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Date Posted: 16:32:44 09/16/06 Sat
Author: Diane
Author Host/IP: cache-mtc-ae08.proxy.aol.com / 64.12.117.12
Subject: "Southern Hospitality?"
In reply to: Diane 's message, "A new ficlet" on 16:20:24 09/16/06 Sat

1252 words.
Rated: PG-ish?
Set mid/late Season 4

He sat quietly in the corner booth of the diner, perusing the menu with disinterest boarding on distain. Grits. White grits; yellow grits; Hominy grits. Endless grits. Cooked in bacon grease. "Extra butter on request." Why not just advertise “Heart Attack on a Plate?” Having made his decision he glanced up, trying to catch the eye of the nonchalant teen-aged waitress. Instead, he saw her, coming through the door, the collar of her light-weight jacket pulled up around her neck to block the unexpected chill breeze of a mid-October morning. She was beautiful, perfect white teeth in a pleasant smile as she moved aside to let an elderly gentleman with a cane squeeze past her to the doorway.

He lowered his eyes to the menu again as her smile disappeared as through wrenched away, her face pale with shock. She had seen him. Of course she had. Crowded though the little diner was during the breakfast rush, she couldn’t have missed him. Without looking and despite the hubbub around him, he could feel her--sense her coming closer.

“Is it you?” Her voice was caught somewhere between longing and doubt; excitement and disbelief.

He set his menu on the table and met her eyes, having at last garnered the waitress’s attention. The girl strolled over to his table, squeezing around the woman to reach her customer. She wasn’t usually this attentive on a Saturday morning, but the guy in booth 10 was drop-dead gorgeous. However, he wasn’t even looking at her at the moment. She knew his comment wasn’t addressed to her as he answered the other woman’s query with one of his own. “Huh?”

The woman blinked. ‘Huh?’ That was wrong. But he was here—not five feet away. She tried again. “Don’t—don’t you know me?” Her mind instantly jumped into overdrive. Oh, God! Had he been in an accident? Suffered from some brain injury?

He flashed his biggest and brightest smile.

“Not yet.” He winked; cheekily. “Maybe we can get to know each other over breakfast. Have a seat, sweetheart.” He half-stood, as much as the cramped booth allowed, displaying good old-fashioned Southern manners.

No, this was wrong. The accent. His actions. Attitude. None of them his. Yet she could swear…

He turned his attention away for a moment to speak to the young waitress, sitting again as his balancing act was becoming precarious. “Um, gimme some white grits, extra butter, and uh, how ‘bout a Coke?” The waitress scratched on her pad and nodded, extending her hand for his menu. “Thanks, darlin’.” He winked at her, too, but the waitress didn’t react. Not that the guy wasn’t to die for, but he was slick; a player. She’d heard him call the other woman ‘sweetheart,’ hitting on both of them to double his odds. She knew the type. Not worth it. She stepped around the other woman to hand in her order to the cook. Jesus, look at her face. She was a goner. Power to ya, fella, she silently congratulated the hunk. He shoots; he scores.

“I don’t understand…” The woman was confused; shaken. He used that to his advantage to entice her to join him in his booth; he wanted a closer look.

“Sit down, sweetheart.” He nodded to the seat opposite his. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.” He grinned and winked again, and the waitress, hearing his offer, rolled her eyes. With a face and body like that, he probably thought that lame line would work. Apparently it did, as the goner took the seat he indicated, her eyes not leaving his face. Whatever.

The man spoke first. “Adam.” In two seconds the woman’s face had turned from ashen to flushed with emotion. Forget the how’s and the why’s. Nothing else mattered.

“He’s fine,” she enthused. “He missed you…we both did. I didn’t…we… Oh, my God. I’m so…”

“Huh?” The man was visibly confused, and she stopped mid-sentence, stunned.

Uncertainty crept back into her tone. “You…you said ‘Adam.’”

“Yep.” The confusion was gone, replaced by that winsome grin. “Adam Chalmers. Nice to meet you.” He extended his hand across the table, feeling a little foolish when the woman refused to take it. She stared at his hand as through it were an alien being, and he quickly withdrew it. “And you are?”

“I’m…um, I’m Betsy. Betsy Sanders.”

Like hell. This lady was no ‘Betsy.’ ‘Felicity,’ maybe or ‘Angelica.’ Maybe something from one of those old-time romance novels, upper-crust accent included. But definitely *not* a ‘Betsy.’

“You new in town?” he asked, lazily reaching out for the Coke proffered by the waitress, chugging half of it before setting the glass down. He wiped his mouth apologetically on his sleeve, indicating the empty napkin dispenser.

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I’m just visiting today, for the craft show.”

He nodded, understanding. “Those wood doo-dads people make and sell. Yeah, I’ve seen ‘em. So, where are you visiting from?”

This was surreal. ‘Doo-dads?’ ‘Seen ‘em?’ Drinking a Coke for breakfast? It couldn’t be. And yet…

“I…that is, we…we live in Huntsville. My son and I. He’s six.” She saw his eyes start to glaze, a not uncommon phenomenon among men when she mentioned having a child. “His name is Adam,” she pressed on, feeling the need to explain. “That’s why when you said ‘Adam’ a few minutes ago I thought, well, I thought I knew you.”

“I’d have remembered you, sweetheart. We don’t get too many classy ladies here in Gurley, with the exception of you, darlin’,” His last comment was directed to the waitress bringing his grits, who rolled her eyes.

“Talk’s cheap,” she quipped. “I can’t hear you unless you leave a big tip, you got that?”

He laughed heartily at what appeared to be a running joke between them. Obviously, he and the waitress knew each other well. This was a mistake. Wishful thinking; a fantasy. It wasn’t meant to be.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Chalmers. I’ve taken enough of your time.” She watched him pick up his fork and dig into his order of grits. Left-handed. She felt like an idiot, and on the verge of tears.

“Hey,” he interjected, looking uncomfortable and a little crestfallen. “No need to leave on my account.”

“No, really. I’m sorry. I have to go.” Elena picked up her purse and hurriedly made her way to the front of the diner and out of the door, gasping for air. You’re okay, she told herself. It wasn’t him. Close at first glance, eerily so, but not him. Not Michael.

He watched her through the front window, deep in thought, as she crossed the street and turned north. He scooped up another forkful of the lukewarm grits, nonchalantly scratching behind his right ear.

“What the heck happened?” It was Birkoff. “We lost you for almost five minutes. Are you okay?”

No, he wasn’t okay. He was shaken to the core. But Elena and Adam were alive and well. It was enough.

“Birkoff, the target isn’t coming. Have the perimeter team pull back one kilometer. I’ll meet the van at pick-up point B.” The opposite direction from the one Elena had taken.

Michael laid down his fork, the grits sticking in his throat like wallpaper paste. He stood, pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, and laid a twenty dollar bill on the table. The food was unpalatable, the service indifferent. But Michael had just had the best breakfast he’d eaten in a long time.

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