a menu from the hostess stand.
"Oh, uh, are you sure?" the girl asked, sounding surprised.
"Yes, I am," he said, simply.
"W-well, yes sir, twenty-six is open," she said.
"Twenty-six it is," the man said with a smile. He stepped forward and put his arm out for me, wanting me to grab it, telling me he was about to escort me to a table.
My heart pounded and I felt like I wanted to cry.
"Are you sure, with your hip, Mister Elliot?" the other girl asked.
"I'll make it," he said. "It'll be my physical therapy for the day."
I took his arm since he was still offering it to me and I didn't want to leave him hanging. We took off walking together. I felt a resemblance to him. He had dark eyes, unlike mine, but he had a square head and jaw and a thick sturdiness to his frame that reminded me of my own. I tried to remind myself not to get carried away in making comparisons, but it was impossible not to.
"I had a hip replacement two months ago, and they're still babying me about it." He paused, so I glanced at him, and he winked. "I'm just teasing. I like them to baby me. I'm still not quite right from it," he said, with a deprecating smile as we slowly walked through the restaurant.
"Two months isn't that long," I said. "I can understand why you're not quite right. It'll probably take a while."
He was doing his best not to limp, but it took effort. We glanced at each other as we walked slowly. He smiled at me when our eyes met, and I felt, based on his facial expression, that he knew who I was. Because of this, I got nervous and began speaking again.
"It smells delicious in here, and it's a really nice restaurant," I said. "I'm excited to try your food."
"Thank you, sweetheart. Is it your first time joining us for dinner?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, welcome," he said. "I'm Mike Elliot, the owner. We're famous for our blackened redfish and our crawfish enchiladas. Either of those are really popular."
I made a mental note to order both of them. I followed him to a gorgeous table for two overlooking the water.
"This one's better than twenty-six," he said, setting the menu and silverware on the table. "I'll put you here instead." I started to sit down, but I stopped when he put a hand on my arm. "Stop," he said. "Before you sit down, I'd like to?? He trailed off, staring straight at me. "I believe my wife had some pictures of you on our dining room table." He spoke slowly and thoughtfully, and I was scared, but I responded as calmly as I could.
"Yes, sir."
"Have you ever met my wife, Helen Elliot?"
"Yes, sir," I said, staring at him and feeling like I could barely get the words out.
His grip tightened on my arm. I had no idea what he was thinking.
I cleared my throat and took a deep breath. "Miss Helen doesn't know I came here tonight," I said. "Nor do my parents. I just came to eat some dinner, if you don't mind."
"Would you mind if I join you?"
"No sir, not at all." (Because what else was I going to say?)
He got the attention of a nearby server, and told him to get word to the hostesses that he would be having dinner at table sixteen.
Mike Elliot ordered two appetizers and three entrees, and we sat and ate until we were about to pop. We connected over food. We never talked about me being his granddaughter. Things never got awkward. We ordered food, we ate food, and we talked about food.
He was a chef, and I must have asked him four hundred questions about cooking. It was so much fun that I wasn't even aware of the busy restaurant around us until he would mention something in the restaurant and bring my attention to it.
All of the dishes were delicious, and I asked him question after question about how they were made. He took pleasure in talking to me about it.
We ate dessert, and then we sat and talked for another hour over coffee. It was after 8pm when we left our table. Mister Elliot would not even consider letting me pay. He took me to the kitchen, and we watched the chefs and runners work while he explained what was going on. It had slowed down considerably in the restaurant, but there was still a lot going on, and I