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The bell at the entrance to Miss Retro’s is, like everything in the diner, old. It used to be decidedly more golden than it is now, and tarnish has taken over in places: blackish-brown slinking in between the graceful swirls and delicate etchings that mark the surface. It hangs a little crookedly, too --- not much, but just enough to give it some quaint, homespun charm --- where one of the screws fastening it to the wall had fallen out enough times to strip the hole behind it. The chain doesn’t quite match either, slightly more silver than the rest of the ensemble; it was a hasty replacement, meant as a stop-gap measure after a too-rowdy customer had somehow managed to snap it, and yet it had simply ended up sticking around. Imperfect, that’s the word, and yet both endearingly quaint and undeniably beautiful as well.
And then, one Saturday morning that might have been nice if it weren’t so stormy, as the bell rings with an odd, hasty kind of chiming clamour not usually heard in Hatchetfield, the only word for it is desperate.
The woman known to the world as Miss Holloway --- and to one tiny Michigan island as Miss Retro --- is taking inventory in the back. It’s a slow process, but pretty well suited to the doubly-slow business of the breakfast-lunch lull inside and the stormy weather outside. Even with the distance and the range-softened strains of Air Supply playing on her jukebox, she can hear the rain pitter-pattering against the windowpane, harsh enough that she’s glad she left the windows closed. And she can definitely hear that bell of hers clattering up a storm overtop, loud enough and vigorous enough that she almost wishes she’d put something up to keep it from getting dented on the wall.
She picks herself up, dusts off her uniform a little to get rid of any debris clinging to the bright blue surface, and sets a cheery smile on her face as she heads out to the main floor. It’s easy, in a way; after all, she does love her job. And yet there’s something… odd. About the situation, maybe, or about the figure shaking rain drops off the canvas definitely-not-a-raincoat he had on, or even about the odd sense of deja-vu she feels watching him. About the fact that the chronic something sitting in the pit of her stomach --- not quite sadness and not quite emptiness, or maybe a little bit of both --- got stronger as soon as he walked in.
“My, someone’s in a rush today!” She picks up her dish towel from the counter, slings it across her shoulder. “Can’t say I blame you, with the storm how it is. What can I getcha?”
He smiles and it’s a friendly thing, but it’s also just a little too wide. Too… chipper. Too perfect. She’s not sure why it sets off her instincts, but it does: not malicious but not something to be trusted either. A mask. (She’s not sure why she’s so keyed-in to it either, but at least that’s explainable thanks to years of diner-side conversations leading to bartender-style therapy sessions.) “Heya, ma’am.” He doesn’t have a hat --- his black hair is soaked even darker, raindrops gathering at the ends until gravity deposits them on his equally-soaked jacket --- but he lifts his hand like he’s trying to tip one her way. There’s an old-fashioned kind of charm to it, and it makes the customer-service smile on her lips shift a little more genuine. “I’ve heard you make a fine cup o’ coffee and a mean plate of hotcakes. Don’t suppose the griddle’s up ‘n’ running?”
She waves a hand out at the storm, at the empty booths and diner stools, at the jukebox still crooning out its ballad. (She’s distracted, momentarily, by the song itself, by the fact that she doesn’t remember turning it on and definitely doesn’t remember picking this song. It’s always depressed her more than anything else. There's no easy way, it gets harder each day, please love me or I'll be gone… What a terrible burden to bear.) “What, with this many folks clambering for service? I suppose I can fit you in.”
“Much obliged.” That smile’s still there, still oddly tense in a way she’s not sure how to decipher, and she’s equally not certain why it bothers her that she can’t but she pretends she’s not bothered and starts up her time-worn routine anyway. He takes the cup of coffee she pours him with a smile, thanks her with a kind of old-fashioned politeness, and there’s something about the image of him cupping his hands around the mug that sticks with her as she turns away.
At least the cooking’s simple enough to keep her hands busy and her mind off strangers with illusive smiles and sad eyes.
