I curled an edge of the laminated menu, ruining the seal. Right now I hated Sam. Was there anything she couldn’t do? Did she have any ideas that were lame instead of brilliant? Was there anything she owned that she hadn’t stolen from me?
I glanced through the dark tint of my sunglasses at the others in the room. I supposed she knew each of her customers by name and they were all completely taken in by her charm.
Christmas lights twinkled around the perimeter. I glared at the tree crammed in the corner, picturing the room as it had been before Sam got a hold of it: tatty furniture, dim lighting, no decorations… I seethed inwardly. What had she done with my stuff, anyway? The couch that once sat in the same place as this table had been a family heirloom. It was the same one I’d bounced on when I was a kid. I closed my eyes.
Boing, boing, boing.
“Patricia Louise Amble!” my mother would yell from the kitchen. “Get off that sofa!”
“Have you decided?” The woman had returned, order pad in hand.
I jerked my mind from the past. “I’ll take two Coney Deluxes to go, please.”
“Fries or chips?” she asked.
“Chili-cheese fries. Thanks.”
She was gone. I stared past the crowd to the lake. A slash of gray water ran between slabs of white ice.
If Doomsday hadn’t happened last May, how far would I have gotten on this place? I looked up at the cedar beams that crossed the ceiling. Someone had given the whole soaring room a coat of glossy polyurethane, allowing the light to gleam off each surface. That colossal project hadn’t even been in my plans. And after my excitement in Del Gloria, I was almost ready to swear off ladders. The most I would have done to improve the great room was duct tape a dust mop to an extension pole and sweep down the cobwebs. But this… this was awe-inspiring.
The burgundy, green, and cream accents Sam had splashed throughout the room made the space feel elegant, yet still like a woodsy lodge. And her idea to have every piece of décor for sale, tied with a tiny white price tag, made me want to retch. On the wall above me, a clock chimed the hour to the tune of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Without knowing why, I craned for a look at the tag.
A few minutes later, the waitress brought my order, bagged in paper and fastened with a red raffia bow.
She laid the bill upside down on the table. “I can take that when you’re ready.”
“How about right now? And,” I gestured at the wall clock, “I’ll take that too.”
She disappeared with the clock and a few minutes later returned it wrapped in recycled paper and tied with green ribbon. I counted out enough bills to cover the check and tip and hightailed it out of my own house.
Sam caught a glimpse of me halfway across the kitchen.
“Oh, my gosh. Tish?” She slapped a hand over her mouth and checked for spies. “I mean Sasha.”
“It’s Tasha.”
She looked at my excess baggage. “So you’re the one who bought the clock.”
I nodded, sidestepping toward the door.
“Is that a Christmas present for your grandfather?”
I shook my head, mute.
She stared at me, her eyes turning hard. “Listen. Stay away from Brad. I heard about that stunt you pulled yesterday. He’s not ready to see you. I’ll let you know when he is.”
I was sorry she couldn’t see the scorn in my eyes. With a spin, I took off out the back door.
Packages safe on the passenger seat next to me, I made the drive to Manistique. No former sister-in-law-to-be was going to scare me away from Brad.
26
Brad’s personal bodyguard opened the door.
“Hi, Austin,” I said, praying Brad hadn’t told him about the kiss yesterday.
“The crazy college chick. What do you want?” Austin kept his fit and trim physique between me and my goal as he looked into the hall behind me. “No Mr. Russo today?”
I shook my head, struggling with my box and bag. “I’m about to drop this stuff. Can you get the door for me?” “No can do. You can’t come in.”
Sighing, I put on a weary voice. “Look. I know I upset Brad yesterday. I brought him lunch to make it up.”
Austin sniffed the air. “Sam’s Coney Deluxe. That’s Mr. Walters’ favorite.”
“I know.” I took a step forward, edging into the opening. He cut me off at the pass. “Sorry, no visitors.”
“Come on. I’d like another chance to talk to Mr. Walters.” I rocked the aromatic bag of Coneys under his nose and spoke in a singsong voice. “I brought him food.”
Austin grabbed the bag off my larger package. “I’ll tell him it’s from you.” He started to close the door.
“Give that back.” I slapped at the paper, missing. “That’s my lunch too.”
“Sorry, no visitors.” The bag disappeared and the door was almost closed.
“Who’s here, Austin?” a voice boomed from the bedroom. “Hey!” I yelled through the crack. “Brad! It’s me! I brought you a Coney Deluxe.”
Austin slammed the door in my face.
I stood there, the toe of one shoe wedged against the threshold. Brad had to realize it was me, Tish, come back to life. Any moment Austin would open the door and usher me inside. I waited, listening. When Austin didn’t return, I rested the clock on one hip and stuck an ear to the door.
The rustling of a paper bag.
I jiggled the doorknob. Locked.
My fists hit the wood. “Hey! Open up! That’s my lunch! Hey!” I kept pounding, determined not to stop until Austin opened the door.
Down the hall, a head poked out of a doorway.
“Excuse me, miss,” an elderly gentleman said with a missing-denture lisp. “M*A*S*H is on. I can’t watch it with all that racket. Makes a rumble in my hearing aid.”
I held my hand suspended mid-thud. What was I doing? Standing in an old folks’ home pounding on doors was definitely low-class.
“Sorry.” I gave a little wave. The head disappeared.
I turned back to my task. I was not leaving here without seeing Brad.
Tapping a finger softly on the door, I spoke through the wood. “Come on. I promise I won’t upset him today. Anyway, you have to open up. I have a present for him.”
Silence. He probably couldn’t answer because his mouth was full of that special sauce with meat and beans and topped with onions… My stomach growled.
“Fine. Give me back my lunch and I’ll go away.”
Still no answer. Maybe he was back sharing the spoils with Brad.
A building attendant passed by in the narrow hall. “Can I help you with something?” the man asked.
“Ahhh…” I wiped the guilty look off my face. I had every right to be here. More than every right. “I seem to have been locked out. Could you show me where I can find a phone?”
The man in navy coveralls walked me to the lounge and pointed to a phone on a decorative desk. “Local calls only unless you have a calling card.”
“Thanks.” I put the clock down and sat in the straightback chair. I opened the long top drawer of the desk. A phone book. Just the thing.
I flipped through the Ws. No Brad Walters. But one listing read Walters-Russo, Samantha. Instead of a Port Silvan prefix, it had the Manistique exchange. That had to be Brad’s number at River’s Edge.
I dialed it.
“This is Austin,” came the voice.
“Austin. Hi. It’s the crazy college chick. Open the door, okay? I really need to talk to Brad.”
Click.
I dialed the number again. It rang once, picked up, and slammed in my ear.
I dialed again-and this time got a busy signal.
The receiver dangled from my hand, its beep beep beep audible throughout the lounge.
“What’s the matter, dear, he’s not taking your call?”
I looked toward the gentle voice. A woman with a wizened face sat in a corner by a window, the various shades of pink in her clothing allowing her to blend with the general décor. No wonder I hadn’t noticed her earlier. Gray hair swirled in perfectly round curls atop her head. It had to be a wig. I touched my own masterpiece, suddenly conscious of how foolish I must look.