Mr. Benny was already hunched over a coffee mug, waiting to growl at me. I could predict how much I’d earn on this shift within ten dollars, and it was a sure bet that the money could buy me more watercolors or make a negligible dent in the Bethwell tuition, but not both. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that the scent of coffee mingled with bacon was one of my favorite ways to start the day. But then Mr. Benny glanced at me, and his wrinkly mouth tightened, and it was all I could do not to dive back into my car.
Tom nodded at me when I slipped into the kitchen to grab a clean apron and an order pad. He scooped up an omelet and slid it my way. “It’s called The Widowmaker,” he said. “Might want to loosen your apron. It ain’t light.”
I brightened and almost had the fork to my mouth, cheddar stretching all the way back to the plate, when Mr. Benny tapped his cup against the countertop and glared at us through the pass-through window. I took the bite anyway and immediately regretted it. I could already tell it would rank near the top of Tom’s experiments, and knowing it was sitting there and I could only sneak bites of it between customers made me sad, like staring at puppies through pet shop windows made me sad.
After I topped off Mr. Benny’s coffee, I snuck another bite and gave Tom my bossiest look. “It’s a winner. I’m putting it up on the board.”
His bushy eyebrows drew together, and he hunched over the grill. “It’s not ready.”
I waved a piece of chalk at him. “I’m sure Michelangelo said that every day about the Sistine Chapel, but there’s a point at which you have to let your adoring public convince you that you’ve reached perfection. You’ll be making a lot of widows today.” The tips of his ears reddened, and I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Could you start with Mrs. Benny?” Tom waved me off with his spatula in pretend annoyance. On cue, Mr. Benny tapped his fork on his mug. I grabbed a plate of toast, knowing that was what he wanted. Unbuttered, even. Weirdo.
An hour later, I finished off my last bite of omelet, cold despite Tom’s efforts to keep it warm. It was still delicious, another sign that it had been a good idea to throw it up on the daily specials board. I’d already talked three people into it, and I had a few extra dollars in tip money for my efforts. The Widowmaker would make Tom’s permanent rotation, for sure.
I eyed the clock. Any minute now the high school hipsters would roll in, the kids who liked the novelty of getting diner coffee instead of Starbucks. They tipped okay, but sometimes their conversations made me want to beat them about the head and neck with a spatula. Usually, it was whining about anything they thought was too mainstream. So far, that included everything.
The bell jingled, and sure enough, the kid I thought of as Blue Beanie walked in. Instead of diving for a booth, he made his way over to me, a flat paper-wrapped package in his hands. “This is for you,” he said.
“Who’s it from?”
“I don’t know. An old lady paid me ten bucks to bring it to you.”
Tom rapped the counter. “What is it?”
I shook it and held it against my ear. “Sounds like a pony.”
He scowled at me, and Blue Beanie beat a retreat. “Unless it’s ticking, you should open it.”
“No ticking,” I said. “I’m pretty sure it’s a book.” A heavy one, hardback. What old lady was paying him ten bucks to give it to me? I tugged at the twine around it and carefully removed the paper.
“Tear it off,” Tom said. “It’s annoying when people unwrap stuff all careful.”
“That’s why I’m doing it,” I said, slowing down even more.
He clamped his mouth shut, and I took the book out. Wildflowers of Utah. I held it up for Tom to see. From the corner of my eye, I caught the beanie kid straining to check out the cover. I flashed it at him, and he shrugged and settled into his booth.
“Who would send you a book on flowers at the diner?” Tom asked.
An old lady? Could it be Victoria? She was in her midfifties, but maybe that looked old to the kid. Maybe she’d actually come all the way out here to talk me into taking the commission. I leafed through the book. It was nice, but . . . this wasn’t even what she wanted me to paint.
“I need more coffee,” one of my regulars said.
“Be right there, Rusty.” I’d have to figure out the book later. I stuck it on the kitchen shelf, where I kept my purse, and hurried back out to take care of the early-morning caffeine junkies.
