“Good morning, sir. I’m Glory. Are you ready to order?”
She had a hunch he’d like thesir. 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 hadeverasked 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 toGreenleaf.”
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 alotlike 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 lookingather 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.Whata 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 25percent 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.