Roz Fox - Lost but not Forgotten

Gillian managed to stay convinced that he hadn’t until the lunch traffic waned enough to slow her hectic pace. He was still there. And he snagged her arm as she darted past.

“Hey, Flo,” Mitch called, hunching to peer into the kitchen via the pass-through. “Isn’t there a state rule requiring employees to take regular breaks? Appears to me that Gillian, here, is overdue.”

Flo stuck her head out around the kitchen door. “Gilly-girl. Climb up there on the stool next to Mitch and take a load off. I said earlier you’ve got to eat. What’ll it be? Bert’s special is chicken-fried steak. But, shoot, you’d know that. You’ve served a gazillion plates of the stuff so far.”

Gillian would have rather sat anywhere than beside Mitch Valetti. Unfortunately, a mob of high schoolers bounded in at that moment, filling the remaining empty seats at the counter. “Uh, Flo. I’ll just take these kids’ orders first. I can eat later. A dinner salad will do me, if you want to set one aside. The house dressing looked good.”

Flo came all the way out of the kitchen. She fanned a ruddy face with the tail of her apron. “All that bunch of twerps ever order are french fries and Cokes. I’ll handle ’em. You eat.”

“Skinny as you are,” Mitch observed, “you ought to eat something more substantial than a damned salad.” He rounded on Gillian. “You’re not anorexic or anything, are you?”

She felt her jaw slacken and snapped her mouth closed. “Are you always so free and personal with someone you haven’t even met?”

“We met. Flo introduced you earlier.” Mitch stuck out his hand and grasped hers gently. “I’m Mitch Valetti. Detective. Er…former detective.” He acted flustered, quickly releasing her hand to curl his wide palms around his coffee mug instead. “Guess you could say I’m a rancher now.”

“I’m sure there’s a story somewhere in that statement.” Allowing a reluctant smile along with a small sigh of capitulation, Gillian slid onto the end stool. “A detective turned rancher has the makings of an intriguing book.”

“Are you a starving writer, then?”

She shook her head. “Gee, I thought I was a bona fide waitress.”

Grinning, Mitch took another swig before setting his mug back on the counter. “Touché. I deserved that. You’re a good waitress. At least, you managed Flo’s lunch crowd better than her niece, Tracy, ever did. Say, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t,” Gillian said, glancing up as Flo placed a huge taco salad in front of her. “Hey, this isn’t what I ordered.” Frowning, she dragged her fork through the mountain of lettuce, black beans, olives, avocado, chicken and grated cheese heaped inside a crisp tortilla shell. She’d never be able to eat even a quarter of this.

“Are you allergic to any of that stuff?” Mitch enquired.

Gillian’s frown deepened. “No. Not that I know of.”

“Then stop complaining and chow down. I guarantee Bert makes the tastiest taco salads in town. Add a generous splash of his homemade salsa and you’ve got a lip-smacking meal.”

“So now you’re a detective turned rancher turned restaurant reviewer?” As she spoke, Gillian brought a forkful of the concoction to her mouth.

“You gotta forgive this guy,” Flo said, scooting past them again, hands laden with steaming platters of french fries. “He’s still recovering from an on-the-job injury. Must be the medicine making him act so smart-aleck. He’s never been shy, but usually his mouth is connected to his brain.”

“Oh? A head injury, was it?” Gillian didn’t know what had gotten into her. She rarely teased people she knew well; being sarcastic to a stranger was unthinkable. Especially since she was trying to keep a low profile.

Mitch and Flo found her remark amusing. Flo broke off laughing first. “At last, Valetti. A woman who can toss back all the baloney you dish out. I hope you cultivate her acquaintance. I’ve always said you flit from date to date because the ladies you ask out bore you to death within a week.”

Tilting his head, Mitch stared at Gillian so long she choked on a slice of olive. An infusion of heat seeped up her neck and across her cool cheeks. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It was rude of me. I don’t know you well enough to crack jokes about your injury.”

“I’d like to get to know you better,” he said, gazing directly into her eyes.

Excitement fluttered in her stomach before tightening into a coil of apprehension. Gillian hadn’t fielded a pass in so long she’d forgotten how to extricate herself gracefully. She wasn’t sure what words to use. “Look,” she said at last. “I’m, uh, sure you’re sincere. And nice. But I, ah, have been married before.” It was lame, but the first thing that popped into her head.

Mitch stiffened visibly. “Bitter divorce?”

“No. A relief.” Gillian responded more honestly than she’d intended.

“Then what’s the problem? I’m more than willing to keep things simple.”

As Gillian scrabbled for a comeback that would end his pursuit, the door opened and a petite blonde dressed in a police uniform walked in. “Mitch. Hi!” Beaming, she waved and looked as pleased as a cat who’d found a fat goldfish. “Ethan said I’d probably catch you here. He told me you might be taking on some private investigative work. I have something that may strike your fancy if you’ve got some free time. My sister Lori said you could be busy—that you had a strange case fall right in your lap.”

“It’s not really a case,” Mitch admitted, casting Gillian a quick apology with his eyes. “I posted an ad in the paper for a week, but only one person responded. A sicko, at that. So, what’ve you got, and what does it pay? My pension covers my bills. But if I want to increase my herd, I need extra cash.”

The woman took Gillian’s measure. “You’re involved at the moment,” she said to Mitch. “My case is confidential. I’ll be at the station if you want to swing by later. Or come to Lori’s house tonight. I’ll fix dinner and we can talk. Lori has a class at the college, so we won’t be disturbed.”

Mitch rubbed his neck. Christy Peck-Jones was a good cop. She was also separated, not divorced, from a bad-tempered husband. Tangling with Royce Jones was the last thing Mitch needed or wanted. While Christy had indicated her interest in him more than once, she didn’t ring any bells for Mitch. Even if he was attracted to her, he’d never act on it unless she was free. Some guys on the force didn’t have much integrity when it came to honoring their wedding vows or those of women cops they worked with. They found it easy to blame their betrayals on an excess of adrenaline from being thrown together in life-and-death situations. Mitch had met death face-to-face, twice. Both experiences had only served to solidify his values. This last time, he really thought he’d bought the farm.

Which could be why he felt an uncustomary urgency to meet the right woman. He’d been given a new lease on life. Now he’d like kids and even grandkids. The next time he met his maker, he wanted to look back and see that he’d accomplished something worthwhile. Men ought to have a legacy to leave behind.

“My lunch break is over. I’m going to the kitchen to box this to take home. Please, don’t let me keep you from exploring a potential job offer.” Sliding off the stool, Gillian whisked away her plate and utensils.

She flat-out disappeared before Mitch could press harder for a first date. Not altogether surprising. She’d made her reservations clear. And with all the crime against women he’d seen while working the streets, he couldn’t really blame her. What did she know about him? Nothing. But if she stuck around town, he’d have a chance to ask her out again. If she moved on— Oh, well, she wasn’t what he was looking for anyway.