“Good morning, sir. I’m Glory. Are you ready to order?”
She had a hunch he’d like the sir. Worth at least about fifty more cents in her tip.
“Well, Morning Glory, yes I am.” He beamed at her with laser-white teeth. Yep, salesman, if she had to guess. They always found out your name fast and used it repeatedly. “I’ll have a decaf coffee, the egg-white omelet, and rye toast, no butter, aaaand . . . do you think I could get a side of dressed greens instead of potatoes?”
He was what you’d call fit. Probably scared into that condition by a first heart attack some years back, judging from his breakfast order. And not bad-looking, in a weathered old Clint Eastwood-y way.
“This is a respectable establishment, sir. All our greens are dressed.” She winked despite the fact that she and Eli had agreed some time ago that winks were lame. He probably winked all the time at Bethany, anyway, who would laugh inordinately, because she wanted to do him, if she hadn’t already.
But heck, this guy looked like a big tipper.
He smiled again. But then the smile faded and a little furrow appeared between his eyes. “You look familiar, young lady.”
Uh-oh.
Or yay!
Depending upon the circumstances.
“Are you by any chance related to Charlie Tilden?” he asked.
Glory was startled. This was the first time a stranger had ever asked her this question.
“Um . . . she’s my mom. She goes by Charlotte Greenleaf, now.”
He blinked. Then he gave a short, rueful laugh and leaned back in his chair. “So she married Greenleaf, huh?” he mused dryly.
Glory was a little uneasy. “Yeah. But he passed away when I was very little. Then she married Raymond Truxel and Bill Horton, but she went back to Greenleaf.”
The guy was quiet a moment. “I’m sorry to hear about Hank,” he said, sounding sincere. “Don’t know the other schmoes. You look a lot like her.”
Funny way to put it. Alas, her mother’s last two husbands, her sister’s and her brother John-Mark’s fathers, rather did fit that description.
“People sometimes still mistake us for sisters. Self-preservation runs in the family.”
He chuckled. But he wasn’t so much looking at her as through her, mistily. As if she was some kind of window to the past.
“Charlie—your mom—had a job at the produce market on Crestview,” he mused. “Had a smile for everyone and the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen. What a color. A lot like yours, doll. And such a great laugh. Sorry if I’m embarrassing you, but when you’re my age, you’ll understand these fits of nostalgia. I haven’t been back to Hellcat Canyon or the Misty Cat in a while. Burgers still good?”
“You’re never too young for nostalgia, believe me. And nothing beats the Glennburger.”
“Good to know some things never change.”
“I’ll be back with your coffee stat, sir, and the rest of it right after that.”
He hadn’t introduced himself. If he wanted to get a message to her mom, he’d probably volunteer it. He spent the rest of his lunch on his phone, and he nodded when she brought his food over to him. She overheard things like “points” and “Umpqua Bank” and “the foundation is shot.”
And the next thing she knew she saw him out at the curb, climbing into the most gorgeous blue Lexus, as rare as Porsches in Hellcat Canyon, still on the phone.
He’d left her a 25 percent tip, though. Pretty nice of him, considering she hadn’t even asked if he’d wanted a refill.
She pocketed it and watched him pull away from the curb. Someone had once told her it was completely silent inside a Lexus, as quiet as a house sealed up, even when it was moving. In the old Ford she and her mom shared, you could hear every rattle, hum, bump, whine, and roar of all its parts, not to mention the world outside, when it moved. It had the road-hugging responsiveness of a covered wagon.
Maybe it wouldn’t be too much of a sacrifice to go for a ride in Franco Francone’s Porsche. Francone had another ride in mind, too, though. She wasn’t that naïve.
She gave a start when she picked up Glenn in her peripheral version, bearing down upon her with grim purpose written all over his face.
Uh-oh.
“Glory, can I have a word before you head out?”
“Sure. Of course.”
