The Thrill is Gone

Lunch Break


Summary: Logan enjoys people-watching and meets an interesting young man.

Logan stood and wiped his forehead on the faded sleeve of his chambray shirt, rolled just above his elbow; he stared down at the new hardwood floor with satisfaction. The cedar planks gleamed at him with a high shine. This house was gonna fetch their asking price and then some, if they made the sale before they owed another mortgage payment.

“Where we at?” he barked, rolling a kink out of his shoulder as he heard Summers clomp his way inside the kitchen in his steel-toed boots. He was as disheveled as Logan, but managed to look like a grubby Calvin Klein model; women got a kick out of it, if the wads of phone numbers scribbled on receipts, cocktail napkins and slips of paper tucked into his shirt pockets every night were any indication.

He threaded the pencil behind his ear as he tapped the clipboard holding their work orders and checklist. “Looking good. Looking damned good. Landscaper’s here with the sod.”

“Still think we coulda handled that ourselves.”

“Not in time to finish everything else. Gotta stick to what we know. What we know is floors, wiring, and walls. There’s no way we’re gonna muck up the landscaping and compromise the curb appeal after we’ve put in so much work, man.” He handed Logan the checklist for his perusal. “We’re on schedule. This shit never happens on schedule.”

“Does when I do it,” Logan boasted, muttering under his breath as he flipped through each sheet, letting them dangle over the edge of the masonite clipboard. His hazel eyes squinted at Summers’ tidy handwriting. “Travertine, done; tub tile, finished; vanity…why ain’t it marked? I just finished sanding it and installing it yesterday!”

“Here.” Scott handed him the pencil, and Logan impatiently checked it off with a hard black slash. “Take a lunch,” he offered gamely. “Might as well.”

“Get ta go home earlier if I work through it.”

“What’s the point of being your own boss if you don’t enjoy the perks? I’m taking off. I want to meet Aleytys in a while to update the registry.”

Logan snorted. “Have fun with that. How many friggin’ sissy china patterns can ya keep lookin’ at, knowin’ yer only gonna use ‘em once a year?”

“Flatware,” Scott corrected blandly. “We’ve already registered for china. Linens are next.” Logan smirked. Ever since his fiancée moved into his humble two-bedroom bachelor pad, more and more “feminine touches” appeared and took up space, gradually nudging out the things Scott had brought with him when he signed the lease. Movies like “How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days” shared space with his “Die Hard” DVDs, and there were silk flower arrangements in the bathroom. A set of wind chimes tinkled cheerfully from the patio, confirming Logan’s suspicions: Summers was whipped.

“Just wait’ll you tie the knot, Logan. Go ahead, laugh now.”

“I’m gonna be laughin’ fer a while.”

“Asshole,” Scott chuckled. He grabbed his bomber jacket and folded it over his arm and then paused by the door. “You coming to the stag party? Alex is throwing it at his place. Gonna be some decent food.”

“Gotta bring my own beer?”

“If you want; we’ll still have plenty.”

“What time?”

“Saturday. Around seven. There’s a party after the party at Harry’s Hideaway.” Logan twisted his mouth.

“Shit…”

“Might wanna have someone post bail ahead of time, just in case,” he quipped before striding out. “Later.” The door swished shut. Logan wished too late that it had hit him on the ass on the way out.


~0~

The scent of steak fries greeted him before he even walked in through the front of Clarissa’s Diner on Fifth Street, a copy of the New York Times folded under his arm. He winked at the hostess, who gave him a perfunctory smile before she herded an elderly couple to the only empty booth in the front dining lounge. She came back in a dither; the place was packed with the lunch rush, and orders were piled precariously, tickets spinning from the overhead carousel as she gathered up a menu from the shelf.

“One today?”

“Yup. Just me, darlin’.”

“This way.” She was relatively young. Logan had seen her serving before as well as handling the register. Clarissa’s was understaffed, but she had the best food within ten city blocks. It was worth the wait. “D’you mind a seat at the counter?”

“Nope.” She ushered him to it, and he was pleased to note that there were three empty seats. He took the one in the middle, giving himself enough room to spread out his paper.

The counter was spotless, and Logan spun the drink and dessert menu around on its stand, debating on whether to try the lemon meringue. He folded his paper to the editorial section and let the clamor around him fade to a dull roar.

His neck ached from the bending and nailing, but it was a good pain. The house was nearly done; interior and exterior paint were already finished, they’d put the finishing touches on the patio and cover, and Creed already sent over two little punks on spring break to finish up outside to plant the shrubs and annuals to pretty up the front yard.

