“Is Mrs. K cooking today?” I asked just to break the silence.
“No, no,” Mr. K said, finally turning to look at me again. “She’s got the girls in there today, trying to teach them. I think it’s a lost cause.”
I laughed like I was supposed to and put my arm through his, leading him to the table I wanted to sit at. “Will this work for us?”
“Well, sure,” he said, giving my hand a little squeeze. “Enjoy.”
As soon as he’d walked away and we’d sat down, Alex started to snicker.
“He loves you,” he said, unwrapping his napkin from his silverware and placing it on his lap.
“How could you tell?” I asked drily. I took my coat off and hung it on the back of my chair. “Sorry about that. I’ve never brought a guy in here before.”
“I’m your first?” he asked, grinning.
I just rolled my eyes. “Mr. K and his wife have always been friends of my family. They kind of took my parents under their wing when they got here from New York and didn’t know anyone.”
“That’s cool. Like surrogate grandparents.”
“Sort of. I think they understood how isolating moving to a new place could be. They emigrated from Poland in the forties.” I smiled as our waitress, one of Mr. K’s actual granddaughters, poured us both some coffee. As soon as she moved away, I continued. “I lost touch with them when I moved, but as soon as I got back here, I stopped in. They pretty much treated me like they’d just seen me the week before.”
“They must have missed you.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “I missed them, too.” I’d missed Mr. and Mrs. K so much that I’d come into the restaurant within the first week of being back in Missouri. I was ashamed that I’d never tried to keep in contact with them when I’d moved to New York, but dealing with the loss of my parents had taken precedence over everything, even the old couple I thought of as family.
“Do you come here a lot?” he asked as he grabbed a menu.
“At least once a week,” I confessed, grinning sheepishly. “I don’t always eat, though. Sometimes I just stop for coffee on my way home from work.”
I didn’t tell him that the Krakowskis were one of the biggest reasons that I hadn’t gone back to New York during those first two miserable years back in Missouri. Without them, I would have felt completely alone. We’d had a lot of friends when I’d lived here with my parents, but we’d known most of them from our synagogue, a place I avoided now.
“You want your usual?” Mrs. Krakowski asked as she moved slowly toward us. “Papa says you brought a man friend!”
“Hi, Mrs. K. This is Alex,” I said, standing up to give her a hug. According to the photo hanging in the entryway, Mrs. K had once been a tall, curvy woman with hair that reached her waist, but now she was petite and a little hunched over, with a short haircut that she back-combed religiously.
“Hello, Alex,” she said, looking him over. “This one is handsome,” she said to me out of the side of her mouth.
“And he knows it,” I said back the same way.
Alex laughed and said hello.
“Pancakes, yes?” Mrs. K asked as soon as I’d sat back down.
“Yes, please.”
She turned to Alex and waited.
“Um.” He glanced down at his menu, his eyes wide.
“I’ll get you pancakes, also,” Mrs. K said quickly with a nod. “Kosher?”
“Excuse me?” Alex asked.
“Kosher, yes?” She was looking at him like he had two heads.
“Yes,” I replied for him.
“Good.” She walked away slowly, smiling hello to the other patrons at their tables.
“Was she asking me if I eat kosher?” Alex asked in confusion.
“Yes.” I met his eyes.
“Okay.” He looked in the direction Mrs. K had gone and then back at me. “Because you eat kosher?”
“I try to, yes.”
“You’re Jewish,” he said, smiling. “I’m so glad I didn’t pick the place to eat.”
“I can find food anywhere,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders. “I’m not exactly practicing. I haven’t been to temple in years.”
“It sounds like there’s a story there,” Alex replied softly.
“Not one I’m going to tell on our first date,” I said ruefully.
“Fair enough,” Alex said easily. “The Krakowskis are Jewish, too?”
“Yes.” I paused. “Though they aren’t practicing, either.”
I’d never asked why Mr. and Mrs. Krakowski chose to leave the faith. I’d always been curious about it, but it wasn’t any of my business. When I’d come back to Missouri determined to never step foot in a synagogue again, I’d just been thankful for friends who wouldn’t say a word about my aversion. After my parents died, my uncle and aunt had to force me to attend services. I didn’t see the point of praying to someone who didn’t do a damn thing to stop a fourteen-year-old from losing her parents.