Palmetto Moon Read Online Free PDF Page B

breeze in the air, when the sky is fresh out of clouds, and the “Halls of Montezuma” sounds like a real place he’ll never see from this hellhole.
    Frank used to wish this place was the real Round O in Texas, but it’s just some Podunk crossroads in South Carolina, a town where people live and die without much in between. Running the diner is as redundant as the name of the town, but Frank would rather die than wallow in public pity. Most days, he wakes up and tries to picture his life different, like if he tries hard enough, he can make it so. Every time he turns an egg or a hoecake on the griddle, he pictures his life turning, changing into something more than six days a week at the Sit Down Diner. Unfortunately, today is not one of those days.
    “Two eggs. Spank ’em. Grits, extra butter. Biscuits. Bacon.” Tiny’s booming voice startles him; she seems to get a motherly kind of satisfaction out of getting his mind back on the griddle. “Today’s just like yesterday, shug. Same as tomorrow.” He gives her a dirty look, and she runs her hand through her hair so that only Frank can see she’s giving him the finger. “Who went and stomped on your biscuits this morning?”
    Frank nods at the order Tiny puts on the carousel and cracks an egg with each hand; they settle onto the griddle and begin to harden. Tiny pops her gum and raises her eyebrows at him, waiting for a wisecrack, but he’s fresh out of snappy comebacks.
    “You better spank those eggs and fry them hard, Frank, or you’ll be doing ’em again.”
    Frank glances up at the next order and catches sight of the veiled image of a woman through the screen door. The morning sun outlines her small frame, and he doesn’t have to see her face to know she’s beautiful. He flips a salmon croquette and waits for her to open the door. It sizzles and he imagines what it would be like to love her the moment he lays eyes on her. Sure it sounds trite, but not compared to working ten-hour days at the diner. It’s a good word to describe Frank’s job, the diner. Hell, the whole crossroads is commonplace, as stale as yesterday’s mackerel.
    The woman is still on the other side of the screen. His heart pounds, but the murmur doesn’t sound like it usually does, sloshy like an old wringer washing machine on its last leg. No, he feels the sound of each chamber opening and closing, strong, like a big bass drum, beating for the woman behind the screen.
    Old Joe Pike clears his throat in a guttural way that always makes the ladies cringe, and even turns the heads at the back table, where the truckers sit. The woman hesitates like she’s rethinking the sameness of her own life and stands in the threshold for so long, Frank panics. Maybe there is a God, and if there is, Frank’s in trouble for thumbing his nose up at him for a multitude of sins, some of them his own. That last thought lays into Frank like a good stiff punch, and he almost drops the heavy skillet he yanked off the back burner the moment he saw her.
    The door opens slowly. Even from Frank’s cubbyhole, her face is luminous, a word never used about women in Round O, no matter how old or young they might be. Still, seeing the woman standing there, backlit by the promise of a new day, takes his breath away.
    She looks surprised, maybe even a little embarrassed that Tiny knows she is new in the area, and blushes as Tiny sets about taking her order and prying into her business. Frank’s daddy used to bawl Tiny out for being such a busybody. After he left the diner to Frank, there were times Frank used to get on the old woman good for being so nosey, but not today.
    “Need a minute?” The woman shakes her head and Tiny seems satisfied with her bashful answers that can’t be heard above the clatter. Frank wants to holler out from the kitchen for everyone to shut up so he can hear her voice.
    “Crab cakes, grits, and tea—with milk of all things.” Tiny winks at him, and he wills himself not to beg her