Tattered Covers

By Lucinda Stein

Azalea Pruett never dreamed she'd be a waitress in a retro-fifties diner. But like a burger flipped on a hot grill, Zal's life turns upside down after her husband's unexpected death. Added to her grief, she discovers he's left her on the verge of bankruptcy. Still reeling from her misfortune, Zal heads out on the open road with an old Airstream trailer hitched behind a run-down pickup.

She visits her grandmother's childhood home in Colorado where an older gentleman, Burt Baxter, takes her under his wing and offers her a job in his bookstore. Burt encourages Zal to research her family history in the historic mining town of Ouray. She learns her great-grandmother was one of Colorado's first female physicians, but Zal also discovers a skeleton dangling from the family tree—an Old West madam lies hidden in the coffer of family secrets.

The bookstore provides an opportunity to meet new people, but Zal is caught off guard by the attention of two local men. She's torn between desire for relationship and memories of her deceased husband. Swayed by the handsome businessman, Tom Jeffers, Zal is also fascinated by the sometimes abrasive wildlife biologist, Jake Bartlett. Just when she's starting to fit into the community, Burt threatens to close the bookstore, and she finds her new life in jeopardy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lucinda Stein
• Release date: Sep 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301112142

Book preview

In the foyer, Azalea Pruett grabbed a sequined clutch from the buffet and checked her upswept hair in the mirror. The ornate gilded frame echoed the sun-bleached blonde at her temples. Absently, she fingered the strand of genuine pearls at her neck. Her cocktail dress was formfitting but conservative, a classic black dress she’d worn half a dozen times. She opened the front door and froze.

"What are you doing? In her driveway, a tow truck hoisted her silver BMW onto a long-bed trailer. Stop! That’s my car."

A middle-age man in a blue jumpsuit glanced up and then resumed his task. Gray clouds plastered the sky.

She twisted her ankle, and her left heel flew into the grass. She limped toward the man. Hey, you can’t do that! There’s been some mistake.

The man paused. His cigarette hung limp at the corner of his mouth. DUANE was embroidered above his right chest pocket. He checked a form on a clipboard. Pruett. 315 Laura Lane. He pointed at the house number prominently displayed on bright Mexican tiles at the side of the door. Repo order.

But that can’t be. The pressure on her chest mounted. Her stomach turned.

I have my orders, ma’am. His eyelids hung low. He took a long drag on his cigarette. Whoosh. Pop. Hiss. Electronic, he said, with the device still in his lips.

Sir, I’d like your full name. I’m going to report this to the police. She glanced at the green tow truck. Tony’s Towing covered the side of the vehicle in large red letters that rivaled a billboard.

Duane Trump, ma’am. He shook his head. But Tony Russo’s the owner. Number’s in the phone book. He opened the driver’s side door and pulled away. A mumble drifted back with the scent of mint mist from the e-cigarette. Just doin’ my job, lady.

She retrieved her heel and considered pitching it at the slow moving truck. Instead, she slipped her foot into the shoe and checked her black hose for runs. She studied the sky, heavy with clouds. With only $139 left in her savings account, she decided against calling a taxi. Her black heels clicked over the cement sidewalk. It was seven blocks to Hope Presbyterian Church. She’d never been inside the century-old building. Tap, tip, tap, her heels marched onward. The breeze lifted her perfume, a hint of cinnamon laced with musk. A glance at her Rolex revealed she would be right on time for her husband’s funeral.

Four blocks later, thunder rolled overhead. She passed Piney Flats Public Library where she volunteered Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. Her heavy heart surpassed the weight of the looming clouds. Where did she fit in now? Certainly not on the romance shelf. That part of her life was gone. Perhaps the fantasy section would be a better match. After ten years of marriage, her life had been revealed as a farce. Things she once took for granted appeared as fairy dust.

A flash of lightning ripped across the sky. Her shoulders cringed as she waited for the aftermath of thunder. A loud boom tore through the atmosphere. At the powerful crash, love for David flooded her heart. He found thunderstorms irresistible. They’d open the garage door and gaze at the night sky. An image arose of David’s arm around her shoulder as they waited for the next blaze of light. All said, her husband had been good to her.

She decided at last her life would be best shelved in the mystery section since she had no clue what to do with her life. Thunder boomed. The clouds burst and she ran the remaining three blocks to the chapel. By the time she reached the steps of the church, her dress clinched her body like spandex shrunk in the dryer. At the top step, she paused to wipe at her wet face with a tissue, and the paper turned black. On top of everything, her mascara was running. Ordinarily not a crier, she entered the crowded church—alone and sobbing.

