CHAPTER EIGHT
“Hey Mom,” Angel said, strolling in as I slapped some mashed potatoes and deli turkey on a plate with a French roll, and drizzled some gravy on it. “Ooh, that looks good.”
“It’s always good when someone else does it and you don’t have to help,” I said with a smile.
She stopped in her tracks and gave me a guilty smile.
“Was it my night to make something?”
I was trying to teach her some skills, or at least get her in the habit of thinking about skills. Every third night was her turn to come up with a dinner plan and make it happen. I was happy to help, but it was ultimately on her. Or in tonight’s case, on me. So I didn’t wait. She’d claimed she was studying with her friend today while we were shopping, so I cooked, prepped, and was about to sit down with a plate of open-faced turkey and mashed potatoes.
“Yes, so I guess you’re having cereal,” I said, walking to the table.
“Seriously?”
I threw a dishrag at her. “Get a plate, dork.”
She did, and we sat down to eat in peaceful coexistence. Except that it wasn’t. Not for me. Angel scrolled through her phone as she munched in happy oblivion, whereas I sat there studying her for signs of sex. No hickeys. No afterglow. No whisker rash on her face—since she was evidently kissing a man.
“So—homework on a Saturday,” I said. “Wow. Go you.”
Angel looked up at me with a raised eyebrow. “Shopping. Go you.”
I laughed. “Yeah, that was kind of an adventure. Sorry you couldn’t be there.”
Then again the eye-sex with Bash might have been significantly more awkward if my daughter was there.
“Did you find something for the—whatever he called it?”
Oh, I had better than words. Visual aids had come in the mail in the form of those laminated cards like Alan had. I reached behind me and grabbed one, holding it next to my head like I was one of those showcase girls holding things on game shows.
“The Honey King and Queen extravaganza?” I said dramatically. “Because what’s sweeter than a crown made out of honeycomb? What’s more amazing than a scepter carved from pure beeswax?”
The sneer on her face was priceless. “Seriously?”
“No,” I said, chuckling. “God, I hope not, anyway. But yes, I found a dress.”
“Hang on,” she said, leaning forward and pressing things on her phone. “Say that again, I want to record it for posterity.”
“I found a dress,” I said slowly.
Two presses and my voice was playing back to me. “I found a dress—a dre-dre-dress. I-I-I found a dress.”
“Cute, now please kill that before I do,” I said.
“Dre-dre-dress.”
“So, what does it look like?” Angel said, snickering.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled to a picture Lanie had sent me. One she took of me primp-posing when I first emerged from the dressing room. Before I saw Bash and lost all my feminine power.
“Holy sh—crap,” she said, grabbing my phone.
“Nice save.”
“Mom,” she said, her eyes bugging. “That’s you.”
“So Lanie tells me,” I said.
“That’s like a—serious babe dress.”
A serious babe dress! Would that make me a serious babe?
No.
Calm down.
“And that’s a problem?” I said.
“Well, I thought you were just gonna get some—I don’t know, some soccer-mom-looking dress,” she said.
“You don’t play soccer,” I said.
“You know what I mean,” she said. “Something that covers everything.”
I looked at her profile. She was such my mini-me. In looks, anyway. Inside, she couldn’t be more different.
“So this is too out there, you think?” I said.
“No!” she said, jerking her gaze my way. “This is so cool! Oh my God, Mom, I never knew you could look like that.”
“Seems to be a common thread, today,” I said, taking the phone back.
“Why?”
I shook my head. “Good, I’m glad you like it.”
“Has Uncle Bash seen it?” I closed my eyes remembering very well the moment he saw it. The eyes that went with the suit and the open shirt. I’d probably not forget that anytime soon. Or ever.
“Yes,” I said.
“Did he like it?” she asked. “I mean he’s a guy. He’d have to be dead not to like that.”
I drew in a long breath. “He seemed to.”
“So what’s wrong, then?”
I made a face, and she rolled her eyes. “Oh man, here we go. You’re wigging out about this dress, aren’t you?”