He pulled her gently aside, and lowered his voice ever so slightly. “So, kiddo, I heard from the manager of The Baby Owls.”
“And . . .”
She kind of guessed from his expression. He wordlessly handed her his phone, which was open to a text.
Who the fuck is Glory Greenbean? I’ve never heard of her. No. No openers. The Owls get the full two hours and we’ll have someone on-site recording it.
She should have guessed Glenn wasn’t one to rip the Band-Aid off slowly.
She couldn’t look up just yet.
She hadn’t realized how very much she’d been counting on that until all the colors of the day seemed to desaturate at once.
“A douche, right?” Glenn said grimly. “I’m sorry you had to see this, but I thought I should show you. I did try.”
But she could tell he was genuinely both disappointed and angry on her behalf.
“Yeah. You did the right thing. I’m glad I saw this so I know what you’re dealing with. And I know it must have been a little awkward to ask that guy for a favor and I really appreciate it. Good use of the ‘D’ word, just now.”
He smiled wryly. And a little sadly.
She couldn’t move, though. It was like someone had yanked her batteries out. She hadn’t realized how very, very much she’d been counting on that. It had just seemed so . . . what was Bethany’s word? Kismet.
So much for Kismet.
“I don’t think Sherrie will be crazy about my new vocabulary, though. I really am sorry, kiddo. Your time is gonna come.”
He seemed unaware that he’d just quoted the title of a Led Zeppelin song to her, one of her favorites, one that she could play the crap out of.
She was struggling with this philosophy at the moment, however. If her family history was any indication, her time was not gonna come. She’d keep going around and around and arrrgh that effing song!
“Oh! One more thing.” He reached into his pocket. “A customer found this on top of his French toast.”
Glenn held out her dangly silver earring.
He dropped it into her palm.
“He made a joke about a prize inside the Cracker Jacks. He’s not litigious, but you might want to pocket both of them, eh? Maybe wear those little post earrings next time? Or none.”
She sighed, feeling a little more like Samson denuded of his hair.
By the time she got out the door of the Misty Cat, the cumulative roughness of the week was still clogging her own carburetor. She couldn’t shake an edgy sort of sadness, something that was perilously close to defeat, and she’d never accepted defeat in her entire life. So as she walked down the street toward home, she put just a little more swing into her hips. A little more swagger to remind herself that life itself could be a song and she could be the rhythm section. And that maybe this was just the minor-key bridge part of the song.
And then she pulled the pins out of her hair and gave it a shake and let the air move through it.
Tight clothes, loose hair. That’s how she felt most herself.
She began singing softly to herself.
Tight clothes, loose hair
Seems I can find trouble
anywhere
Hard Work
Big Tips
Hot night
Soft Lips
Needed a little work, but it was going to be fun. She could feel it: she’d turn it into a boogie, an anthem for girls everywhere who worked go-nowhere jobs and rocked the clothes they bought at Walmart and who might never ride in a Lexus, who had rough edges, big hearts, and big dreams and made a mark on the people in their worlds.
The song had started to nudge that little c
loud squatting over her mood. And when that glutton for affection known as Peace and Love, a tuxedo cat who lived with Eden and Annelise Harwood at the flower shop, flung himself upside down on the sidewalk in front of her with a delighted chirp, she paused to pet him.
The shop bell jingled, and Annelise Harwood, Eden’s daughter and Sherrie and Glenn’s granddaughter, slipped out. Her strawberry blond hair was up on her head in a high spray of a ponytail and wrapped in a scrunchy that had little black-and-white cats printed all over it.
“Oh my gosh! Glory! Glory! Hi, Glory! Hi!”
“Hey, sweetie, how are you?” She held out her fist and Annelise bumped it with her own little fist with great gusto.
“I’m great. Glory, oh my gosh, my grandma gave me a guitar because I love to hear you sing, just a little one. The guitar is. She says you’re as good as Janis. The only Janis I know is the receptionist at Dr. Mulgrew’s office. I’ve never heard her sing. She always gives me a green sucker, though.”