Chapter 2

A neon light in the front window beckoned customers to Momma’s Diner. The letters M-O-M flashed fluorescent green. The remaining letters blazed red in the dusky light. Inside the diner, the heavy aroma of high-cholesterol burgers, deep-fried onion rings, and greasy fries jitterbugged with the smell of fresh coffee.

Azalea rushed to the kitchen and clipped her ticket to the cook’s order wheel. The big-boned blonde removed the menus tucked beneath her elbow and stacked them on the end of the counter. Zal, as she was known to her friends, paused, feet throbbing. If the meaning of her life could be found in a diner menu, hers was coated with dried ketchup, dirty fingerprints, and numerous coffee stains.

She tugged at the hem of her scarlet uniform. The skirt rode higher on her 5’9" leggy frame than it did on most of the waitresses. Momma’s Diner was embroidered on the upper pocket in indigo thread, and a white ruffled apron was attached at the waist. Red tennis shoes completed the retro-fifties attire, her feet looking titanic in the bright tomato hue. Separately, her features were not particularly appealing: her eyes set too far apart, her nose came up a tad short, and her smile stretched uncommonly wide. Her best features were her high cheekbones and large dusty-blue eyes. Though fine laugh lines gathered around her eyes when she smiled, she appeared younger than her forty-four years. Overall, the whole package pulled together well enough that a stranger passing through Piney Flats, California—if asked—would reply she was an attractive woman.

The hum of conversation and laughter charged the busy room. Zal blew an errant strand of hair from over her eye. A number two pencil rested in the warm spot behind her right ear. Moments ago, she sang happy birthday to a six-year-old, along with the girl’s family and five school chums. Earlier, she joked with a young couple enjoying a rare evening out. A dozen red roses engulfed the table.

Hot date? Zal asked.

Anniversary, said the young man proudly.

Let me guess. It’s your first?

Third, the wife answered.

Honey, this guy’s a keeper. Everyone laughed, including customers at the next table.

At station number five, an elderly couple sat at a table tucked in the corner. The gentleman reached for the napkin folded beneath his silverware, and the utensils scattered in disarray, clanging as they fell against the edge of the thick stoneware plate. He leaned over the table and dabbed at a spot above his wife’s mouth. She looked up and smiled. Her fingers momentarily brushed his hand, and they resumed talking.

The small gesture wrenched Zal’s heart as she stood watching from across the room. That was how it worked.  plate of refried grief would suddenly appear, unordered, unwanted, but undeniably hers. She still loved David, despite the way he left her. Like the tornado that scooped Dorothy up from a small Kansas farm, Zal’s life gyrated out of control. There were days her feet never touched the ground.

At the pick-up counter Zal slumped and waited for a dinner special to come up. A pin-pricking quiver tickled the top of her scalp, surged down her back in a warm wave, and spread to the tips of her toes. She was a woman running on empty. Her manifested fear exposed a naked fact—there was nothing left inside.

Her order was up. Zal shook herself and gulped a deep breath. She caught the cook’s eye and winked. Her long ponytail swayed as she tilted her head. You’re so dependable, Abe. A minute upward twist of his lips was the closest the man ever came to an emotional response.

At least, ya don’t let my food sit and rot. Abe’s thin lips skittered down, and his eyebrows drew together. Sweat glistened off the shiny bald cap of his head in the greasy sauna-heat of the kitchen. He grabbed the hand towel kept for the singular task of mopping his forehead and slapped the heavy stoneware plate on the counter. Steam billowed from the hot food. Abe gave a quick wink before he turned to flip another burger on the grill.

The waitresses resented Abe’s brusque manner, but Zal had the innate ability to see through his rough exterior. Her long fingers plucked a radish rose and set it on the empty space between the meatloaf and a mound of mashed potatoes. A stem of cilantro was wrapped around her creation. She made the radishes at the beginning of her shift. Despite the fact that only one in five people commented on the garnish, she enjoyed adding a personal touch to her customers’ meals. She delivered Momma’s Meat Loaf Special to a woman sitting solo at table two. Neatly dressed in a modest skirt and matching jacket, she appeared to be in her mid-twenties. A bank teller. Maybe a legal secretary? It was a little game Zal played—guessing the occupation of her customers.

