Last Chance at the Someday Café

by Angel Smits

  Her tiny office sat open and dark, nearly deterring her. No, she was stronger than some lying, no-good, married jerk...

  Who tasted of damp and coffee...

  She closed and locked the door, sinking into the much-loved wooden chair. She booted up the computer, trying to focus.

  How could he? He didn’t wear a ring. He didn’t act like a married man, though what did a married man who was always on the road act like? Tara didn’t know. She’d never had any experiences like this.

  The damp on her cheeks from the rain warmed. Or were those tears? She pounded the desktop. “Damn him.”

  “Tara?” Wendy asked through the closed door. “Is that you?”

  She did not want to talk to, or see, anyone right now. Maybe never again. She felt so stupid. So betrayed. So—disappointed. It hurt. Damn, it hurt. And that just added to her anger.

  “I’m...I’m busy right now.” She tried to make her voice sound as normal as possible.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Not right now.” She couldn’t face anyone. “I’ll come find you. Later.” She glanced at the clock. Wendy’s shift didn’t end for a couple hours. “Before you leave.”

  “Okay.” Wendy’s voice faded and only silence followed.

  The deep rumble of an engine shook the entire building. Despite herself, Tara listened to Morgan drive away, listened until the roar faded into the night, the ache in her chest growing as the quiet returned.

  Fool.

  The rhythm of the rain taunted her, trying to mask the sound of his retreat, and failing. At the last minute, she shot to her feet and stared out the tiny window. Red taillights shone on the damp pavement, brightening at the stop sign, then fading again as Morgan accelerated and slowly turned the corner. The night settled in dark.

  And cold. Tara suddenly felt cold. So very cold.

  * * *

  TWO HOURS HAD passed and still Tara was angry with herself for letting Morgan get to her, and just as angry for reacting so emotionally to his revelations.

  She’d holed up in her office for those hours, pretending to work on bills, making little headway and wallowing a bit too much. Another demerit in the Morgan Thane column.

  But it was getting late. Wendy would be leaving soon, the night shift arriving at about the same time. She found Wendy watching a little girl seated, alone, in booth five.

  “That’s what I needed to talk to you about earlier.” Wendy’s words came out only slightly accusing as she whispered.

  “How long has she been here?” Tara whispered back.

  “Almost three hours.”

  The little girl sat in the corner of the booth with a ratty, stuffed purple dragon in her arms. She held it in her lap, talking to it as if she expected the toy to understand.

  Most kids her age, which Tara guessed to be about six, had been asleep for hours.

  Her uneven, dingy blond ponytails bobbed as she spoke. When she finished speaking, she hugged the dragon, burying her face in the matted fur.

  Tara recalled seeing her in here a couple times before. She came in with a young woman who was usually more interested in the guy across the table or with her phone than the little girl. Was that why the girl was talking to the toy? A wave of painful empathy washed over Tara at the loneliness the girl must feel.

  Where was the woman now? Tara looked around, but didn’t see her. She moved closer to the table. “Hello,” she greeted the girl, smiling, not wanting to upset or scare her. While the girl looked up at her with big brown eyes, she didn’t smile back.

  “Are you here with someone, sweetie?”

  The girl only nodded in response.

  “Who?” Tara stalled by checking the sugar dispenser and the salt and pepper shakers. The girl was too young to be here on her own. An adult had to be here someplace. The restroom perhaps?

  Finally, the girl pointed. Tara looked over her shoulder. The twentysomething who was normally with the girl sat at another table back in the corner behind the small room divider, flirting with a man. She looked like she’d been there awhile if the lipstick stains on the coffee mug were any indication.

  “You’re with her?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Why are you sitting over here?”

  The girl shook her head and shrugged. “She told me to stay over here.”

  Tara frowned. It wasn’t a big deal to have the girl taking the table since it was late, and there were only a couple tables full. But the girl was by herself. Well, except for the dragon.