Annelise ducked down to help Glory pet the cat.
“Hey, green is my favorite flavor of sucker, too,” she told Annelise. “And a guitar is the best kind of present! Your grandma is so smart. I think she knew you’d love it because she loves you. I think the Janis your grandma was talking about was a singer called Janis Joplin who was a famous singer back when your grandma was a little girl. And ooooh, my goodness, Annelise, she had a big, big voice, like nothing you ever heard. And she could make you feel so many things, so strong and happy or heartbroken, but in a delicious way. And everyone knew who she was and felt like they knew her, so they called her Janis. That song about Bobby McGee? That’s by Janis.”
Annelise was listening to this as raptly as if it was a bedtime story.
“That’s just like you, then!” Annelise said brightly, oblivious to the grandeur of the compliment. “Everyone calls you Glory.”
“Well,” Glory said, touched and honored down to the soles of her feet.
Peace and Love was in hog heaven, getting both his back and front scratched simultaneously, and he was purring all over.
“The song about Bobby McGee, Glory. That’s my favorite. And the one about the preacher’s son. And the one about Billy Joe. I like songs about boys.” She giggled here. “I wrote a song about a boy. Wanna hear it?”
“Damn straight, you bet I want to hear it.” She could have added practically all my songs are about one boy in particular, because boys are a pain and a wonder, but if Annelise stuck with the guitar as she grew up, she’d probably figure that out on her own.
“Okay, Okay, hang on, I have to do it right.” Annelise stood up.
Then she pulled the scrunchy out of her neat ponytail and Glory watched, amused, as she shook it out thoroughly.
She planted her feet apart and put one hand on her hip and whipped her hair back over her shoulder in a brilliant, saucy imitation of Glory.
Glory was absolutely riveted by the tribute.
And then, using her fist as a microphone, Annelise soulfully sang, with great brio and surprising tunefulness:
It’s sunny outside and it’s not fair
That I’m not allowed to go out there
Until I clean my room
But Gregory is riding his bike
And Gregory is climbing a tree
And I’m so sad that Gregory
Is doing all of that without me
Glory laughed with real pleasure, then applauded. “Dang me, Annelise, if that wasn’t awesome! You’re a natural! I loved it! Is Gregory a boy in your class?”
Annelise squirmed happily. “Nope. I just thought it sounded kind of grown-up, and it’s fun to say. My mom says the handsomest man ever in movies was named Gregory.”
“Gregory does have some good syllables. It’s almost like a whole song in a single word, isn’t it?”
“It totally is. I don’t know any Gregorys. I like Jaden in my class, but he likes Carlie,” she said sadly. “So do Caden and Aidan. Carlie is really pretty. But Joe likes me.”
“Joe sounds promising,” Glory said stoutly. “If he likes you, he must be pretty smart. A lot of things rhyme with Joe, too. You know you’re pretty, too, right?”
“I know,” she said so happily and innocently that Glory’s heart squeezed. “Except my friend Ella saw Joe pick his nose once and then eat the booger.”
“Well, that’s a bit disappointing. But I’ve seen guys do worse. We can put chords to your song if you want. You bring your guitar on down to the Misty Cat and I’ll teach you a few when I get off work sometime this week.”
Annelise’s hands went to her face in flabbergasted delight. She’d painted each of her nails a different color, and she’d painted little silver stripes down them. Just like Glory’s. It gave Glory a little glow.
“Oh my gosh, would you really?”
“I’d love to, Annelise.”
She forgot her whole crappy week for just a second while she basked in the glow of the happiness of a little girl who looked up to her.
“Are you going to go see The Baby Owls at the Misty Cat tomorrow, Glory? My mom says I can! At least for a little while. Maybe I can stay up past my bedtime for a little while, too.”
