Chapter Seven
Sam
“Ya got that right, Addie,” Lella says. “Just because a dude gives me a big tip, it doesn’t give him license to be lewd.” She chews her gum with abandon. “The know-it-all customers are also obnoxious.” A bubble emerges from her mouth, swelling into a shiny pink blossom.
It’s Wednesday, 3:30 p.m. The floors freshly mopped, we’re seated around a six-top finishing up our weekly meeting. My eyes wander around the table: Braydon, Quiche, Lella, Paul, Addie.
Lella’s bubble pops and she continues. “One woman said our goat cheese wasn’t local because it had the flavor of a grass that doesn’t grow in Michigan. She insisted it was crafted in Point Reyes. Wherever that is.”
“Northern California,” Addie replies, adjusting a strap on her sundress. It’s pale blue with lemon-yellow piping around the middle, accentuating her long waist and slender frame. Her mother just bought it for her. Must be nice.
“Superior cheeses do come from that region,” she continues, smoothing her skirt, “but their flavor profiles are different from the Michigan cheeses we serve.”
“Point her out to me next time she’s here,” I say, bristling with irritation. “I’ll set her straight. Our cheese is handcrafted in small batches at a creamery in Tecumseh. It’s fifteen miles from my family’s farm, and I’m friends with the owners. In fact, I’m pals with their goats, who will testify under oath they only nosh on Michigan grass.”
“Baaaaaaaa . . . ,” Paul mewls, his staccato sound mimicking a baby goat. “That dude needs to get a life.”
“It was as if she expected me to hand her a DNA report,” Lella continues. “It’s hard to have a ready answer for these entitled gastronoids.”
Mouth pursed, Quiche repeats the word as if she were sucking on a lemon. “Gastronoids?” Her brow furrows, as if confused.
Lella raises her brow, nodding at Quiche. “That’s my name for this type of customer.”
I smile. The staff is coming up with a language of its own. In a couple of years, we’ll be the only ones who understand one another.
“A gastronoid,” Lella continues, “is a human subspecies that only lives to eat and complain.”
I widen my eyes into Os and mime pulling my hair out at the roots. “Gastronoids are full of gas.” The group giggles.
“Seriously, guys,” Addie says. “You should have a ready answer when customers have a question. When things settle down, Sam and I will host a tasting seminar for the staff and invite our vendors. You can become acquainted with these folks and discover the passion they bring to their craft.”
“That’s a great idea,” Lella says. “I can become a gastronoid myself.”
Quiche snorts. “I think I’ll pass.”
“Settled,” I say, scribbling a notation in my notebook. “Do any of you have any further suggestions for the team? Any earth-shattering revelations before we disband?”
Braydon lifts his hand. “Addie. Sam. All of us are aware that funds are tight, but business is out the door. I know you ladies are working crazy hours trying to keep up, but we could still use another set of hands.”
Addie nods at me before turning to Braydon. “It’s you guys who are the champions. Welcome Home would be nothing without your hard work and dedication. Sam and I have discussed this, and we hear you loud and clear. We plan to set out some feelers and will make a hire as soon as the right candidate presents themselves. It may take a few weeks, but rest assured our burned-out bodies share your concerns.”
“Full time?” Paul asks, his voice hopeful.
“Yep. Either one full-timer or two half-timers.”
The group applauds.
“How about tacking on a dishwasher while you’re at it,” Paul says, ducking his head sheepishly.
“I’ll bet you drove your parents crazy when you were a kid,” Addie says, smirking. “When they gave you a basketball, you asked for a hoop.”
“You knew my folks?” He leans back into his chair, a grin spread across his face. “You ladies are the ones who always say to dream big.”
I rise from the table, so proud of the team we’ve created. “Next week, let’s revisit the issues we’re having in the neighborhood. I’d like each of you to come up with one solid idea to increase foot traffic. We want to encourage people who live in walking distance of the diner to feel welcome. There are unspoken boundary lines that need to be erased.”
“The old man next door will be an especially tough sell,” Paul says, unaware of Addie’s encounter with him. Last week’s episode was a wake-up call that we needed to take action. Addie and I had no idea as to the extent of his resentment.
“Maybe I’ll offer to lend him a hand and replace his front steps,” he continues. “They’re rotting away. If he’s not careful, he could take a mean tumble.”
Lella turns to him, her smile so broad it appears to crack her face. “You are one awesome dude, Paul. I know a thing or two about carpentry. I’ll help.”
