The door swung open and a cold wind blew into the restaurant. Thelma felt that blue icy snap that went up her skirt when January’s wind came inside. Why’d Sal have to put the cash register so close to the front door? A diner in Camden, and she had to work the cash register by the front door all year round.
“Just a minute, sweetie,” she said to the customer, not bothering to look. “We’ll get you a table in a jiffy.”
“Thelma,” baritoned the voice, somehow familiar and bringing some sort of unpleasant taste into her throat – “can it be my favorite trombone player?”
She looked up at the figure – overweight, shoulders slumped over, a big pot belly. The sun shone behind his head, so she couldn’t make out the face, but the voice, was it – no, it couldn’t be, she’d thought he’d gone to Buffalo – yes, it was, he came into focus … Herbie Ballard.
Herbie Ballard, the football jock at Cherry Hill High who’d dated Samantha Harding. She’d swooned over him two years running, just like every other teenaged girl. And here he was, forty years later, coming into her restaurant, calling her by name.
“Well, if it ain’t Herbie Ballard. And you – rememberin’ my trombone. Ain’t never did get over you leavin’ town, marryin’ that girl. What’s her name now?”
“Phyllis,” he said, lowering his voice. “Came back to town to bury her this weekend.”
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