He’d give himself a week to unwind, he figured. Maybe a camping trip, or a ferry to Nantucket. He needed a break from Summers rambling on about his wedding plans; if he had to listen one more time to his accounts of Aleytys ranting about which wine to serve with the appetizers, and which one for the main dinner, he was gonna start repeating it in his sleep. They’d worked on the split-level house solid for the past two months. Even though Logan and Scott had begun their contracting firm a year after they finished college, and they’d roomed together since their sophomore years, they occasionally got sick of each other’s company. Logan’s first love had been carpentry, something he’d learned from the cradle, watching his dad create works of art with his own two hands. There was something right about the feel of wood taking shape, sanding it til it was velvety smooth, feeling each pound of the hammer resonating through him as he put up walls or bracketed frames.

The crash of a fender bender outside the diner roused him from his paper and made him twist around in his rotating stool at the counter. The woman driving the blue minivan leapt out of the front seat and gave the guy who cut her off at the four-way stop hell, and Logan didn’t pity him. He was driving a Mercedes that had “mid-life crisis and underaged girlfriend” written all over it that now sported a crumpled bumper. The patrons sitting by the long window enjoyed the spectacle and their front-row seats. Out of long habit, Logan treated himself to a brief look around the diner, scanning the crowd. The elderly couple who’d snapped up the last booth looked appalled at the scene, shaking their heads. The wife was an elegant woman who was painstakingly preparing her husband’s coffee for him, stirring in tubs of half-n-half and ripping open sugar packets. The way they moved and communicated was typical of two people who’d shared a lifetime of each other’s mood swings and morning breath.

The concept was as far removed from Logan’s realm of experience as Pluto.

~0~

Remy was swearing at the engine of a vintage Camaro for the third time that afternoon, in two different languages. That was the cue for everyone else in the shop to take a coffee break, check the phone messages, or find anything else useful-looking to do that didn’t involve walking back into the garage.

Remy LeBeau was known for two things: His magic touch with auto body detailing that made Jean-Luc and Sons Racing and Auto one of the biggest names at the car shows and the track, and his famously prima donna attitude toward his cars. Not the owner’s cars. Not the prospective buyer’s cars. HIS cars. They were his babies. His mercurial temper made him a pain in the ass to work with, but every car drove out of Jean-Luc’s lot as a finely crafted work of art.

He stood up and straightened out a kink in his back; his skin felt clammy from the heat of the shop and the layer of engine grease and grit that settled in his sweat. Remy wiped his hands on his already stained, royal blue coveralls that had faded to a mottled chambray and let out a ragged sigh.

“Summa dese folks shouldn’ even be allowed t’operate a bike, let alone a car,” he huffed. He dug into his pockets and fished for change to get himself a Dr. Pepper. He fed the coins into the dilapidated vending machine and pressed the large, flat button for his selection, and swore again when the red “Choose Another Selection” button flashed red in his face. “Merde!” He gave it a swift kick that didn’t help his thirst.

“Don’ be tearin’ up m’shop, mon neveu,” Philippe drawled, scowling at him from around the edge of the windowed door. “Ain’t been on a lunch yet?”

“Non.”

“G’wan, den. Eat. Don’ need ya scarin’ away de help. All Philippe heard all mornin’ wuz his nephew, who my dearly departed brother, his pere, thought he raised betta den dat, swearin’ like Lola de putain from her salon down de street.”

“Pardon, Oncle.” His eyes were devilish, as usual, their unusual color not the only cause. They twinkled with mischief and affection for the shorter, more portly man who shared Remy’s good looks.

“Don’ ‘Pardon, Oncle’ dis ol’ Cajun, ya learned dat trick from me! Don’ give me those puppy dog eyes, neither. What’s wrong wi’ de engine?”

“Nate ordered de wrong size valves. Can’t finish til dey come in.”

“Waited til de last minute t’tell him, neh?” Remy shrugged. “Don’ lay de blame at his doorstep. Y’had two days t’have him put dat order in fo’ de right valves, boy. Don’ expect Nate t’read Remy’s mind. No tellin’ what he find in ‘dere.” Philippe cracked a smile and reached out, ruffling Remy’s already tousled, sweaty hair. No one else in the shop dared. “First sign o’ low blood sugar, Remy. Y’start gettin’ forgetful. Eat, boy!”