Our staff is phenomenal. “The diner will pay for whatever materials you need to get the job done.” I glance at Addie; I’m sure she concurs.
She clears her throat. “To quote Plato,” she says, her gaze to the ceiling, forefinger resting on her chin, “‘The community which has neither poverty nor riches will always have the noblest principles.’”
The staff becomes quiet, trading glances. So now our meetings are a forum for Addie to reveal her book smarts? I thought we were trying to figure out how not to alienate the neighbors. We understand what she’s saying, but when she quotes these philosophers, it sounds as if she’s showing off. Aside from Paul, there’s not a one of us who’s ever set foot in a college classroom. Talk about alienating.
I sigh and glance at the clock: 4:00 p.m. “This meeting is officially adjourned.”
I’ve a couple of hours to organize tomorrow’s prep list, catch the bus, and change clothes. Uriah’s picking me up at six. We’ve met for coffee a couple of times, but tonight he’s taking me to dinner, on a real date—a Mediterranean restaurant he feels sure I’ll enjoy. I bite my lower lip, my pulse quickening in anticipation of seeing him.
“You’re right, Uriah. This food is delicious, the flavors so fresh.” I place my napkin on the table, push my plate away, and take a sip of wine. “The lamb’s juicy and tender. It has such a sunny, lemony tang.” I tap the prongs of my fork at the bulgur wheat speckled with greens and tomatoes. “Usually parsley is the only herb used in tabbouleh. This one also had thyme and oregano.” I catch Uriah’s eye. “It’s such a treat having someone else do the cooking for a change.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “When you said that, I thought of my mom. She’d say those exact words every time we’d go out to dinner.”
“I’ve been thinking,” I say, fiddling with the napkin. “The last time we met, you said that you couldn’t stop thinking about her signature dessert. A combination of a sweet potato pie and a pecan pie, right?”
He leans toward me, his eyes glowing. “She’d also add a splash of bourbon to the batter.”
“How yummy. I love old-fashioned desserts.”
“It sounds like something your grandmother would have made.”
“Babcia and bourbon?” I giggle at the thought. “Ha. Maybe if she’d been born in Tennessee instead of Poland.”
He studies me thoughtfully. “I still can’t believe you’ve never been south of Ohio.”
“What can I say?” I shrug, embarrassed that aside from my stint in Manhattan, I’ve spent my entire life in Michigan. “I told you I’d like to go down there one day.”
“And I told you I’d love to be your travel guide. Remember?”
I inhale sharply. How could I ever forget that conversation? It was the first time he held my hand.
“The area where my folks live has some of the best whiskey distilleries in the world,” he continues, a gleam in his eyes. “And the countryside surrounding Nashville is beautiful. All of those farms and rolling hills. You’d love Lynchburg. It’s a quaint little town with some amazing antique stores.”
“Seriously, Uriah. I’d love to visit Tennessee. But back to that pie.” I wink into his deep, dark eyes. “Let me make it for you. Do you think your mom would share her recipe with me?”
“Heck yeah, Sam.” He rubs his hands together. “And you sure know the way to a man’s heart. I’ll have Mom e-mail it to me. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.”
He looks at me, blowing out a long breath. “I take that back. I can think of one other thing . . .”
Oh my. I feel the warmth of a flush creeping across my face. I can’t stop my grin, or these dimples that are burning holes into my cheeks. I drop my eyes, feeling shy, and then reach for my wine. He turns his attention to his dinner, finishing his meal in a couple of quick bites.
Looking up, he wipes his mouth with a napkin before pointing to my plate. “You’ve only eaten half of your supper. And what about dessert? The baklava at this place is amazing.”
It’s unlike me not to clean my plate. But it feels as if I’ve swallowed a bag filled with butterflies. There’s not much room for food.
I smile, beaming at him across the table. “You go ahead. I’ll have a bite of yours.” I gesture to my plate. “I’ll ask the waiter to box up the leftovers. It’s going to be insane tomorrow at work. I’ll have something to look forward to after the day.”
Tilting his head to the side, he narrows his eyes as if studying me. “I don’t know how you do it. I can’t imagine what it would be like to own a restaurant.”
“I can assure you I had no idea what I was in for.” I pull my hair around my neck. It falls into soft waves shining down the front of my blouse. “The responsibilities of running Welcome Home remind me of a Cirque du Soleil performance I once saw.”
“That troupe’s incredible,” he replies, grinning widely. “I saw them perform at an arena in Nashville. They take theatrics to another plateau.”