  “Why?”

  “She said to leave her alone.”

  “Is she your mom?” Why did that idea bother Tara? She thought of her own mother, who’d had six kids and still managed to make them each feel special. Mom never ignored them. Ever.

  The girl shook her head. “No. She’s the babysitter. But I’m not a baby.” The protest seemed tired and worn-out, even coming from the child.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “At work.”

  “What about your father?”

  “I dunno.” The girl hugged the dragon tight. “Mama says I have to be good and not upset the sitter cuz she can’t find nobody else.”

  Tara slowly wiped off the table, wondering what she should do. Thankfully, someone was here with the girl, though she wasn’t doing a very good job of watching her.

  “She don’t like me being around,” the girl whispered into the fur.

  “Who? The babysitter?”

  “No. Mama.” The sadness in the girl’s voice tore at Tara’s heart. She almost hated to ask the next question.

  “Why?”

  “She’s trying to find me a new daddy,” the girl whispered, leaning toward Tara. “I don’t know why.” The girl wrapped her arms tighter around the dragon. “Me and Lanara both like my real dad just fine.”

  Whoa. Tara stared at the girl. She had to remind herself that this wasn’t really her business. But the girl looked so lost and distressed.

  Not sure what to do and even less willing to upset her any more, Tara decided to tread on safer, less emotionally charged ground for now. “Is that your dragon’s name? Lanara?” she asked.

  “Yep. Daddy read it in a book.” The girl turned the battered animal around so Tara could see its worn face. “Daddy gave her to me for my birthday.”

  Interesting. Tara nodded. “She’s lovely. Did you have anything to eat?”

  The girl shook her head. She sat up straighter, looking beyond Tara.

  “Come on, kiddo.” A woman’s voice came from behind Tara. “We’re going with Jake.” She reached past the girl and pulled out a small purse from behind the girl’s back. A tall, dark-haired man stood at the door, waiting impatiently.

  There wasn’t any bill on either table, and only the cup that had lipstick on one edge to even indicate they’d been there.

  “Would you like something to go? A cookie?” Tara offered.

  “No, thanks,” the woman said. At the same time, the girl said, “Yes, please,” and looked up hopefully.

  The girl jumped down from the booth, her ratty tennis shoes slapping against the wood floor. The woman grabbed the girl’s arm, and together they wound their way through the tables to where the man waited.

  Tara hurried to the glass container on the counter and hastily grabbed a handful of cookies. “Take these with you.” She put them into a bag.

  “We didn’t order those,” the babysitter snapped.

  “I know.” Tara smiled. “It’s a gift.” She winked at the girl and extended the bag to her. “You come back anytime, okay?”

  The girl smiled and nodded, using her free hand to wave the dragon’s floppy arm.

  Tara forced herself to smile and wave back, struggling not to frown. That whole interaction
felt weird, though despite the late hour, she couldn’t put her finger on why. She cleared off the table and headed into the kitchen. Robbie was cleaning up his last order and preparing to hand the kitchen over to the night cook. He didn’t see customers, so it was doubtful he even knew about the girl. Wendy didn’t remember her before tonight.

  Tara planned to ask the rest of the staff about the girl, to see if they recognized her, too, and ask them to let her know if she came in again. She didn’t look in imminent danger, but something didn’t feel right. She wasn’t happy, like a kid should be.

  Tara wasn’t sure what she should do, if anything, but she couldn’t totally dismiss the situation.

  Or maybe she was looking for a distraction. Tara forced herself to focus on clearing tables and not worry about everyone else’s problems.

  Though she doubted she’d forget the girl or the rest of today’s events anytime soon.

  * * *

  MORGAN HAD DRIVEN straight to Dallas, whittling away at the night. He’d expected to sleep the couple hours it would take to prep the load and get everything ready once he reached his apartment. But sleep eluded him.

  Damn.

