by C. B. Stagg
“Well, I appreciate you giving me a chance, sir. I may be a little wet behind the ears, but I’m strong in my faith and passionate about what I do. God’s put me exactly where He needs me.”
“We’re confident too, son.” The table had been set for a king, but only finding three place settings surprised me. I was told I was coming to a family dinner. Where was the family?
“John, Janice, your home is beautiful.” I waited for the couple to take their seats so I’d know my place. “But I thought this would be a family dinner. I know this may have been presumptuous of me, but I thought I’d be meeting your children tonight.”
The room fell silent, and my gut screamed that I should have just kept my piehole shut, but as usual, I’d spoken without thinking. Once the words were out, I considered the multitude of reasons why I might not be meeting the children of this fifty-ish-year-old pastor and his wife.
John quickly spoke up. “No, son, this is our family. We had a daughter, but I’m afraid she’s… well, she’s no longer with us.” I nodded and took my seat, hoping to remove my foot from my mouth without drawing too much attention.
Dinner conversation was easy, all things considered. We spoke of things pertaining to the job: the history of the church, its condition when Pastor John took over, and the goals he’d set for future growth. We were on the same page for the most part, but being hard to read, he was going to be a tough nut to crack. And his wife was even more difficult to decipher. She was silent—almost fearful—and refused to meet my eyes, even when I spoke to her directly.
While that first meal almost two months ago had been pleasant enough, I still felt I hadn’t fully recovered from my snafu during the first five minutes. But I wasn’t giving up. I was no quitter.
How does one even begin to search for a home without a clear view of the future? How many bedrooms would I need? How many baths? What about a yard? Near the bay, or closer to Houston and my parents? I thought of Cinderella. What kind of house would she want?
My attention started to wander, and after reading what felt like each and every MLS listing within a thirty-mile radius, I growled, mumbling my frustrations.
“Huh? Do what?” Curt threw a pillow, pegging me in the back of the head. “Were you talking to me?” He grabbed a Dr. Pepper from the fridge. How had I not heard him come in?
Hovering behind me, he popped the can open in my ear, knowing how much I hated that. “Hey, whatcha doin’ there?” He moved even closer, looking over my shoulder to get a view of the screen in my lap. I quickly slammed it shut. Crap, I hope I didn’t break the screen.
“Nothing, none of your business, and quit hanging over my shoulder. Shouldn’t you be watching football?”
“Naw, man.” He plopped onto the leather sofa right next to me, practically landing in my lap. I stood to put Mom’s MacBook back into her bag and took a seat in her rocking chair a few feet away. “My Chicago Bears don’t whoop up on the Packers until later tonight.” I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t into NFL. College ball was more my thing, and my Aggies were headed to the SEC next year. Nothing mattered until then.
The house phone rang—a rare occurrence in our home—startling both of us. But we continued to sit; me staring at Curt, who burped and stared back at me, unmoving. I rolled my eyes and headed toward the shrill noise, reminding myself that I, too, had bonehead tendencies at fifteen.
Chapter 4
Kaitlin
“UM, MISS CLAIRE, I think you meant to give this to my mom and not me.” Waverly held the half-unwrapped iPad out to Claire, her little mouth downturned like she’d just seen a puppy get hit by a bus.
Claire held her hands up in mock surrender. “If you want to give it to your mom once I’m gone, that’s fine with me, but I purchased that iPad specifically for Waverly Anne West. When you open it, you’ll see there’s a big ‘W’ engraved on the back of it. I guess though, since your mom’s last name is also West, it would work for her too.”
By the time Claire was finished talking, Waverly had completely unwrapped the package and was wiggling in her seat, hugging the generous gift to her chest. She shook her head, swinging her yellow curls around almost violently.
“No, no, if you got it for me, I’ll keep it. Don’t worry.” Waverly froze, attempting to read my face. “You are going to let me keep it, right, Mom?”
I eyed Claire, sitting in silence. “Are you sure about this? I mean, this is a thoughtful and generous gift, but it’s also incredibly expensive.”