“I know. Literally, right? The performers juggling dozens of balls in the air across the stage, intercepting and passing them from one to another. Without even one of the balls hitting the floor.” I straighten in my chair, speaking quickly, my fingertips darting to my lips. “I, too, feel like a professional juggler. One minute I’m texting a menu proposal for an office luncheon, the next I’m describing the daily special to Lella and Quiche. The next thing I know, I’m answering the phone, taking an order.” I fan myself with the palm of my hand. “All the while making sure I don’t burn the soup.”
“And God forbid you drop a ball on that beautiful head.” Leaning across the table, he tucks a long, wavy curl behind my ear. “I couldn’t bear the thought of even one of those golden tendrils disturbed.” I feel my face getting warm. My pulse quickens at the touch of his fingers as they slide down my neck.
“But, honestly, Uriah.” I take a deep breath, trying to corral the stampede in my chest. “The largest problem we face is trying to get our neighborhood community to warm up to us. It’s not their dollars we’re after. It’s their fellowship. The area’s a disaster zone. We want them to know we’re all in this together. There’s a congregation of churchgoers right across the street. You’d think at least they’d want a cup of coffee after Sunday services.”
“I’m sure it’s economics. They lack the funds for discretionary dining. I’ve had kids in my class from your area. It’s a struggle for some of these families to even pay their gas bill. Junk food’s affordable.”
“I get that. But they flock to that place—what’s it called? Hungry Boy Burgers? Their prices aren’t that much cheaper than ours—at least not when compared with their supersize options.”
Uriah squeezes my hand. “From what I’ve read, the garbage they put in commodity food is highly addictive. More’s the pity. Malnutrition’s a serious threat to folks living on cheap, processed food. Why is it that in the neediest communities, only the worst food options are offered?”
“I know we’re dreaming big, and there are a lot of moving pieces, but that’s what we want to change. Addie and I believe that if better food options are made available in low-income communities, and the residents became familiar with their delicious flavors, it could be a game changer in their lives.”
He snaps his finger and thumb. “I’ve got it. Why not give everyone who lives in a one-mile radius of Welcome Home a twenty percent discount card?”
I clap my hands together, smiling ear to ear.
“That’s a wonderful idea, Uriah. It will wipe out a chunk of our profit margin, but at least it’s a step in the right direction.”
“You’ve got my brain churning, Sam. I’ll speak to school officials and ask them to write a bit about our garden math project on their website. We’ll include photographs of the diner, of course.”
“And don’t forget,” I say. “Next spring I want to have the kids plant seeds and harvest their own vegetables through the growing season.”
He speaks quickly and pats my hand across the table. “We can invite the parents to tour the plot. That way you can introduce yourselves by demonstrating, through the garden project, that you’re a part of their community by your work with their kids.”
“The website’s a great idea. You’d do that for us?”
He weaves his fingers through my hand. His grip is strong. I’ve large hands for a woman—farm-girl hands. But they feel small and protected wrapped in his. A current tingles between our fingers.
“Of course I will. The next time our web designer updates the site. We’ll make this happen.”
I squeeze his hand as he asks for the check.
“No dessert?” I ask. “A reliable source told me the baklava’s good.”
He winks at me. “I’ll have something to look forward to the next time we eat here.”
Next time. Those words sound like a symphony in two movements. Next time. I remove my wallet from my bag.
“Absolutely not,” he says, pushing the wallet away.
Not putting up an argument, I smile into his eyes, returning my wallet to my bag. A man like Uriah has been a long time coming.
Holding hands, we exit the restaurant and stroll across the lot toward his pickup. He opens the door for me, helps me in, and leans across me to fasten the seat belt. This feeling of being cared for, of being protected, fills me with happiness.
“So, what was the impetus for your becoming a teacher?” I ask, wanting to learn more about this man who has such power over my emotions.
He smiles, folding his fingers over the steering wheel, checking the rearview mirror as he backs his car out of the parking lot.
Stopping at a red light, he swivels to face me. “My mother was my inspiration.” He pulls in a deep breath, letting it out in a soft whistle between his teeth. “She is something else. I never told you this.” He bites his lower lip.
“What?” I ask, concerned about the sudden pain traveling across his face.
“She was diagnosed with breast cancer several years ago. It was hard on all of us.” He hits his fist on the steering wheel. “But she beat it back.”
“I’m so sorry. For her. For your dad.” I touch his arm. “For you. But doctors have made great headway in fighting the disease.”