Even as I stepped back into the rhythm of the breakfast shift, my mind drifted to the book. Pushing me would not get Victoria what she wanted. If a five-thousand-dollar check couldn’t do it, a flower book and an invasion of my geographical space definitely wouldn’t.
Aidan showed up a little before eight, and as simple as that, the book was the farthest thing from my mind.
“Another weekday visit? How did we get so lucky?” I asked, setting a menu in front of him.
He sighed. “Coming from the right person, that question would give me butterflies.”
“Because you’re a junior high school girl?”
“Because you make me feel like a junior high boy with my first huge crush on someone. But I don’t want to be the clueless kind who can’t take a hint, so I won’t ask you for a date today. Or even your phone number. I’ll just ask for the number twelve.” He sauntered over to his usual booth while my stomach flipped.
“Where’s Chief?”
“He treed a squirrel and didn’t want to leave it. I’ll bring him home an actual doggie bag.”
“Of all the days to bring a dog you can feed under the table, number twelve day is the prime one. Do you remember what’s in the twelve?”
“I’m right here,” Tom hollered. “The bacon doesn’t sizzle so loud that I can’t hear you. I’m throwing the liver on.”
Aidan grimaced. “I didn’t forget. But I decided a Saturday shouldn’t be ruined with liver, so I’m having it today instead.”
“You got it. I’ll be back with your coffee.”
“And my liver.”
“I’m not Hannibal Lecter. It will be a liver, not your liver.”
He executed a rim shot with his fork against the table. He was already pulling out his iPad for his news fix.
I stuck his ticket in the window for Tom, who didn’t even glance at it. No one at any of my other tables had empty plates or a needy look in their eyes, so I ducked into the bathroom and checked my reflection, cursing myself for being a sucker enough to do it. I wished I’d put some lip gloss on. I settled for refastening my low ponytail and went back out, the minutes until I could swing past and check on Aidan ticking past as slowly as if the clock hand were dragging itself through tar.
When I finally stopped by his table, he didn’t look up. So much for his “huge crush.” Even the sound of water filling his glass didn’t get his attention. I stole a glance at his iPad screen to see what he found so fascinating. It looked like another news article. “Anything interesting happening in the world today?” I asked like an idiot.
He looked up, startled, and collected himself. “No. The whole world is boring today. Must be hard for the news people when that happens.”
“You looked pretty into that article. Can’t be that boring.”
“Not to me, but probably to anyone else.”
That was a definite brush off. My eyebrows rose in surprise before I could stop myself. Not too long ago, if Aidan had wanted to keep to himself, I would have considered him new and improved. It was stupid for his distraction to hurt my pride now, but my pride was stupid too and got hurt anyway. I rearranged my expression to make my neutral what-can-I-get-you face. Too late. He’d seen my reaction, and he winced.
“Sorry. I have an extremely bad habit of getting so focused on something I forget the rules of being human. Smile, blink, be polite.” He blinked and smiled, and the usual Aidan reappeared like magic. “This is an article about my brother. I don’t know if it’d be too interesting to any non-siblings.”
A piece of information to file away: his broth
er was important enough to be in the New York Times. I felt a Google search coming on. “He’s in the paper? Is he robbing banks or running for office?”
“What’s the difference?” Aidan asked, and I grinned.
“Does that count as a laugh?” he asked. “Is the juice on you today?”
A plate of liver plunked down in the pass-through, and I walked over to scoop it up and deliver it to him. “The juice is on me because you deserve something to wash this down with.”
“It’s that bad?”
Extra loud griddle-smacking sounded at that question. I ignored Tom, giving Aidan the answer I would have anyway without Tom’s eavesdropping. “Nope. The taste is pretty good. The texture is even all right. My problem is that I can’t get past the idea that it’s liver. The trick is to tell yourself you’re eating something else.”
Aidan stared down at the dish. “Pâté it is.”
Pâté—another throwback to the New York days, when pâté and caviar were a regular thing. I’d gone from awed by the fact that I was eating something so decadent to resenting that I had to eat fatty goose liver and raw fish eggs when I’d much rather be eating grilled cheese and potato chips. Part of working in a diner was my rebellion against the endless round of catered soirées Donovan had dragged me to.