“I’ll tell you a secret. I got it for free on Black Friday with another purchase from Apple. Feel better now?”
“Yes, actually, that helps. Wav—” I scanned the area for my daughter, but she’d already latched herself onto Claire’s leg singing her ‘thank you’ song—something she’d come up with a few years ago and embarrassed me with often.
“You are more than welcome, sweetheart. And I have to say, you look much better than you did a few days ago. How are you feeling?”
Waverly smiled. “I’m okay.” She sighed, tucking the iPad box under one arm while planting the opposite hand on her hip. “I didn’t get the opseration this time, but Mom says soon.”
Claire’s eyes popped up to mine, and I shrugged. She wanted more details, answers even, but I had nothing to offer her.
“Open yours, Mom, open yours!”
I fingered the big box looming in front of me, terrified of what I might find inside. It only took one rip of the beautiful red and white polka dot wrapping paper to validate every one of my fears.
“Claire, no! I can’t, I just can’t. Please.” I shook my head, pushing the box back toward her like it would burst into flames at any given moment, but she only laughed.
“Well, it just so happens, I had this engraved too… so suck it up, buttercup. There will be no returns this season, my dear.”
Tears slipped from my eyes, splashing onto the gift wrap as I slowly pulled it away from the box.
“Ohh, Momma, you got a giant one!”
I nodded, staring at the MacBook Pro with the fifteen-inch screen depicted on the outside of the box. “Claire, it’s too much.” But even as the words escaped my lips, I ran my fingernail through the seam of the stark white shrink-wrapped, suitcase-shaped box, making my new computer nonreturnable. On the back of the screen, in beautiful script, was written Kaitlin West, and under that in smaller font, it simply said, Writer.
I met her gaze. “Why?” The word alone was more like a whimper. I wasn’t ungrateful, just overwhelmed.
“Why? That’s a silly question. I got it because I believe in you.” She stood, taking my hand in hers. “You aren’t looking at yourself through the right lens. Right now, you see yourself as just a waitress, am I correct?”
I nodded because it was true. I was, in fact, a waitress.
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong. You’re not just a waitress. You, Katy West, are a writer who happens to also wait tables. And, like every good mechanic needs quality tools, every writer needs a good machine to write on.”
I placed the box back on the table and hugged her tight. Sure, I’d seen her around for about a year, but I’d only known her name for a few months. Yet, from the moment we truly met, she’d completely changed the trajectory of my life. She’d given me what I needed more than anything—confidence.
“Now, why don’t you play with your new toy while I help Jellybean get her iPad setup?”
Cara Jo and Roy Perrilloux, the owners of the diner, came over a few minutes later armed with a cake and a guitar, and we sang the birthday song to my now five-year-old miracle. Waverly insisted on getting her tea set out, so we all had warm tea in little ceramic cups, using saucers and all.
“Well, ladies and gentleman, this has been lovely, but I have a houseful of stinky boys waiting for me at home. I better get going.”
We said our goodbyes to Claire as we saw her to the door. With plans to wave at her as she drove off, a new tradition for Waverly, we made our way to the window. Only, when
she started her car, nothing happened. She tried a few more times with the same results before heading back inside.
“Goody!” Waverly clapped as she bounced on her knees in the booth. “She’s stuck with us now.” Claire entered just in time to hear her ask, “Mom, can Miss Claire stay for a sleepover?”
Chapter 5
Christian
“DAD, THAT WAS MOM on the phone. I’m headed to Perrilloux’s. Her battery’s dead.”
He nodded, only half listening.
“You’d better get up and get moving, Dad. We’re eating dinner across the street tonight.”
He nodded again, pausing the TV and pulling the lever on his recliner to sit himself up. “I’ll go fetch her.”
I shook my head. “Nah, I showered this morning. You didn’t. I’ll take care of Mom. You take care of… you.” I wrinkled my nose, waving my hand in front of it, but he rolled his eyes. Nothing affected my father.