“Wan’ me t’bring anytin’ back?”

“Oui. A betta attitude an’ less ass-chewin’ when y’get back. G’wan!” He shooed him out, brandishing the newspaper he’d rolled up and that he planned to enjoy over his sandwich when he got back to his office.

Remy headed to the rest room in the back and washed as much of the oil and grit from his hands and beneath his nails as he could with the Lava Soap. He hopped into his car, even though Clarissa’s was only a few blocks up the street. The smell of the leather seats soothed him, and he hadn’t finished listening to his favorite hits compilation CD that he’d popped into the stereo that morning on his way to work. B.B. and Lucille wailed their way through a song that carried him through more nights than he could count after he walked out the door of his old house and left Bella screaming after him.

Clarissa’s was packed to the rafters, and Remy’s stomach picked that moment to bitch at him for waiting too long. He wanted his usual table in the back, but it was already occupied by a couple of teenagers looking guilty, like they were cutting class too long on their off-campus lunch period. A few patrons paying their bills at the counter eyed him up and down, wondering what the cat dragged in through the front door. Out of long habit, he ran his fingers through his glossy auburn hair, thankfully cut in a way that could be maintained with infrequent trips to the barber (thank the good Lord), and that hung past his collar.

He gave a slender brunette and her blonde companion a smirk that quickly changed their opinion of his attire. The eyes had it, as his mama used to say. He nodded and smiled. They winked and giggled, tossing a look over their shoulders as the door swung shut behind them.

His favorite little hostess took time away from ringing up a bill to throw him her Sunday-best grin.

Here comes the hair tuck, he mused. Wait for it…

“How’ve you been, Rem? Long time, no see.”

“How long fo’ a table, chere?”

“We’re swamped,” she remarked sheepishly, and sure enough, one slender hand reached up to tuck back the long lock of sable bangs that hung over her eye from her simple bun. “Got room at the counter, unless you want to order to go?”


“Counter’s fine,” he drawled, despite his disappointment. He followed her obediently, nimbly sidestepping a little boy outrunning his mama’s attempts at getting him to finish his lunch. The urchin grinned up at him with gappy teeth before she caught him by the elbow, and he proceeded to howl in protest. There were only two seats left, both in the middle of the counter, so he’d be elbow to elbow with its other occupants, but there was no help for it.

He took up the swinging stool to the left of the stocky man reading the paper, hoping he wasn’t an incessant talker and that he wouldn’t be put off by his filthy coveralls. Out of the corner of his eye, as he sat, he noticed that his neighbor had a job almost as dirty as his, from the look of his worn jeans, the grubby work gloves stuffed in the pocket of the jacket hanging over his seat, and the streaks of what looked like tile adhesive smudged over broad knuckles. His rolled-up sleeves revealed brawny, hairy arms, adorned only by a thick silver watch. He felt the brief impression of eyes sneaking a glance at him as he took the menu from Penny and started reading the specials.

Just when he heard the beef dip and fries calling his name, a deep voice rumbled, “Mind passin’ me two sugars?”

“Non,” he replied easily, sliding over the whole crystal-cut bowl of sweeteners and nodding in greeting. “Knock y’self out, mec.” He didn’t expect any further conversation from him, even though the sports section pages he’d spied over his shoulder tempted Remy.

“S’crowded.”

“Yup.” Remy turned back to his menu and beckoned to the waitress, who had just begun pouring a man three seats down a refill of his iced tea. He perused the other offerings and still settled on his usual beef dip; nothing ever appealed to him enough to try something new. Five ravenous minutes later, Remy gave his order for the sandwich and fries and settled for the Mug root beer, since Clarissa never kept Dr. Pepper on the menu. He wouldn’t’ hold it against her; he’d been coming to her place with his papa ever since he owned his first Huffy with a banana seat.

The faint scent of newsprint tickled his nose each time his neighbor flipped a page of his paper; Remy was tempted to ask him the scores from the Nicks game he’s missed, even though he’d set his Tivo to save it for him until he could sit down and enjoy it with some barbecue.

“Ya work on cars?”

“Old cars,” Remy corrected him, and he ceased spinning the dessert carousel to occupy himself and finally twisted his lean body around to look the man in his rugged face. “Classic cars.”

“That’s the only kind, in my book, youngster,” he chuckled, and laugh lines softened a pair of deep-set, coffee brown eyes topped with shaggy black brows with a slight arch. Something in his bearing reminded Remy of his uncle Philippe; he looked a handful of years younger than his father’s younger brother, but his raven hair was deceptively free of gray. “Which shop do ya work out of?”