“They have. And never once did she complain. She seemed to be more worried about my dad and me. I love and respect her so much.” His eyes dampen. “When I was growing up, she was a sixth-grade schoolteacher. I believed there was no finer career. Knowledge is the greatest gift I could ever give a child.” He places his palm just above my knee, below the bottom edge of my skirt.
The light turns green, and he guides the steering wheel with his left hand, his right remaining on my thigh. “There is no word to me more splendid than the word teacher,” he continues. “When a student refers to me as their teacher, my entire being is filled with joy.”
It takes him fifteen minutes to drive me home. Feeling the warmth of his hand on my thigh, I can’t remember a thing we discussed. When we arrive at my place, we remain in the truck. Taking me into his arms, he gives me a long, lingering kiss that I will, however, be remembering for a very long time.
Addie
“Thanks, Addie,” Kevin says, looking up at me as I pick up the empty plate that rests between his hands. “You don’t need to wait on me.” He stands. “Let me do the dishes.”
“Oh no,” I say, tipping my head to David. “When I fix dinner, David does the cleanup.”
“Hey,” David cries. “Not fair. All you did was reheat leftovers from work.”
“You got that right, David. Work. That’s what I did all day. Work, work, work. And now it’s your turn.”
He smacks his palms against his forehead. With an exaggerated sigh, he rises from the table. I shake my head, laughing at my adorable boy.
“I was just testing you. Seriously. You put in a day yourself. You and Kev have some catching up to do.”
Carrying the dishes to the sink, I notice through the window the lights of a pickup truck creeping down the street. It can’t be going more than five miles per hour. It stops in front of the house, and the lights dim.
I’m sure that’s Sam with Sun Beam’s math teacher, Uriah. They’ve been seeing each other. David and I haven’t hung out with them, but I met him once in passing. She told me it’s the first time she’s felt this way for a man since her fling with that creepy barista in New York. Of late, there’s a lightness about her. Nothing seems to get under her skin. Yesterday she mentioned she’d lost five pounds. I told her not to lose more; she doesn’t realize the power she holds over men in the curve of her hips. My eyes dart to the window. It’s certainly a lengthy good-bye.
I worry about Kevin. David’s had the man-to-man talk and told him that if he thinks Sam will fall for him romantically, he’s wasting his time. Last week we fixed him up with one of my most adorable girlfriends, but she reported that Kevin was distracted, uninterested.
Sam and Kev are a regular topic of discussion for David and me. If Sam and this teacher become serious, he’ll be joining our group. Kevin’s crush on Sam might, indeed, crush Kevin in the end. Is there something about his psyche that seeks rejection? I glance over my shoulder at Kevin deep in discussion with David. Maybe it’s an affirmation of negative feelings he has about himself. Or maybe I’ve been in therapy too long and overthink relationships. With his attractive face, muscular frame, and promising career, the man’s a catch. Just a tad too serious.
As I dry the last dish, the front door closes and Hero begins to howl. Curiosity has the better of me.
“Hey,” I say. “Sam’s home.” Kevin straightens in his chair and begins tapping his foot. His eyes dart about the room, as if unsure of his next move.
“I’ll go down and invite her up,” I say, heading for the stairwell. “We’ve some thoughts regarding payroll that will affect your accounting.”
David groans. Kevin, however, smiles, and his foot slows, as if relieved our conversation will be treading on his turf.
“David. Can you see if we’ve another bottle of that Zinfandel I fell in love with? If so, could you open it and let it breathe?”
“Aye, aye, Little Caesar.”
I shake my head at him and make my exit, scampering down the stairs.
Sam sits slumped at the kitchen island, elbows pressed against the countertop, with her face buried in the palms of her hands. Hero stands at attention by her side, regarding his master. His ears are pricked in concern, and his tail is stiff, hanging down between his back legs. She drops her hands and looks up at me. She appears not to be seeing me, but seeing right through me.
I shake her arm. “Sam? Are you all right?”
She sighs, her eyes glazed over. “I’ve never been kissed that way in my life.”
“My God. For a minute you scared me. You were with the teacher, right?”
She bends to pat Hero. He wags his tail, and his ears relax.
“Yep. Uriah. The man’s incredible. Not only is he a hunk, he’s thoughtful and generous.” She straightens on her stool and shakes her head, as if not believing her good fortune in meeting him.