I spent the twenty-minute drive pondering the idea of the dating site again. Should I sign up? Should I give it a try? If I do it, I’ll inevitably end up having at least one date with a whack job. If I don’t, I may never go on another date again. The list of pros and cons teetered in my mind, and I volleyed between go and no at least three times. But in the end, what other choice did I have really? I’d had the fleeting thought of asking Vaughn or Becky if they had any single friends, but the idea of having a family member set me up with someone reeked of desperation and made my skin crawl. No, this was something I had to handle myself, and the dating site was all I had. So, for now, it was a go.
Maybe.
Probably.
Perrilloux’s Diner was different from what I’d expected. The place had appeared minuscule from the road and seemed to lack enough room for two people to even pass without violating one another’s personal space. But when I pulled into the almost-deserted gravel parking lot and got a bit closer, I saw the actual trolley was just a facade of sorts—one part of a larger structure—with the rest hiding in the tall grass surrounding it.
It was like the Tardis.
Located right off the boardwalk, it sat within walking distance to Galveston Bay, near the Gulf of Mexico. Sure, we’d gone to the bay a few times as a family, but never this far down, at least not that I could remember. The building itself had to be an old trolley car or something, probably dating as far back as the 1930’s, but constructed of wood. It was nothing like the shiny art deco chrome cars that had become increasingly popular. It had white six-pane windows wrapping around the top half of the car with framed, battered turquoise wood panels covering the bottom half. Right in the middle stood bright red double doors, aged in the same manner as the rest and creating a naturally blended contrast.
Beyond the restaurant sat a quaint RV park, situated between the rear of the diner and the waters of the bay. Just past the park, several fishing piers jutted out from the land, into the bay, all of which appeared as worn and tired as the trolley car itself. The whole setup was an oddity for sure; completely out of its element, yet perfectly placed and weathered enough to give it personality. It called out from the road, begging to be entered and explored, if for no other reason than sheer curiosity. It was clear why my mother spoke highly of the place.
A cacophony of sound alerted all within a one-mile radius I was entering the building. In reality, a cracked leather strap of sleigh bells had been attached to the front doors, one of many items making up the eclectic decor inside.
“Mom?” I poked my head in, feeling more like I was entering someone’s home without permission, rather than a public eating establishment.
“Hey, honey, I’m over here,” I heard, before I saw her perfectly manicured hand pop up from a booth near the back. The dining area was deceptively large, and I had to walk a few feet before she came into full view, seated in a red vinyl booth across from a tiny mop of wiggly, messy blonde hair.
“Hello, ladies.” My mother greeted me with a smile that closely matched mine. “Why does it seem like I’m interrupting a tea party or something?” I moved in and took a seat beside my mom.
“Probably because you are.” She grinned again and took a sip.
“Who’s your friend?”
At the sound of my voice, the little child’s face popped up from her iPad and gave me a thousand-watt smile. “I’m Waverly Anne West, and I’m almost five years old.” She moved to offer her hand, but stopped. “No, wait. I’m Waverly Anne West, and I am five years old… not almost.”
She extended her hand fully, and I shook it. Every one of the child’s tiny fingernails was painted a different sparkly color.
“Waverly, this is my son, Christian. Christian, today is Waverly’s birthday.”
“I like your fingernails, Waverly. They look like fish scales.”
She smiled, holding her hand out in front of her to admire the paint job with a critical eye. Such an adult move.
“Waverly Anne? Why is your water sitting by the sink completely full?”
The girl’s blue eyes grew even bigger than they already were, and my mother and I both watched with amusement as she sprang from her seat upon hearing the disembodied voice. “Sorry, Mom, I’m coming!” She disappeared through the waist-high swinging doors that led to the back section of the restaurant.
Only with the distraction of the girl removed did I notice the lingering scents of bacon and other breakfast foods hanging in the air. My stomach grumbled. “So, this is who you came to see? Didn’t you get enough little kid time at home?”
