Dances Under The Harvest Moon. Joanne Rock

That was getting ahead of herself. She hadn’t even gotten the job—or seen the diner, for that matter—and she was already thinking about raising the place’s profile?

      As if reading her mind, Lily said, “I’m sure it will work out that way. And I’m telling you, the location is great.”

      “Hmm.” For reasons she couldn’t quite express—maybe just intuition—this was striking Rose as a good idea. A very good idea. Something told her this could work out in ways she hadn’t even thought of. “Where is this place exactly?”

      Like the plucky heroine in an old movie, Rose took the Help Wanted sign out of the Cottage Diner window and carried it inside with her to ask for the manager.

      She approached a busboy who was clearing dishes from a booth. “Excuse me,” she said.

      He turned, startled, and dropped a mug onto the floor. It didn’t break, but bounced loudly under the booth. He looked at Rose and his face turned red. “Yyes?”

      “I’m here about the job.” She indicated the sign she was holding.

      If possible, his face turned even more crimson.

      “You need to talk to Doc, the owner,” a voice barked behind her. “Tim’s just a busboy.”

      She turned to see a craggy-faced customer sitting in another booth, holding a newspaper. There was a steaming cup of coffee in front of him and about ten empty sugar packets. “Doc’s in the back.” He looked her over skeptically. “But I’m not sure you’re exactly what he’s looking for. What do you think, Al?”

      He looked across the room at the only other customer in the place. The pudgy gray-haired man sneezed, dabbed his nose with a napkin and said, “Give her a break, Dick.” He sneezed again and said to Rose, “They’ve had pretty waitresses here before, but they always leave.”

      “I’m always willing to try another pretty waitress, though.” A bald man in a greasy white apron came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a bar towel. “Doc Sears.” He set the towel down on the counter and held his hand out.

      Rose shook it. “Rose Tilden.”

      “You’re looking for a waitress job?”

      “If you’re looking for a waitress.”

      He looked at her skeptically. “You don’t look like the kind of waitress we’d get here. Bet you could make a lot of money a few miles into the city.”

      He was talking about Manhattan, of course. Where she couldn’t get so much as a job busing tables. “I live here.”

      He looked at her as if he wondered what the truth was, but was too tactful to ask. “Can you work evenings?”

      She splayed her arms. “Any time you want.”

      “You gonna stay on longer than a week?”

      “I guarantee it.”

      “Good.” He took the sign from her and ripped it in half. “You’re hired, Rose Tilden. Can you start tonight?”

      Lunchtime had been dead in the diner, and dinner wasn’t a whole lot better. Doc was working the grill alongside a short-order cook called Hap, short for Elwood Happersmith. Rose privately concluded that, under the circumstances, she would have preferred Hap, too.

      Only about half the booths were full, and the only other waiter was a young man named Paul, who spent more time dozing in an unoccupied booth than waiting tables, leaving Rose to handle pretty much the entire crowd.

      She didn’t mind, though. She was just glad to have the work.

      She was on her feet from two in the afternoon until 10 p.m. With closing time just an hour away, and her feet eagerly awaiting the promise of an Epsom salt bath, her last customer came through the door.

      Warren Harker.

      She did a double take. If she’d made a list of the top fifteen people she least expected to see in a place like this, Warren Harker would have been close to the top, along with Gandhi and Fidel Castro.

      For a moment, she froze, heart pounding. She didn’t know if it was the lighting or the fact that she’d spent the day looking at guys like Dick, Al and Doc, but Warren Harker was even more slick-looking than she’d recalled. His dark hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights, his crisp blue suit—with loosened tie and unbuttoned collar—fit like a charm across his wide shoulders.

      The jerk.

      And now he was her customer. This was spectacularly bad luck. A quick glance at the booth she had already come to think of as “Paul’s bed” revealed that the waiter was indeed snoring away, so she was stuck with Warren Harker.

      Rose took a quick breath and straightened her back. She could do this. No problem. With a little bit of luck, maybe he wouldn’t even remember her.

      She walked toward him, feeling a little like a prisoner being led on the final walk down the prison hall. Of all the greasy spoons in all of New York, why why why did he have to walk into this one?

      “Can I take your order?” she asked, laying on the Brooklyn accent a little thick and keeping her eyes averted.

      Her efforts were wasted. Apparently Dick was right in saying they didn’t normally have women waiting tables here, because Warren looked up from his paperwork with surprise.

      “Hey, you’re new,” he said.

      She barely glanced at him. “Just started today.”

      He gave a laugh. “Wow, I don’t know when I last saw a women working here.”

      Oh, no, he was a regular?

      That was it; she was doomed. She was going to lose another job and, given the trouble she had had in finding this one, she didn’t know where she’d go next.

      “So what can I get you?” she asked, keeping her tone short.

      “Just a coffee, thanks. And real cream, not milk. Doc’s always cheap with the cream.”

      So he was a regular. “Sure thing.” She turned to get the coffee, thanking her lucky stars he hadn’t realized who she was. Yet.

      But she was stopped in her tracks not three feet away.

      “Wait a minute.”

      She closed her eyes, dreading what was coming next.

      “I know you, don’t I?”

      She could feel his eyes on her back, sending a tickle straight down her spine.

      “Don’t think so,” she answered without turning around.

      “Come here.” It was practically a command. Apparently he was so used to having people jump when he told them to that he felt perfectly comfortable bossing everyone around.

      She took the coffee carafe from the counter and turned to go back to his table. She kept her eyes downcast, in the ridiculous hope that if she didn’t look at him, he wouldn’t see her. Ostrich logic. “What is it?”

      “I know we’ve met.”

      She shook her head. “Don’t think so.” Then she made the mistake of glancing at him.

      His blue eyes looked her over for a moment before he snapped his fingers. “Serragno Catering.”

      “I—”

      “You’re Rose Tilden!”