Today’s special, nice and hot. Zal beamed. They say it’s comfort food; so here’s wishing you comfort.

The young woman’s smile transformed her dowdy appearance. She became almost beautiful.

I could use some, she said. Today’s the one year anniversary of my divorce. Dark, curly hair partially obscured the woman’s round face. Her smile plummeted.

Sorry to hear that. Zal saw the lingering pain in her customer’s eyes and patted the young woman’s shoulder. Bet it’s been a rough year for you. It takes time to heal, I can testify to that. Zal narrowed her eyes in thought. You might consider taking in a movie. There’s a theater down the block. A good movie does wonders for me.

Thanks. Her face brightened. It might do me some good.

Don’t give up. You’re bound to find a special guy.

Abe’s voice barked across the diner. Order up.

Zal swung her head back. Excuse me. I have another meal to deliver. I’ll check on you in a little bit.

Zal loved to be around people—liked to make them laugh, uncover their passions, even their heartaches. But the advice she’d given the young woman didn’t apply to herself. She didn’t want to count on anyone anymore. At the order counter she picked up two apple pies a la mode and balanced the tray on one arm like a gymnast on a balance beam. Spicy cinnamon rippled the air. She passed the beverage station and snatched a fresh carafe of coffee with her other hand. Zal marched to the corner table occupied by the cute elderly couple. The old folks held hands below the table. Look at you two love birds.

The old coot won’t leave me alone. The woman stole a look at her husband, but her eyes sparkled. White hair and rows of soft wrinkles couldn’t disguise the classical angles of her face.

Can you blame me?’ He winked at Zal. She’s a real beauty."

How many years have you been married?

The woman’s voice lilted. Fifty-three years this August.

What a blessing, Zal said. A faint tremor stirred in her chest. It threatened to detonate, if she dared to stop and examine it. How wonderful for you.

Thank you, dear.

Zal smiled at the sweet couple. Is there anything else I can bring you? The man shook his head.

You’ve been a mighty fine waitress. The husband winked again.

She handed them the bill.

An aging gentleman sat alone in a back booth. At his crown, pink scalp appeared beneath streaks of thinning gray hair, in contrast to the thick muff at his ears. A sharp angled face hinted of handsome good looks in his youth. Zal grabbed a menu and fresh water. Ice chimed softly against the glass as she approached the customer.

The man was solid, with a bit of a stomach. But it was his expression that caught her attention. Solemn and silent.

With a warm smile, she approached the table. Good evening. She set the water glass before him. How are you doing?

Silence.

The man’s expression was indecipherable. His eyes darted to the outstretched menu. She shifted from one leg to the other at the awkward hiatus. Most people responded to her outgoing personality, even customers that other waitresses considered dedicated grouches.

I’ll be back to get your order, sir.

His eyes remained anchored on the menu, his voice low. I killed my wife.

Chapter 3

Zal pivoted to leave and stopped in midstep. Pardon me?

He mumbled so low that she questioned whether she’d heard anything at all. His eyes lifted and he nodded. Today’s our anniversary.

Her workday momentum slammed to a standstill. She sank into the tufted red booth across from the man and slid her legs against the cool slick vinyl. She set her pencil and order pad on the table.

His voice came barely above a church whisper. I cheated on my wife for years. The skin beneath his eyes drooped in thick, tired folds. Toward the end, she knew. Threatened to leave me…over and over again.

Zal waited, her eyes wide as a latte saucer.

She’s dead. He focused his gray eyes on Zal.

She held her breath. The clunk and clatter of dirty dishes rose behind them as the busboy flung plates and silverware into a plastic bin.

She made breakfast, left it in the oven to warm, coffee simmering, and table set. I found her…, he cleared his throat, swinging from the garage rafters.

Zal stared at the man, his gaze lowered to the table. They sat in silence for a moment.

I’m so sorry, she whispered. That’s a horrible way to get revenge.

The man’s head jerked up as if she had slapped him. I cheated on the woman for twenty some years!

Of course that’s wrong, but your wife could have left and gone on with her life. Instead, she chose to punish you forever.

He glared.

Zal drew a shallow breath. Do you believe in God?

I was raised Catholic. But I haven’t gone to mass since I was a kid.

Zal hadn’t attended services since she was a teenager, but it didn’t seem the time to mention it. Have you asked God for forgiveness?