Aidan interrupted my thoughts. “My brother’s a doctor.”
I stared at him in confusion.
“The one in the newspaper? I didn’t want you thinking he was some kind of criminal or something.”
“I didn’t assume anything,” I said, but I knew the words were untrue as soon as I spoke them. I’d assumed lots of things about Aidan, for example. Like that a construction worker wouldn’t know what pâté was or have a brother who was a doctor. How had their two paths diverged so widely that one had gone to medical school and the other had ended up in manual labor? Something about the mixture of pride and frustration in his face forced a question out of me before I could stop it. “Does it bother you that he’s a doctor and you’re just a construction worker?”
He tilted his head, and my face flamed as the rudeness of what I’d asked him sank in. I waved my hand like I could brush the question out of the air. “Ignore me. I had a brain-mouth disconnect. I’ll go get your juice.”
“Does it bother you that you’re just a waitress in a diner?” His voice was level. I couldn’t tell if he was amused or angry.
“Touché. But no.” I’d lived a life people couldn’t imagine. I was happier now being a wage slave and an honorary parent to Chloe.
He picked up his fork to poke at the liver. “Honest work is honest work. I work as hard as I need to so I can meet my obligations. If I have to work harder or do more, I do. And I’ve found my place. So I don’t mind that my brother is a doctor. That’s an article about his work with Doctors Without Borders. I’ll be getting a call later from my mother asking me when I’m going to contribute more to society. I do it my way. My brother does it his. If it weren’t for those phone calls, I wouldn’t even think about the differences.”
“Fair enough. Sorry I said that.”
“You can make it up to me with a date.”
“And here we go,” I said, walking away. “You almost made it through a whole meal without hitting on me.” But as I crossed the floor to refresh coffee cups, a grin snuck out of me. It was funny how that little part of our routine did more to start my day right than anything except for a Chloe hug.
Chapter 6
The Bethwell Academy was the prettiest school I’d ever seen. It looked more like a fancy house than an institution. Ivy covered its brick walls, and a brass sign spelled out the school name near the front door. I’d expected a place in such high demand with all the affluent mommies to look stuffy, but it had a welcoming charm before we’d even walked through the door.
“Good morning,” the receptionist said. “You must be Miss Carswell and Chloe. Dr. Bray will be with you in a moment. Feel free to look around while you wait.”
“Thank you,” I said, glancing around at the walls exploding with photos and student work.
The receptionist followed my look. “I know, it’s overwhelming, but we’re at the end of the school year, and there’s been so much great work to display. Enjoy it.”
I squeezed Chloe’s hand. She pulled me toward the nearest wall covered in tissue paper mosaics. Self-portraits, apparently. Chloe’s eyes shone at all the bright colors. “We make dat?”
“Sure, sweet pea. We’ll make that.”
She tugged me over to the next wall and a photo collage of the kids in a million different activities. They were costumed for a play or holding the edges of a multicolor parachute for some game or sitting and listening to a teacher wearing a Little Bo Peep outfit read a story.
By the third wall, this one full of paper-plate hats dripping ribbon and shiny with glitter, I was ready to enroll myself.
“Good morning.”
Chloe suddenly threw her arms around my legs and buried her face to hide, and I turned to find a tiny woman with friendly eyes standing behind us. She wore a bright blue dress and a long chain of colorful charms around her neck. “I’m Dr. Bray. Are you ready for a look around?”
I looked down at Chloe, whose big eyes met mine with a look torn between fear and amazement, as if she couldn’t believe her luck in getting to see more of the school, but she didn’t know if she could talk to this new adult. I knelt and hugged her. “You don’t have to talk today, Chloe. The grown-ups will talk, and you can look at things. Can you do that?”
She’d tucked her face into the crook of my neck, and when she nodded, stray strands of her hair tickled my nose, and I sneezed, making her hold on to me tighter, but I could feel her lips curve up against my skin. I looked up at Dr. Bray and nodded. “We’re having a brave day. We can do this.”
