“How was it?” the young waiter asked when he collected the empty plate.
“Can’t you tell?” Clint asked.
“Yeah, the plate looks almost like you licked it,” the kid said. “Dessert?”
“Is your mom’s dessert as good as her steak?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“What do you have?”
“Pie.”
“Peach?”
“Not today,” he said, “but she does have apple, rhubarb, and blueberry.”
“Blueberry?” It had been a long time since Clint had blueberry pie. “I’ll have that one.”
“Comin’ up.”
“And more coffee.”
By the time the kid brought the pie out, the place was empty, except for Clint. So when he came out with the pie, his mother came behind him with the coffee.
“This is my mother, Hannah,” the kid said.
“You’re his mother?” Clint asked, looking at the beautiful young woman as she poured him some more coffee.
“I am,” she said. She stood up and put her hand on her son’s shoulder. “He’s a fine boy. Enjoy your pie.”
She turned and went back to the kitchen.
“How old—how old are you?” Clint asked.
“Me?” the boy said. “I’m nineteen. Mom was sixteen when I was born.”
The boy returned to the kitchen. Clint attacked the pie, found it every bit as good as the rest of the meal. He wondered if she’d be able to combine the blueberry pie with peach, if he asked her to.
* * *
The next time the boy came out, Clint asked, “What’s your name?”
“Ben.”
“That was a great meal, Ben,” Clint said. “Be sure to tell your mom I enjoyed it.”
“Well, if you’re stayin’ in town, come by again,” the kid said. “You can try her beef stew.”
“I’ll do that,” Clint said. “Thanks.”
As Clint headed for the door, Ben said, “I think there’s peach pie tomorrow.”
“I’ll remember,” Clint promised.