Over and over again.

Then it’s done. Accept His forgiveness and move on. Do good for someone else. She was astonished at her own words because she hadn’t considered God for a very long time.

He managed a smile.

Zal patted his hand. How long had this poor man been weighed down with guilt and regret? It was a heavy burden to carry alone.

Thank you. He gathered his faded fedora and newspaper.

You’re not going to order anything?

I need to call my son. A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It’s time to move on.

Zal watched the man walk out, the tinny bell on the door ringing in his wake. Through the plate glass window, she observed him as he hobbled down the stairs and walked to his car. She traced the vehicle’s exit from the parking lot. All her life people had surprised her with intimate revelations of themselves but this was, by far, one of the most dramatic.

Order up, Abe’s thunderous baritone rang out.

* * *

At the end of her shift, Zal clocked out and crossed the parking lot, the asphalt cool in the evening air. Darkness concealed the rusty undercarriage and the dents in the rear bumper of her aging ‘65 Ford pickup. The truck retained its original light-blue factory paint, faded now to an oxidized dullness. She entered the vehicle from the passenger side, as the driver’s door refused to open from the outside. A mixture of motor oil, imbedded dirt, and cracked vinyl merged into a vintage mustiness. She tugged at the tight band on her ponytail. The pressure on her tender scalp grew tortuous towards the end of her shift. She shook her hair loose, and it fell to the middle of her back. Zal leaned across the seat and attempted to roll down the passenger-side window. It didn’t budge. She kept forgetting the window was broken, too.

With the driver-side window open, cool air wafted in, refreshing after a day of chasing burgers and fries. The truck started without a hitch, and the pickup chugged over the broken asphalt. Her head hit the dome as it bounced over a speed bump. Bad shocks. Tears welled up in her eyes, not so much for the pain, as for the fact she hadn’t saved enough money to replace them. The vehicle was a wreck, nothing like the car she used to drive. In contrast, the BMW had started effortlessly, exuded a wonderful new car aroma, and oozed with arctic-cool air. C’est la vie.

Fifteen minutes later, she pulled up to the dimly lit parking space in front of her apartment complex. The decay of garbage drifted from a nearby dumpster. She followed one of the safety tips recommended from the last issue of Women’s Weekly: Be aware of your surroundings before leaving the vehicle and grasp your keys in a manner to be used as a self-defense weapon if needed. Her tired legs ached as she climbed the stairs to the second landing. Two doors to the right, she entered the furnished apartment.

The flat had one thing going for it: the two-rooms made life simple. A cramped bathroom with shower, no tub, kept her morning routine brief. A kitchenette along one wall included a fold-down table that brushed the back of a dated plaid couch. One wooden chair and a ten-inch television completed what stood for a living room. Wedged in the corner, a full-sized mattress created a challenge for making the bed. The pine headboard clashed with a mahogany nightstand where a pewter frame held a photograph of a man on the deck of a speedboat. David smiled, a white beret angled to one side, his hand raised in salute. Thick hair brushed the bottom of his earlobes that summer. He was a good-looking man, one who enjoyed life and didn’t waste a minute of it. Zal drew two fingers to her lips and pressed them to the cool glass that glazed the man’s face.

She kicked off her shoes and slipped into a robe. Her library book, East of Eden, lay on the bedside table under a circle of amber light. She adjusted the volume of the radio and plumped her pillow. Steinbeck’s novel was a bizarre story, but one she couldn’t put down. Her fascination came from trying to comprehend why people acted the way they did. Why did certain things consume their lives? Why did they fall in love with the wrong people?

The country music became too melancholy, and she spun the dial to an easy-listening station. The time on the radio alarm clock read eleven thirty-one pm. The refrigerator hummed. She scooted low on the pillow and flipped to the bookmark. Zal wiggled her toes, working to ease the stiffness from being on her feet all day. Acutely aware she’d fallen into a dull routine, tears sprang to her eyes. Her comfort had become a good book instead of a good night hug, a cup of tea instead of a warm kiss. And there was not a single thing she could do about it.

Chapter 4

Like her work shift, Zal’s days off followed a weary routine. Fix a pot of coffee. Take a hot shower. Test the limits of the apartment water heater when her muscles begged for a warm massage. She’d braid her hair, put on sweats or a pair of old jeans, and stroll to the nearest convenience store for the morning newspaper. Unseasonably warm for early spring, it was time for a change