When Martha turned around, she nearly dropped the glass of water she was about to deliver to her last customer.
“No! It can’t be!” she said. “Is that Daniel Sunder?” No one but the bartender was around to answer, and he was too busy to pay attention. “My favorite writer! I’ve worked here for twenty-five years and never run into anyone nearly this famous.” On top of the excitement, Martha felt anxiety descend like a rock. Sunder was not known for his…shall we say, friendly personality. But it was her table, and she had to serve him or lose her job.
Reaching the table, she set down a trio of cocktail napkins, stacked to absorb the moisture. Before she even had a chance to add the water glass, Sunder—if it was Sunder, whisked out two of the napkins. He never even looked up when she handed him the menu.
Martha was a little surprised. She knew Sunder was about her age, but here he looked it, unlike those glossy photos of him on the back of his books. At the server station, Martha took a napkin and penned a message: You look like Daniel Sunder. Are you him? Your server, Martha. She couldn’t help herself. She had to know. She set the napkin down where he couldn’t miss it, and waited to take his order.
He took up a pen and added to her message: Are you he, server Martha. Food recommendation?” He handed the napkin to her without looking up.
“Oh, yeah. ‘Are you he.’ Sorry.” She screeched to a halt for a moment. “Um…Well? I myself had a Reuben for lunch and…So. Um. They’re really good.” She squeezed her pen so hard her fingers turned white. She told herself to just shut up and take his order.
Fine. Written on another napkin.
She chuckled. “Comin’ right up, sir,” she said, her voice warm as butter. She flashed him a smile, though she was sure he didn’t see it.
He caught her arm and handed off his last napkin.
Mr. Sunder, not sir, she read as she hustled away to put in his order. “Ha! Mr. Sunder! It really is him!”
Before she delivered his order, she wrote on another napkin: May I have your autograph? This time, she used her best grammar.
When she set down his sandwich and chips, she added a stack of napkins, with hers on top. “If we’re going to correspond on napkins,” she said, “you need a fresh supply. Enjoy your Reuben.”
As Martha turned away, Sunder grabbed her wrist with one hand and held up a single finger: Wait. He pulled a napkin off the stack and set to writing another message. He actually looked up at her as he handed her this one, the corners of his mouth rising upward.
A smile? A smile! Will wonders never cease?
Martha read the message and laughed out loud. Daniel Sunder doesn’t do autographs, server Martha. Sorry.
Sunder cleared his throat and actually used his voice. “What’s for dessert?”
Okay, Martha, take a chance! “Well, the German chocolate cake is pretty good. But pecan pie is even better.”
Sunder nodded. “Pie it is, then.”
“Well,” Martha cleared her throat, “we actually don’t have pie here.” She stepped aside and tilted her head toward the front window. Across the street stood a small shop: Patricia’s Perfect Pies.
Sunder’s smile blossomed. The “wait” finger again.
When do you get off work?
“You’re my last customer, Mr. Sunder,” Martha said.
Another napkin. Daniel.
Still another, accompanied by a wink. Pat’s in 20 minutes?
Martha nodded and returned his wink. “Thanks for stopping in, Mr. Sunder. Let me get your check.”
The End…or maybe just The Beginning.