She laughed, but I’d been serious, sort of. I had to admit, though, Waverly Anne West captivated the room. She was one of the cutest kids I’d ever seen, especially the moment she found herself in hot water.
“Well… Waverly and her mother, Katy. She’s a writer I’m working with.”
“Okay, well, we need to go. We have dinner plans tonight, so give me your keys and I’ll give you a jump.”
She slowly nodded. My mother, usually sharp and efficient, seemed to be lagging—casually removing this, then that—as she dug through her purse in search of her keys. She took her own sweet time while we sat in silence, the only sounds being those of a working kitchen in the background. Sizzling food, water running, and clanking plates and silverware made the perfect soundtrack for this kitschy little diner, and I liked it.
She sheepishly looked up at me. “I think I may have left my keys in the car?”
“Cool, I’ll go—”
“No, no. It’s okay.” She jumped up, practically pushing me back into the booth. “I’ll go. You stay here. Wait for Waverly.”
When she scurried off, I could see into her purse which she’d left sitting on the seat, and immediately located her missing keys. They were clipped right where they always were. I rolled my eyes, but let her go. The woman did nothing without purpose.
“Um, I’m back now.” I’d been checking email on my phone.
Like a ninja, Waverly Anne had sneaked right back into the seat she’d vacated a few moments before. Only this time she toted a large, clear bottle of water covered with colorful rubber bands. I locked my phone and slipped it back into my pocket.
“That’s a pretty fancy water bottle you’ve got there.”
I touched one of the rubber bands, fascinated at how it snapped right into the groove below it, making a little popping sound. I reached out to do it again when Waverly snatched the bottle back toward her, carefully moving the band back into place.
“You cannot move the bracelets until you drink all the water. I didn’t drink all the water,” she shook the bottle to prove it wasn’t empty, “so I can’t move the bracelet yet. If I do, it’s cheating.” She flipped the lid of the bottle open and chugged it like a grown man with a beer. When the bottle was empty, she wiped her mouth and burped—also like a grown man—before handing the bottle to me.
“Now, if you still want to, you can move the bracelet.” I reached out and flipped the bracelet into the groove, noticing each one had a number beside it.
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“This one says five. What does that mean?”
The little girl examined the bottle, then looked back to me, her expression telling me she thought I should already know this obvious nugget of information. She brought a smile to my face and joy to my heart.
“It means the number of times I’ve filled this bottle today is five.” She showed me with her hand, five fingers outstretched wide, pausing for just a breath to admire her polish again. “I have to get to eight before bedtime. Mom likes it better if I get to ten, but that’s kind of hard to do unless it’s really hot outside.”
“Wow.” I sat back, surprised by how much I enjoyed hearing this little girl’s explanations and watching the different expressions that danced across her face. “That seems like an awful lot of water for such a little girl. Are you a mermaid or something?” She started to giggle. “Or a fish, maybe?” Her full-on belly laugh was the best thing I’d heard all day... maybe ever.
“No.” She clicked her tongue at my nonsense. “You know I’m not a fish. And mermaids only live in the ocean, not on the real dry ground. Don’t you see my legs?” She nodded, pointing under the table, happy to have righted my wrong assumptions. “I just have to drink water because I have pickle.” She bobbed her head as if her admission cleared everything up.
“Pickle?” I leaned in, making sure I’d heard her correctly.
“Yep, pickle… so I have to drink water.” She lowered her voice to a near whisper. “So my pee is clear without too much color.” A throat cleared, causing both of us to look up, where a small woman in tight jeans and a fitted T-shirt stood with her hands on her hips, eyeing the little girl. How long had she been standing there?
“Hey, Mom, this is… ” she leaned across the table and poked me, whispering, “what’s your name again?”
I cupped my hands around my mouth and reminded her, in a whisper.
“He’s Christine.” She pointed my direction with a thumb over her shoulder. Very matter-of-fact, that one, and quick with the sass. As if reading my thoughts, she erupted into a fit of giggles.