“Mon pere’s,” he replied. “My uncle’s runnin’ it now. Jean-Luc and Sons,” he added smugly. He was rewarded by the look of instant recognition that sent the stranger nodding and snapping his fingers.

“Right! Right,” he mused. “Summers talks about yer shop and the beauties you guys bring to the car shows whenever he goes. Saw that specialty Lincoln with the custom paint.”

“Gotta be more specific than that,” Remy boasted, but he warmed to his subject. “Which show?”

“The one in the Poconos, at Caesar’s.”

“Coyote Ugly,” he nodded, and the left corner of his mouth twisted, making his lean cheek dimple. “Remy did the body paint on dat one.”

“Who’s Remy?” he inquired. Remy tapped his name badge embroidered onto his coveralls, even though it was smudged with motor oil and difficult to read.

“Y’lookin’ at him. I’m one o’ de sons in the shop’s name. Adam handles de front counter.”

“All right. Ya do okay for yerself, then. I love cars,” he confessed as he flapped and folded the pages of his paper and set it aside, leaving it open to the sports section. “Classics. The crap they pass off the assembly line ain’t the way they made ‘em back in my pop’s day. Old trucks used ta last and wear like iron. They had character. I’m still drivin’ MY old man’s truck, and it’s thirty years old. She’s my baby,” he remarked.

“What’s her name, den?” Remy quipped.

“Lulu.”

“Bet Lulu’s a mighty fine woman,” he grinned back. “Treat her right, she’ll stay wit’ ya fo’ life.” He wasn’t expecting a man like this roughneck in plaid flannel to name his truck. He liked him already.

Their waitress juggled both of their plates and set them down, muttering a harried “Let me know if you need anything” before she rushed off. Remy cursed under his breath when he noticed his au jus was missing, and she never brought a bottle of A-1 to the counter.

“Whatsamatter?”

“Didn’ bring Remy’s sauce,” he complained as he folded one of the crisp steak fries into his mouth. He leaned back in surprise as his plate was quickly slid from beneath his nose and exchanged for almost exactly the same order, complete with au jus that sloshed over the edge of the plate with its delivery.

“She gave me one with too many fries,” Logan offered. “And I don’t like that juice ta dip it in. Makes it too damned soggy.” He then committed a sacrilege Remy decided to condone and forgive as he picked up the bottle of ketchup and poured a thick river of it over his remaining fries and another small puddle to dip his sandwich into, which he did with gusto. Remy shook his head.

“Didn’ hafta trouble yaself, homme. Thanks.” Logan nodded around a mouthful and waved it away. They ate in mutual silence for a moment, both with mouths too full to answer when their waitress asked if they needed a refill on their drinks.

Logan checked his watch and then peered around the dining room, searching for their waitress. “Shit,” he muttered.

“Problem?”

“Gotta go. Late fer the landscaper. My partner’s out on a long lunch with his sweetheart, pickin’ out flatware.” Remy grunted under his breath.

“Give him Remy’s condolences.” Logan suppressed a chuckle, but noticed there was something wounded in his posture and regret that shadowed his eyes.

Logan had a hard time looking away from his eyes. They were distinctive; he couldn’t name what it was about them that struck him so sharply, in the yellowish glow of the diner’s overhead lighting.

“Y’buildin’ a house?”

“Renovatin’ one. Picked up a sweet split-level at a foreclosure auction that’s lookin’ like it’ll fetch us our asking price.”

“Like those property flippin’ shows,” Remy guessed.

“Hell, no. We’ve been doin’ this for a few years. We stay on schedule and on plan,” Logan informed him crisply, before it occurred to him, “Want my newspaper?”

“Oui, if ya don’ mind.”

“Sure don’t.” He handed it to him, but held onto his end for a moment before adding “Name’s Logan, by the way.” He let it go and retrieved his bill, scooping his jacket over his arm.

“Have a good one, homme.”

“Later, Rem,” he offered, and Remy waved as he took his leave. His strides were long and swift; he moved like someone who preferred a silent and swift getaway and who didn’t expect anyone to follow him, nor have much contact with whoever’s company he departed.

In the back of Remy’s mind, he had no problem with that.

He dipped his last fry into the au jus and sucked the last, diluted remains of his root beer through his straw and tucked the paper under his arm. He went to the register to be rung up; by the time he left the diner, Logan was long gone.