So, either you're very persuasive or she's more desperate than she's letting on. Maybe both. Maybe. Iris straightened. Just so you know, she's good people.
Been through enough. Don't need anyone making things harder. It wasn't a threat, just information. A warning shot across the bow. Understood, Jackson said.
Through the kitchen door, he could hear Beatatrice moving around, the sizzle of meat on a griddle, the scrape of a spatula, small sounds of normaly that felt like peace. Beatrice returned with a plate. "Burger fries, everything cooked just right. " She said it in front of Jackson and leaned against the counter. "You mentioned Carson City," she said. "That where you're headed back to tonight? " "Was planning on it?
Long ride in the dark. " Jackson cut into the burger, took a bite. Better than decent. Better than he'd had in months. I've done longer. Beatric watched him eat for a moment.
Then I have a room upstairs. Used to rent it out before the highway bypass went through and took all our traffic. It's clean, empty. You're welcome to it if you want to wait until morning. Jackson looked up, met her eyes.
Why would you offer that? Because you help me. Because it's late. Because she stopped, started again. Because someone I loved would want me to.
The echo of his own words thrown back at him like a gift. You need to decide. Jackson sat down his burger. Your husband, Douglas? Yes.
She poured herself coffee. He was a pilot. Air Force. Flew F-16s in the Gulf War. Came back and never wanted to fly again.
Bought this place instead. Said he'd had enough of the sky. Wanted solid ground under his feet. And the Harley, a small smile crossed her face. Sad and sweet and complicated.
That was his one concession to speed, to freedom. He'd ride out into the desert on Sundays. Sometimes alone, sometimes with me on the back. Said it was the only time he felt quiet inside. She looked out the window at the dark desert.
Said it was the only time the war didn't follow him. Jackson understood that. Understood it better than he wanted to. What happened to him? Heart attack.
Right out there in the parking lot. She pointed through the window. We were closing up the diner 9 years ago last March. He just grabbed his chest and fell dead before the ambulance came. Beatatrice stared into her coffee.
He was 71. I was 59. We were supposed to have more time. We're always supposed to have more time. She looked at him.
Really looked. You lost someone, too. It wasn't a question. My wife Diane, 6 years ago, car accident. Drunk driver ran a red light in San Diego.
I'm sorry. So am I. They sat in silence. The coffee cooled outside. The desert wind picked up rattling the diner's windows like it wanted in.
Finally, Beatatric said, "The room upstairs, it's yours if you want it. No strings, no expectations, just a place to sleep. " Jackson thought about the road, about riding back to Carson City in the dark, about the empty apartment waiting for him there. About another night of not sleeping, of staring at the ceiling of counting the days since Diane died. I'd appreciate that," he said. Beatatrice nodded.
"Finish your dinner. I'll make up the bed. " She disappeared up a narrow stair at the back of the diner. Iris materialized beside Jackson with the coffee pot. "Refil? Thanks," she poured.
"You know, she hasn't let anyone upstairs since Douglas died. Hasn't rented that room to a single soul. " She told me, "Just wanted to make sure you knew. " Iris capped the coffee pot. She's careful with her trust. Real careful. So if she's giving it to you, don't waste it.
Wasn't planning to. Iris studied him for a long moment, reading him the way Beatatrice had, looking for something. Apparently finding it. Good. Eat your fries.
They're better hot. Jackson ate uh finished his coffee. By the time he was done, Beatatrice had come back downstairs. Room's ready. Fresh sheets.
Towels in the bathroom. Lock on the door if you want it. Thank you. Don't thank me yet. The mattress is old and the water pressure is terrible, but it's clean.
Jackson stood. I'll take my bike around back. Don't want it blocking your entrance. There's a tarp in the storage shed if you want to cover it. Weather can turn quick out here.
Dust storms rain when you least expect it. He nodded, headed for the door. Jackson. He turned. Beatatric stood behind the counter, lit from above by the old fluorescent lights, small and fierce and tired and somehow still standing.
Just what I needed. Why'd you really help me today? She asked. Truth. Jackson considered lying.
Considered a dozen easy answers that would sound good and mean nothing. Told the truth instead. Because I spent 6 years after my wife died not helping anyone, not even myself, and I'm tired of being that person. Beatric's expression softened. Something like recognition flickered in her eyes.
Douglas used to say the same thing after he came back from the war. Said he was tired of being the person combat made him. That's why he opened this place. To be someone different, someone who fed people instead of she stopped. Someone different.
Did it work? Some days she picked up a dish rag, folded it carefully. Some days he was still that pilot, still fighting, still seeing things he couldn't unsee. But this place, this little diner in the middle of nowhere, it gave him something to fight for instead of against. Jackson understood that, too.
Understood it in his bones. He went outside, moved his bike around back, parked it beside Douglas's old soft tail. In the moonlight, the two Harleys looked like father and son. One pristine and powerful, one forgotten and failing, both waiting for something. Jackson found the tarp in the storage shed, covered his bike, then stood there in the gravel looking at Douglas's machine.
Nine years of neglect, of sitting still while the world moved on, of rust and dust and dreams deferred. He crouched beside it, ran his hand along the tank. The paint was rough with dust and oxidation. The chrome spotted with rust, but underneath underneath he could see what it had been. Could see the care someone had put into it.
The love on impulse, Jackson pulled his phone from his pocket. Called Gideon. Two rings. Boss, where the hell are you? Dusty Ridge, about 90 mi southeast of Carson.
What's in Dusty Ridge? A woman who needed help. I'm staying the night. Be back tomorrow. A pause.
You okay, boss? Yeah, I'm okay. Listen, you still have those parts for the 95 soft tail we scrapped last month. Some of them. Why?
I need a carburetor rebuild kit, new spark plugs, fuel filter, battery if you've got one. Boss, what are you doing? Helping someone. Another pause. Longer this time.
Jackson heard something in the silence. Understanding maybe. Or hope. Diane would be proud of you, Gideon said finally. The words hit harder than Jackson expected.
Maybe. No, maybe. She would be. I'll get the parts together. You need them brought out.
Not yet. I'll let you know. Okay, be safe, boss. Always am. Jackson hung up, looked at the old Harley again.
Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can do. He headed back inside. Beatatrice and Iris were wiping down tables, getting ready to close for the night. Rooms at the top of the stairs.