“Do you get to be mayor?” I deadpan.
“There's already a mayor,” Tank says. “He’s the one who sold me the place.”
Is that something mayors can even do? All of this is so bizarre.
“I may not be mayor, but I do own all these businesses—”
I stare around us. WHAT businesses?
“—and properties. Everything you see here. See those grain elevators and the warehouse? That’s where I thought Dark Horse could make its home.”
He points to the end of a street where I can see hulking metal buildings that look a lot like—
“The Silos in Waco,” I say, shaking my head. “I was kidding about Joanna Gainesing the place. Have you OD’d on The Fixer Upper?”
Dad laughs, the sound echoing on the empty street. “You can be the Chip to my Joanna.”
I stare. “I cannot begin to tell you the number of things wrong with that statement. Except for the part where I get to be Chip. I like that man.”
“Of course you do. He’s like your long-lost brother.” Tank puts his hands on his hips. “Anyway—what do you think?”
I have a lot of thoughts, and they’re all scrambling around in my brain like eggs in a pan. Lindy is taking up a lot of real estate, but I’m trying to give this idea a chance. I’m scared to ask Tank how much he paid for this town. It would take far more than a seasoned pair of HGTV house-flippers to revitalize it. I can recognize the potential, but through a haze of dollar signs.
It’s impractical, but I have to admit, I’m intrigued. Maybe even excited.
What would Lindy think about me moving here and fixing up her town? Would I be able to spend time here without feeling haunted by her ghost and the ghost of my mistakes? Does she ever come back to visit her mom?
“Let’s discuss over food,” Tank suggests.
“Is there food to be had here?”
“You’ll see.” Tank walks away from me, and I follow on the heels of his worn cowboy boots.
We head down the one side of a street we haven't crossed yet. A moment later, I see a neon Open sign flashing red and blue in a wide glass window.
Well, what do you know? There is a business open in Sheet Cake. A business. Singular. One.
A bell jangles as Dad opens the door. I smell the diner before I get a good look. Bacon, pancakes, strong coffee. And is that … salsa? The scent is half classic greasy spoon and half Tex-Mex, and I am here for it. My stomach immediately roars awake, pleased by this new development.
“Simmer down,” I tell my growling midsection, following Dad to red vinyl stools at a linoleum counter. A short woman with sharp brown eyes and a flower in her white hair slaps down two menus, grinning like she’s in on a secret we’ll soon find out.
“Hello, hola, good morning,” she says with a slight accent, her smile stretching wider. “Coffee?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ma’am,” the woman says, clucking her tongue. “No, no, no. Call me Mari, short for Marisol.”
She already has our two mugs and pours quickly, setting a bowl of creamers out between us.
“Thank you, Mari,” Dad says, tipping his head.
She beams before darting away through the swinging kitchen door.
“You’re doing it again,” I tell him. “That Sam Elliot thing.”
“What Sam Elliot thing?”
“Your voice gets deeper and your accent gets thicker. Give you a mustache and a gun and we’re in Tombstone.”