“And get this. He keeps talking about his mom. He really respects her. He actually told me he loved her.” Mouth agape, she shakes her head in disbelief. “Can you imagine a guy saying that on a first date? I’ve read that men who have healthy relationships with their mothers are sensitive and attentive in romantic relationships.”
Relationship-speak. It’s my favorite sort of chitchat, yet it makes David crazy. “Are you sure?” I take a seat at the counter, eager to hear more. “All the times I’ve hashed out David issues ad nauseam with my therapist, she never asked me once about his mother.”
Sam narrows her eyes. “You’re kidding.” She scrutinizes me, lifting an eyebrow. “Maybe you should skip the therapy and order a woman’s magazine. Better yet, save a tree and subscribe to them online. Respectful, loving mothers teach their sons how to value women. I’ll see if I can find that article for you.”
I lean into her, placing my fingers on her forearm. “Maybe that’s what’s wrong with David. His mother’s so domineering he’s afraid of crossing her. His dad sure is. Do you think that’s why David doesn’t value me?”
Sam’s eyes widen in incredulity. “What? You must be kidding. The way David looks at you? The way he treats you? He spends every spare second fixing up this home, and his name isn’t even on the title. What does that tell you? Of course he values you. He adores you.”
I spread out the fingers on my left hand, wiggling my ring finger. “He could prove it by giving me a ring. I’m almost thirty-two.”
“I’m not far behind,” she says, taking my hand. “Listen, Addie. You’re living your life as if you’re in some sort of race. Slow down. What’s the hurry?”
“The hurry is that I—”
“Hey, ladies, I’ve uncorked that bottle of wine,” David shouts, his voice bellowing down the stairs and into the kitchen.
I stand and cross the kitchen toward the stairs, cupping my hands around my mouth.
“Up in a minute,” I shout.
I turn to Sam and shrug. “Hey. Let’s table this discussion for later. Meanwhile, if you don’t mind, why don’t you keep Uriah under wraps. Just around Kevin. Let’s not mention you’ve been seeing someone.”
Sam sighs, the V between her brows deepening. That’s her look when she’s irritated.
“Just for another week or so,” I add quickly. “He’s so fragile. I think he’s still got it bad for you.”
I exit the kitchen and clamber up the stairs. Without a word, she follows me, Hero tagging behind.
David’s poured the Zinfandel into four of my oversize glasses, the ones almost large enough to bathe in. Resting on the counter, the round bowls of my red-wine glasses allow plenty of area for the flavors to explode. For once, he chose the proper stem.
After giving Hero a dog biscuit, I distribute the wine and then press my nose over the rim, taking a deep sniff of the rich aroma. I turn to Sam, who still appears annoyed. “I know your taste, Sam. You will love this—”
“Hold your horses,” David interrupts. “Kevin and I’d like to make a toast.”
I stop speaking, my lips still parted.
“We haven’t officially congratulated you ladies on the recent success of Welcome Home.” He tips his glass to Sam and then toward me.
“I’ve just finished July’s books,” Kevin adds, “and for the first time, you ladies are officially out of the red.” Our glasses clink together, and we all take a sip.
David plops into an armchair. I place my wine on the side table and fall into his lap. Flinging my arm around his neck, I burrow into the solid, familiar comfort of the man I love. The back of his neck looks so innocent and fragile. I touch his earlobe. In a glance, he catches my eye, and we giggle, in spite of trying to keep straight faces. We’ve been together four years, and this man still makes me blush. The two of us are so playful with each other, so much in love. So different from our parents. How can I make him understand that marriage for us would be different, as well?
Facing us, Sam and Kevin sit on opposite sides of the couch, silently. Kevin’s foot starts that tap-tap-tapping again. What’s with Sam? Can’t she bother to make small talk?
He clears his throat and darts his eyes toward her, his forehead beaded with moisture. “Addie mentioned that you two are making changes I should be aware of.”
Sam takes a long, lingering sip, her brows unknotting.
“We haven’t mentioned it to the team yet,” she says, crossing her legs, glancing sideways at Kevin, “but when you’re reconciling next month’s books, you’ll notice a significant jump in payroll.”
“Did you make a new hire?” Kevin asks, brushing his sleeve across his damp forehead.
“No. Not yet. But soon enough. In the meantime we’re increasing everyone’s hourly wage, giving Quiche, Braydon, and Paul an extra two bucks an hour. And we plan to pay Lella an income she could actually live on “
“She’s currently making three bucks,” Kevin says. “But tips should make up the difference.”