  Frustration of all types created energy, and the only way Morgan knew to burn off excess energy was by working out. He’d outfitted his apartment to accommodate his exercise routine. The bar suspended from the bedroom doorframe had seen many a pull-up session. Today, it would see more.

  “What’s eating you?” Jack didn’t bother to knock. Morgan made a mental note to get that key back.

  “Nothing.” He counted to focus on his progress. Eleven. “Just my workout.”

  “They don’t have gyms in...where the hell were you? Corners something?” Jack headed to the fridge to stare into the depths.

  “Haskins.” Fifteen. “It’s on the paperwork. I know you read it.”

  “Read, but I didn’t commit it to memory.”

  “Might be a useful skill to develop.” Eighteen.

  “Waste of brain cells.” Jack yanked out a beer and actually seemed to consider it.

  “Before noon?”

  Jack shrugged. “Maybe not.” He put it back somewhat reluctantly. “Truck’ll be ready to go by two. Will you?”

  “Sure.” Twenty.

  “Uh-huh. You sleep yet?”

  “No.” Twenty-two. “I’ll catch a catnap after this.” Twenty-four.

  “I’ll hold the load if you’re not awake.” Jack glared at him. “I’m serious. You aren’t driving tired or hyped-up on caffeine. Remember, I know you. What’s eating you? Start talking or I’ll send Gary or Phil instead of you.”

  The expletive that filled the room would have gotten Morgan backhanded as a kid. Jack just laughed. Twenty-seven.

  Three more pull-ups strained his arms, the burn reminding him why he did this. He jumped to the ground and grabbed the towel and wiped his face. “I didn’t find a damned thing. The leads are dead ends.”

  Even he heard the defeat in his voice.

  “Then other than this delivery, why are you going back? It’s an easy swap to send one of the guys. Kyle’s been asking for extra hours now that his wife is expecting.”

  “Again?”

  Jack laughed. “Yeah. Guess absence makes the heart grow fonder?”

  Morgan glared at him.

  “Sorry.” Jack turned back to the fridge. “Where to next?”

  Guilt swept through Morgan. He’d thought a lot about his situation as he’d driven last night, about all the hours he spent on the road, alone, accomplishing nothing. Of the burden Jack took on at the office.

  About Tara and the mess he could get into without much effort. “Nowhere.”

  Silence followed his statement. Jack slowly rose, staring over the fridge door at Morgan.

  “You giving up?”

  “Maybe.” Why did that idea make his chest hurt? Morgan shook his head. “No. But I think it’s time to give the PI a try.” Instead of continuing with his workout, he grabbed his water bottle and downed nearly half of it.

  Jack closed the fridge, a water bottle in his hand, as well. “Really? You got enough cash together for that?”

  “No.” Morgan did not want to have this conversation. “I just feel like it’s time. I’ll...I’ll figure out something.”

  Jack didn’t ask anything for a long time, the look of confusion on his face telling Morgan he’d have questions soon.

  “Feel? Since when are you a touchy-feely kinda guy?”

  “Funny. Real funny, dumbass. You learn anything more about the schools?”

  Jack and he had created a list of all the schools Sylvie might have enrolled Brooke in, even the fancy, expensive ones. Jack was working on contacting them all.

  “No.” Jack grabbed a chair and sat, propping his feet up on the other one.

  “What about day care?”

  “Sylvie isn’t going to put Brooke in day care. Too expensive and visible.”

  “She might not have a choice.” Why, Morgan didn’t know, but anything was possible. She had to support them somehow. She had to have some type of job, didn’t she?

  Jack was silent, staring at the toes of his battered running shoes for a long time. Finally, he looked up, frowning. “So, you’re planning to come back to the office?” he asked softly.

  Morgan straddled the bench for sit-ups and focused on that. “Yeah, I guess. Maybe you can take some time off.”

  Jack glared at him. Morgan had never shrunk away from his brother’s intense anger, and he wasn’t about to now.