“No, it’s beautiful,” I said. “It’s just—”
Angel reached over and took my phone from me, pulling up the picture. “It’s just amazing,” she said, turning it to show me. “You don’t ever treat yourself like that.” She made a big production of pointing at it. “Go enjoy yourself being a little bit girly and crazy. You can be uptight Allie Greene the next day.”
I would act insulted shortly. But first I had to take two seconds to just stare at this girl that could be an infuriating little brat one minute and then this budding mature young woman the next. The moment would pass, and I was sure it was already on the backslide, but I had to take a little snapshot while I could.
I scoffed. “I am not uptight.”
“Um—” Angel opened her mouth to say something, and then picked up her fork and looked down at her food all wide-eyed and snarky. “Yeah, okay.”
“I’m not!” I laughed.
“Aaron says his mom’s a little wound up, too,” she said.
Oh, Aaron. Here we were.
“You said she was in charge of the Sharp Group promoting the Lucky Charm?” I asked and Angel nodded. “I think I’ve seen her in the diner. She talks a lot.”
She shrugged and kept eating, focusing back on her phone. We’d had about ten seconds of funny comfortable bonding, it was time to lose her again.
“So, tell me about this kid, Aaron.”
She gave me a quick look before dropping her gaze back to her phone.
“This kid, Aaron,” she echoed. Sarcastically.
“Isn’t that his name?”
“Yes, but he’s not a ten-year-old,” she said, widening her eyes, not looking up.
A laugh bubbled up. “So I’ve heard,” I said. “Rumor has it he’s eighteen.”
She frowned. “He’s not eighteen. Yet. He won’t be for another two months.”
Yet. I nodded. “Two whole months, huh?”
Angel looked at me with a hint of a glare behind those dark eyes, and I watched all our good juju we’d had going on before start to trickle down some invisible drain.
“I’ll be sixteen before that. He’s not even two years older than me.”
I took a slow breath as I moved mashed potatoes around my plate. I could tread lightly or I could be my dad—which worked so well for me. I could tell her what I heard about him hitting on older women and hurt her feelings, and I really didn’t want to crush her self-esteem with that, either.
“Do you need reminding that you aren’t allowed to date till then?” I asked.
She gave me the dead-eye look. “Seriously?”
“I don’t remember it being a suggestion,” I said. “It’s the rule. And besides that, at your age, babe, two years difference is a pretty big deal, maturity wise.”
Angel stared down into her plate and stabbed a piece of meat.
“Uh-huh,” she said. “Because my dad was two years older than you, and all that went south and pear-shaped. So because of your bad choices, I can’t hang out with a nice guy?”
The dad card, and the teenage pregnancy card, all in one. Nice. She was stepping up.
“Watch it, Angel,” I said, not letting her push my buttons. “You’ll mouth yourself right out of that phone you’re so stuck to.”
“Sorry,” she muttered, still scrolling.
“This isn’t a new rule, you’ve always known it.”
“So I’m supposed to tell him we have to wait a month?” she said, looking at me like I just suggested she don a veil and a head wrap.
I set down my fork and gave her my have-you-lost-your-mind mom look.
“Baby girl, you wouldn’t have to tell your boy-man anything if you hadn’t started something you weren’t allowed to do.”
She huffed and a myriad of emotions played over her face as she shook her head and shoved her food around.
“It’s not like we’re dating anyway,” she said. “We’re just—hanging out. Talking and stuff. He’s really easy to talk to.”
And stuff.
“Then why are you arguing?” I asked.
“Because maybe I’d like to go to a movie,” she said. “Maybe go wander around the Lucky Charm, ride the Ferris wheel and get some unhealthy food.”
“You’re welcome to go to a movie,” I responded. “And cheesecake on a stick and rides are there any time you want them.”
“With Aaron,” she said, slamming her fork down. At my raised eyebrow, she picked it back up and set it down slowly, never breaking eye contact so I’d be sure to know her true feelings.
“In a month, we can have this conversation,” I said, taking a bite of potatoes.
“He may not still be interested in a month,” she exclaimed.