The stranger in question eases himself onto one of the stools with an almost practised grace. His fingers tap aimlessly against the Formica counter-top, close enough to hold their own against the rain striking the window panes and water dripping from his clothing to splatter against the nearest flat surface. The beat’s familiar as she listens, but it’s not in time with the last strains of “All Out of Love” eking their way out of the juke and she can’t quite recognise it either.
Batter sizzles as she pours it into the pan, watches it spread in a whitish pool across the oil-slick surface. “You new in town? Picked one heck of a day to travel.”
He nods. “Yes, ma’am, that I am. Startin’ a new job in a few days.” He lifts a hand, jabs a thumb towards the parking lot. She can just make out the hazy outline of a beat-up old car before the rain coursing down the glass drowns out the image. “Still tryin’ to figure my way around town.”
“It’s not often we see new people ‘round these parts.” Not since the Cunninghams, she thinks, and that must have been going on ten years ago. “What do you do?”
“Social work, at the moment. I work with kids, mostly. Families. Try to help where I can.” His eyes dart over to a bag she hadn’t noticed until then, tucked carefully beneath his jacket until it’s better protected from the rain than he was. When he looks up, that smile has flickered back into place. “Got a meeting with someone today, in fact. Kid’s brother disappeared.”
She nods, gestures with the spatula for a second. “Oh, yes, I heard about that. It’s a shame; Pete’s a good kid. Folks were talking about that in here for ages. Consensus was, the brother eloped with some woman or other, moved to Clivesdale. Knowing this town, that’s what bothered ‘em most.” They’d forgotten all about it the next day, moved on to something new, and she’d served them coffee and ignored the pit in her stomach about it all.
He shrugs. “Possibly. But, then again, this is Hatchetfield. Anything can happen here.” She blinks, tries to process the oddly solemn comment --- didn’t he say he was new in town? --- but he’s talking again before she can think to ask and then she can’t remember what she was going to say. “Anyway, figured I’d better check out the local landmarks, get a sense o’ the place.” She knows the shape of his chuckle, somehow, and yet she’s never heard it before in her life. “Seems the folks ‘round these parts are real fond of this place, so…” He shrugs, not quite sheepish but something a few inches away from it. “First stop in town: visit the famous Miss Retro and her award-winning cooking.”
There’s something about hearing her nickname said in his voice that she can’t put her finger on. Something half familiar, half devastating. Imbued with grief she can only barely remember, from back in the dustiest annals of her memory. He’d died, she remembers, and then she doesn’t look further. Flips a pancake instead, and pretends not to notice that it’s charred on the other side. “Miss Holloway,” she says, and then, at his questioning look, “My name.”
He nods, holds out a hand for her to shake. “Pleasure to meet ya, Miss Holloway. The name’s--”
She blinks. The air smells of pancakes and popping oil, familiar and comforting, and she reaches to flip the next one, only to find her spatula scraping an empty pan. The last flapjack’s sitting on the plate she’s been loading, pristine and perfect, and she shakes her head to try and clear it, to bring herself back to the present. She must have tuned out for a second there.
Her customer’s still talking, friendly enough that she thinks he didn’t notice. “--generally just go by Duke.” That tense grin is back, down in a way smiles should never be with the corners turned up so high. “You alright there, darlin’?”
Her nod is somewhat genuine, but she still feels off-kilter as she picks up the plate, sets it in front of him with the gentle clink of flatware on the counter. “Doin’ just fine, Duke, thanks for asking.” She means it, too, smiles to show it. “Hope you like ‘em.”
Duke smiles, and he’s making a habit of being indecipherable because there’s something lurking beneath the surface here, too. “I’m sure I will,” he says, and she’s somehow struck by the fact that it doesn’t feel like just a colloquialism until she brushes the thought away. “Thank you kindly.”
She turns away, pretends it’s natural and not a need to regain some semblance of control against a wave of something she can’t interpret. “Sure, Duke,” she says. It feels too short, like it needs another syllable, but she can’t think why so she ignores it. “Any time.”