. I’m going see if young Mr. Carbini would like a job.”
“Mama! What kind of a job? You don’t know anything about the man. He could be a criminal for all you know. Just because you knew him as a boy and felt sorry for him, doesn’t mean you can trust him as a man. It doesn’t sound like he came from a very good family.”
“Not everyone is as lucky as you were to have a nice mama and papa. From what I’ve seen, Nick Carbini knows enough to fill in for Jake for a couple of weeks.”
Mama grabbed her sweater from the coatrack, tossed it around her shoulders and stepped out onto the porch.
Alisa rolled her eyes. Nick might have had a rough life, but he was still a drifter. She didn’t want him or his dog around, not when Greg was so obviously drawn to the pair. Not when she knew her own weakness.
If Nick decided he’d take the job, she’d have to make sure to keep her distance.
How she’d manage to do that with him working around the diner was beyond her.
* * *
Nick looked up as Mama stepped out onto the porch. At the same time, Rags lifted his head and his tail began to swipe through the air. Greedy as he was, he was probably hoping for another plate of scraps.
“This chicken is great. Wonderful flavor,” Nick said. “I’ve never had dumplings like these either.”
Mama beamed. “My mama taught me. It’s a Czechoslovakian dish. Some people use water for the dumplings, but milk is better.”
“Gives it more flavor and body.”
“Yes, absolutely.” She sat down on the step beside Nick. “So, young man, are you looking for a job?”
Petting Rags, he frowned. “I don’t plan to hang around long.” He had no idea where he might go next. But he would leave as soon as his flashbacks returned. The nightmares that woke him in a cold sweat. Then he’d move on. Trying to outrun them.
So far that hadn’t worked.
“How