Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,20
could do as little damage as possible during their absence had taken far longer than he’d expected.
And the untoasted bagel he’d grabbed as they left the house and scarfed down in the car was long gone.
“Are you hungry, sweetie?” He tossed the question over his shoulder, watching Molly in the rearview mirror.
She sniffed and peered through her window toward the wharf. “Yes.”
He slowed as he approached the end of the street and identified the source of the appetizing aroma—the white truck he’d noticed on previous trips to town, the word Charley’s emblazoned in colorful letters above the serving window.
On his past drive-bys, the window had been shuttered.
Today it was open.
And whatever Charley was cooking, he wanted some of it.
“Let’s stop and see what that smell is.” He eased back further on the gas pedal and scanned the wharf for a parking spot.
There wasn’t a space to be had in front of the row of shops facing the marina—but as he circled around at the end of the street, a car pulled out of one of the few angled parking spots by the tiny park with the white gazebo.
“This must be our lucky day.” He swung in, and two minutes later he had Molly free of her restraints.
Taking her hand, he led her to the line in front of the truck.
She rose on tiptoe, trying to see the serving counter, but he had the height advantage—and a clear line of sight to a ponytailed man who appeared to be Mexican working behind the counter.
Logan sniffed again.
The aroma wasn’t a perfect match for Mexican food—but some of the same spices were being used.
Uh-oh.
Given how picky Molly was, spicy Mexican fare wasn’t likely to appeal to her taste buds.
Maybe the guy would have some plain chicken for her.
“I bet this will be good.” He gave her hand an encouraging squeeze.
“It is good.” The woman in front of him smiled down at Molly. “If you’ve never been to Charley’s, you’re in for a treat. He makes the best fish tacos on the West Coast.”
Logan smothered a groan.
No way would Molly touch a taco, let alone one with fish in it.
He’d have to fix her a sandwich once they got back to the house.
As the woman resumed her conversation with her companion, Molly wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like fish.”
“I know. I’ll give you lunch at home.” But he wasn’t leaving here without some tacos for himself.
And if the guy made other versions besides fish, some plain chicken could still be an option.
While they waited their turn, Molly amused herself by watching the antics of two seagulls who were strutting around like they owned the place.
Despite the line and the relaxed conversation the cook had with every single patron, in less than ten minutes they were at the window.
Since there wasn’t a menu posted on the side of the truck, he surveyed the wall behind the man.
No bill of fare there either. Instead, the space was covered with layers of pictures—all drawn by children, based on the crayoned stick figures that peopled them.
The man with the gray ponytail gave them a megawatt smile. “Good day, folks. Welcome to Charley’s. You two must be hungry for tacos.”
“I am.” Logan nodded to Molly. “Some of us aren’t partial to fish. Do you have a chicken version?”
“Can’t say I do, because I don’t. My specialty is fish tacos—a different version every day.” The man rested his forearms on the counter and leaned down, giving Molly his full attention. “Hello, little lady.”
“Hello.” She studied him. “I have a ponytail too.”
“I see that—and with a pretty ribbon. Purple’s one of my favorite colors.”
“Mine too.”
“I knew you were partial to purple the minute I saw you.” He winked. “Logan here says you don’t like fish. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“I bet you’ll like mine. It’s different than any you’ve ever eaten. People say I have a magic touch.” He flexed the fingers of his empty hand, reached behind his ear, and withdrew a shiny penny. After inspecting it, he passed it to her. “Can’t imagine where that came from—but I think it’s a lucky coin meant for you. Would you like to try a bite of my fish?”
She looked from him to the penny . . . and back again. “I-I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you what. If you don’t like it, you can spit it out on the sidewalk and Floyd or Gladys will eat it.” He motioned to the seagulls who were hovering nearby. “Right, you two?”