“When the diner’s slow, there are no tips,” Sam replies. “Yet she’s still at work, mopping floors, cleaning tables, for less money an hour than it costs to buy a latte.”
“When the diner’s dead, you aren’t making money, either,” David retorts, raising his brow to regard me, curious as to my role in this conspiracy. “And you and Sam are making less money than Lella.” He shrugs. “Anyway, it’s a moot issue. The law states that if income combined with tips are less than minimum wage, restaurants must pay the difference.”
I lean into David, narrowing my eyes. “It’s spottily enforced. She deserves a wage that she can live on. Sam and I’ve agreed. We’re increasing her salary to ten bucks an hour.”
“Ten dollars plus tips? How are you supposed to be competitive with restaurants paying three? Why are you guys paying your workers this exorbitant amount?”
“Ten dollars an hour is not exorbitant,” Addie says, shaking her head with an exaggerated sigh. “Imagine, David, living off ten bucks an hour.”
“That’s why I’m studying my brains out in business school.”
“And your dad pays the tuition,” Addie says, kissing her forefinger and planting it on his lips. “Not everyone’s as fortunate as us.”
He hesitates, biting his lower lip. “Touché, Addie.” He takes her hand and squeezes. “It would be much harder to go to school without their money.”
“All my parents gave me was a suitcase and bus ticket when I graduated from high school,” Sam says with a tiny frown.
I glance at my feet dangling across David’s lap, hanging over the armrest. I reach over and grab my wine, taking a sip. She’s right. I study the imprint of my lipstick on the rim and then return the glass to the table. But at least she grew up in a loving home with parents committed to each other. Money can’t buy that.
“David,” I continue, avoiding Sam’s gaze, rubbing his neck. “We’re not trying to wage war. Our customers know the waitstaff is paid fairly, so patrons are relaxed. They aren’t pressured into thinking a large tip will garner better service.”
I catch his eyes and stretch mine wide. We fall silent, trying to outstare each other. He stares at me as if he were gauging a thunderstorm that might be worth the trouble to wait out rather than drive through. At last, he drops his head in resignation. I always win at this game.
After a pause, he looks up and shrugs his shoulders. “Well, if you two insist on paying these sorts of wages, you should knock the prices up another ten percent across the board.”
I roll my eyes, but flick my hair, flirtatious, and then take his hands in mine. “We’re proposing a new restaurant model. An honest and egalitarian system. We’ve got a hardworking, loyal staff and want to keep them. Employee turnover in restaurants is far more costly than taking care of the workers who’ve earned your trust.”
“Someday we might give them options to buy into the business,” Sam says, her fingertips making tiny circles on her thigh, just above her knee.
That devilish twitch returns to David’s grin, and he shakes his head, laughing. “I propose you change the name of Welcome Home to the Radical Diner.”
Even Sam giggles at that one, duly noted by Kevin, his laughter joining ours.
“Hey,” she says, her mood improved with the depletion of her wine. “Here’s an idea. It’s cut from chapter two of Sam’s manifesto.” She winks at David. “What if we give everyone who lives in a one-mile radius of Welcome Home a twenty percent discount card?”
David applauds, returning the wink. “Actually, that’s a great idea, Sam. Marketing 101. You didn’t need college after all.”
Her face colors and she smiles.
“We could have them laminated, and commission a mailer,” I say, excited to be brainstorming a concrete plan that could warm our neighbors up to us.
“A mailer would be expensive,” Sam replies. “Quiche told me discussions are held and opinions formed in churches, barbershops, and ladies’ hair salons. You’d be surprised how many churches and salons there are in the few-blocks radius surrounding the diner.” She bends to scratch her dog behind his ears. “I’ll take them door-to-door with Hero.”
“I’ll come with you,” says Kevin. “To make sure you’re safe.”
“Sweet of you, Kev,” she says, flashing a smile, “but I’m sure Hero and I will be just fine.”
Kevin’s eyes drop into his hands. Sam shot that little zinger right into his chest, and it pains me to look at him. That girl can be heartless.
I untangle myself from David’s arms and stand, the atmosphere now tainted. “Well, I don’t know about you people, but I’m exhausted.” I blow them a kiss. “Stay as long as you like, but I’m going to bed.”
Not surprisingly, David jumps up, wrapping his hands around my waist. “Not alone, you aren’t.”
“Good night,” Kevin says, his words a whisper. “I’ve got a busy day at the office tomorrow.”
“’Night,” Sam says. She stands and claps her hands, alerting Hero it’s time to depart. The evening has expired.