Ouch. The Baby Owls mention was like a surprising little jab in a fresh wound. It inconveniently reminded her of the ignominy of the previous few days, and how much of a peon she truly was.
“Well, sure. I like The Baby Owls! I’ll be working with your grandma and grandpa during their show so I guess I’ll see you there.”
Suddenly Eden Harwood pushed open her shop door. A petal was caught in her hair, and Glory smiled. Hazards of her business. With her long green apron and soft red-gold hair, she kind of looked like a rose.
“Annelise, what on earth are you doing out here? I know you haven’t finished your math homework.”
Annelise gave a guilty start. “Gotta go! Bye, Glory!” She waved and skipped backward. “I’ll come over to the Misty Cat for a lesson soon, ’kay? Bye!”
“Bye, you two!” Glory called.
As the door to the flower shop swung closed, Eden scooped Annelise in with one arm around her shoulders as if re-claiming her. And though her voice was lowered, Glory distinctly heard, before the door swung shut, “What were you doing out there talking with the likes of Glory Greenleaf?”
Glory blinked.
The likes of her?
The likes of her?
She gave a short, stunned laugh.
What in God’s name did that mean? Although she was pretty sure she knew. Given that her last name was Greenleaf, and all.
She’d never dreamed Eden ever thought that way, though. Given how pragmatic Sherrie and Glenn were.
But after the week she’d had, that offhand comment made her feel as if everything that made her a human who could think or feel or speak or sing had been scooped out, leaving her hollow and raw as an empty tooth socket. A stray breeze might have tooted a note out of her.
Like a kazoo.
And suddenly she had a hunch what she was going to do when she got home.
Chapter 11
The call came into Eli around eight-thirty p.m. From Mrs. Elmore Sims of the Heavenly Shores Retirement Community, who said she heard “loud rhythmic thunking noises off in the distance.” And it probably wasn’t gunfire, though one never knew, but how was a person to get any sleep when there were loud rhythmic thunking noises off in the distance?
For all the people who sported hearing aids at Heavenly Acres, it seemed just as many had ears like bloodhounds.
So Eli drove out to Heavenly Acres, stepped outside his car.
And listened.
THUNK.
A few seconds later:
THUNK.
About five seconds passed this time.
THUNK.
The thunks were slightly different in timbre each time.
It definitely wasn’t gunfire. Or the sound of construction. It was about a mile off, maybe, though sound at night could be deceptive and bounce off thi
ngs and carry.
What the hell was it?
Never a dull moment on his job.
There wasn’t much else happening, so he rolled down his window and cruised the streets at a low speed, listening, in search of the sound, and it grew louder as he took that turn up toward the hills behind the Angel’s Nest Bed and Breakfast.
And he saw a figure standing on the hillside below the billboard of The Baby Owls.
“What the . . .”
It was Glory. He knew that from the hair hanging down her back, flying up in the wind, like she was a witch in a fairy tale.
A hammered witch, that was.
Four empty Mickey’s big mouth bottles glowed in a neat row near her.
He pulled up as close as he could get to her in his cruiser.
She didn’t even turn around. He cut the engine.
And rolled down the window.
“Hi, Glory.”
“Well, hello, Eli.” She didn’t look at him. She squinted one eye like Popeye, then pulled her arm back. She had a fist-sized rock in her hand and she seemed to be drawing a bead on the billboard of The Baby Owls.
What the hell was she doing?
“Hey, Glory. How about you put that rock down and climb in the car. We can have a chat.”
She turned toward him.
He patted the front seat.
“Nope. I still got some rocks left. Because I at least like to finish . . .” She hurled that rock. She still had quite an arm. “. . . what I start.”
Oh boy. That sounded like an innuendo or an accusation.
He should proceed with caution here.
“Thing is, Glory, I got a call wondering about a, and I quote, ‘loud thunking sound’ from a nervous lady at Heavenly Shores. I followed the sound out here to you. Technically I can charge you with disorderliness or disturbing the peace.”
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