Dr. Bray took us to see six classrooms, half of them full of three-year-olds, the other half of four-year-olds. Each only had about a dozen kids and at least two adults, sometimes three. The walls bloomed with pictures and posters and life and color. We heard singing, saw dancing, and even listened to a story about a mouse who ate a cookie. That one kind of frustrated me, but Chloe sat entranced all the way through it, even giggling once.
Dr. Bray met us at the door as the story ended. “Are you enjoying Bethwell?”
Chloe nodded like a bobblehead, and Dr. Bray laughed. “I’m so glad.” A classroom door opened behind her, and a line of three-year-olds filed out. “It’s time for creative play. Chloe, if it’s okay with your aunt, you can go play with them in the arts center while she and I talk.”
Chloe turned pleading eyes on me. I squeezed her hand. “Thanks, but we like to hang out. She can stay with me.”
Instead of answering, Dr. Bray knelt down in front of Chloe, waiting quietly until Chloe met her eye. “There’s a beautiful art center in there, my friend. Would you like to make something for your aunt? The other kids will let you work by yourself if you want some quiet.”
Chloe’s hold on my hand tightened for a moment, and she grew as still as one of her bugs freshly dug from the dirt and startled.
“We have every color of crayon you can imagine,” Dr. Bray said. “I’ll show you my favorite. It’s called Pink Peony. What do you say? Would you like to go see?”
Chloe looked up at me, her eyes asking if she had to go. Dr. Bray caught the look and touched Chloe’s arm to get her attention. “I’ll tell you what. You don’t have to go play with anyone. But will you come sit over here and talk to me for a bit?”
I knelt and looked Chloe in the eye. “You are a brave girl,” I whispered. “I will stay right here in this room, but I think you should go talk to her.”
Chloe threw her arms around my neck and trembled. The tiny tremor was almost enough for me to squeeze her and tell her never mind, she could stay by me or Dani forever, but she sniffed and lifted her head to nod.
Dr. Bray winked at me and held a hand out to Chloe, who took it and followed her to a nearby table. They t
alked for five minutes. At first it was mostly Dr. Bray, but then Chloe began to nod, and soon she smiled, and by the end of their conversation, she’d said a few things too. I couldn’t quite hear them, but Dr. Bray had the air of a Buddha about her, a calm that made it easy for me to sit and watch them together without needing to step in or understand every piece of their chat.
Dr. Bray stood and brought Chloe back to me. “Go ahead and ask, Chloe. Your aunt needs to know this is what you want.”
“Wia, I want to go draw.”
I nodded despite the lump in my throat that always formed on the rare occasions I got to see an adult invest in Chloe the way Dani and I did. “You should draw, baby girl. I’ll come find you in a few minutes.”
Once Dr. Bray got Chloe settled in with a ream of paper and a truly spectacular tub of crayons, she led me to her office, a cheerful yellow space with overstuffed gingham chairs. “Were you pleased with your visit?” she asked when we sat.
“Beyond pleased,” I said. “I really want Chloe to come here. How do I sign her up?”
Worry crossed her face. “I think I told you we’re full for the fall already, didn’t I?”
I nodded.
Dr. Bray sighed. “I wish there were a way to enroll her. She’s delightful. But we’ve had those slots filled for months. All I can offer you is our waiting list.”
The chest fist squeezed. “Why did you let us come visit? I’m not asking to be rude; I’m so new to how all this works, and I’m trying to understand.”
“There’s a small chance we would have something available the following year. We’re always willing to let people on the wait list.”
“How long is the list?”
“Long enough that the chances are nonexistent for this fall and slim for the one following.”
Chloe needed to be here. I knew it the way I knew exactly which yellow to choose for the daffodils, an instinct I had learned to trust. But I stared at the tiny woman in front of me and knew I might as well try lifting a boulder the size of Bethwell as try to get around the rules with her. The plan I’d been so sure would work crumbled. There was no chance she would go for the deal I’d intended to offer her. “Dr. Bray, Chloe needs this. She’s not coming in with the advantages these kids have, and I’ve read all the articles about how she needs to start right, even this young. So what do I do?”
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