  Unfortunately, when Jack got that look in his eye, it reminded Morgan too much of Dad. Of that mean, angry drunk who came home half-toasted and finished off the task in front of the TV with Monday Night Football and a twelve-pack. “Back off, Jack.”

  “Why?”

  Morgan didn’t move, didn’t dare. As a kid, he’d been the older brother, the one who had to be stronger, in control. Not that he’d always accomplished it. There’d been plenty of black eyes inflicted between them.

  “Just like that, you’re giving up?”

  “Did I say that?” Morgan glared back. “I’m just letting someone else take the lead. I’m not going to argue with you.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “Why in the world would I?”

  “Shit, Morgan.” Jack took a step toward him. “You’re a shadow of yourself. Since Sylvie left, you’re a closed, shut-off ass.”

  “A what?”

  “You heard me.”

  Morgan actually felt laughter bubble inside his chest. “Name-calling, really?” He picked up the towel from the workout bench and after wiping the sweat off his face, looped it around his neck and fisted the ends. “Nice try.”

  Jack laughed, too. But it wasn’t as filled with mirth as it should be. “Don’t let Sylvie do this to you, Morgan.” Jack’s voice was deceptively soft. “She’s done enough damage. You’ll never forgive yourself if you quit now.”

  “What exactly do you mean by that?” Now he didn’t feel like laughing—he felt his anger rising, that ever-present sense that he should protect her, even if she didn’t want that protection—or him—anymore.

  “Oh, come on.” Jack was in his face. “Do you even feel anything anymore except that damned need to chase her? How are you going to turn that off and focus on office work when she’s still out there?” He pointed at the door.

  Morgan’s knuckles went white. “What do you suggest I do?” His voice was loud now. “I’ve spent a year hunting for her. A year. I’ve accomplished nothing.”

  “You said yesterday you had a good feeling about the leads. You were heading to the bars to ask questions. What happened with that?”

  “Nothing.” Morgan should get up and move. He needed to shower before he did anything. />
  “You’ve driven every flippin’ highway in this state, as well as half a dozen others. You don’t come home. You sit in that damned truck and drive until you can’t stay awake anymore. You’re no quitter, so why are you stopping now?”

  Morgan speared Jack with a look he knew was as cold and mean as Dad’s had ever been. “Didn’t I tell you to back off?”

  Jack didn’t move. They were silent for a long minute, both men finishing bottles of water before speaking. Jack crushed his with a loud crunch and pitched it into the trash.

  “Forget I asked. What about the place where Sylvie applied to work? They might be a big help. Guess the PI will just take care of it all, right?” Jack glared but didn’t say any more. He stalked to the door and slammed it behind him so hard the entire apartment shook. The tenants upstairs probably felt the impact.

  Silence settled around Morgan. Empty silence that didn’t sit well on his shoulders.

  Seated on the workout bench, he stared down, not at the steel and lead of the dumbbells that made up the next part of his routine, but at his hands. His calloused, scarred hands.

  He’d earned every one of those calluses with good honest work. The scars? Not so much. The white line across the knuckles of his left hand was from the left hook where he’d connected with Big Ken’s jaw—and split his hand wide open.

  The white line up his forearm had faded, but it was a cleaner cut. A scalpel when he’d busted his arm in the battle with The Mauler. His pinkie finger on his right hand wasn’t quite straight. Who was he kidding? It’d been broken three times, never quite healing right.

  But those scars represented money that got him and Jack out of Dad’s reach, put Jack through college and gave them a chance to survive.

  He wasn’t proud of how he’d gotten them.

  Sylvie had been from that fringe world he’d slipped into when he’d first hit the road. She’d never asked where the scars came from. She’d probably already had an idea. And she’d have to actually care to ask about something like that.

  Tara wasn’t from that world. Did she even know about it? He curled his mangled fingers into a fist. A position he was more familiar with.