“Then why the heck do you want him?” I said. “If he’s not interested in you a month from now, then he wasn’t worth having.”
Oh sweet God, even as the words were flying out of my mouth, I heard every old person I’d ever known. That logic was sound enough in theory, but I’d been young once, and you want them because you want them. There’s no reasoning to it. Hell, most adults I knew had problems with that, how was a kid supposed to wrap their mind around it?
“Mom.”
“Angel.”
She blew out a breath in disgust and looked at me with all the toxicity a girl her age can muster. I’d be willing to bet I wasn’t so cool now, serious babe dress or not.
“I’m not hungry anymore,” she said. “I have homework.”
“Again?” I said. “This is a banner Saturday for you.”
“What can I say, I’m dedicated,” she said, her eyes burning holes through me.
Fun.
“By all means,” I said. “Go be brilliant.”
Angel stalked off, banging the food off her plate with her fork so violently I was waiting for the sound of smashing stoneware. I sat there at the table alone, sighing as I speared another bite of gravy-laden turkey.
“That went well.”
* * *
“Where are you going?” Lange asked as I left my office, keys in hand. Yes, it was still my office, so far. I felt like he was throwing me a bone with that, but I wasn’t about to bring it up for discussion.
Everything was always up for discussion. That was his spindly, sleazy little way of taking over, by throwing me little breaths of air that sounded like I had a say when I really didn’t. Not if he wanted to be an asshole about it. And from what I could tell, Lange frequently did. He changed the table order and sectioned them off. He took out the old jukebox, which didn’t work anymore but still added ambiance. He had one end painted blue, which was kind of okay, but was talking about replacing a few of the tables with the standing variety.
Standing tables. In a diner. We weren’t a nightclub. People came to eat lunch and dinner, and maybe dessert. As a general rule, most people like to sit down for that.
Now he was perusing the schedule, and had already fired my morning waitress when she showed up ten minutes late.
“I thought you normally stayed till after the dinner rush,” he added.
“I do when I can,” I said. “But I have excellent people here. I trust them.” I held up my keys. “And today I have something I need to do.”
“Well, I think it’s time we discuss the new name,” he said, nodding as though this was already done.
“New name,” I echoed. “What new name?”
“I sent you an e-mail with some choices to consider,” he said. “I’d be happy to let you choose.”
“No,” I said simply.
Lange blinked, looking a bit taken aback. “No, you won’t choose?”
“Just no,” I said. “That’s not on the table.”
“Allie,” he said in his trademark condescending tone. “I told you it was up for discussion.”
“It’s not,” I said.
“It’s dumb and unappealing.”
“It’s personal,” I said. “The Blue Banana Grille stays.”
“Listen to the choices,” he said, pulling a tiny notebook from his pocket.
“I told you—”
“The Eatery,” he said, flipping a page. “The Grille. Charmed Foods. The Charming Skillet. The Lucky Skillet. The Charmed Chef. The Honey Pot. Miss Sharp suggested that one.”
My eyes popped open. “Miss Sharp?”
“We’ve been working on compiling a list for you,” he said. “And I put customer cards out on the tables for people to make suggestions. Sometimes the best gem—”
“You did what?”
I dropped my keys where I stood and strode out into the diner, snatching up the little cards from the empty tables and trying to figure out a subtle way to get them from the occupied ones without having to answer questions.
“Allie,” he said, clearly right on my heels.
“You don’t get to do this on your own,” I said under my breath. “You don’t get to fire my waitresses. You don’t get to make the schedules. I run this place. I don’t care if you own ninety percent. You don’t go polling my customers for a new name. We’re called the Blue Banana Grille.”
“I was thinking about that other stuff as well,” he said. “I might take over the books and such. Free you up to manage the floor. Or look elsewhere, in case you decide to sell your percentage.”
My mouth formed words but there was no sound. Sell my percentage. He wanted me to—
“I don’t think so,” I managed.
“Well, it’s up for discussion,” he said with a nod.
I headed back for my keys, plucked them from the floor, and passed him without so much as a glance.
“I have to go,” I said. “Try not to put up a new sign while I’m gone.”