“Y’all need a new song,” Isabel grumbled. “Just for that, I’m putting Zeppelin on for my next three choices.”
“Isabel,” Morgan said, plopping down beside her. “Then I’d have to do Neil Diamond, and you don’t want that.” Morgan loved crooners: Tony Bennett, Tom Jones, Frank Sinatra. She only played Frank, though, when she’d had a crappy night and was really missing Mark. I knew this music well because my mother was a Sinatra fan too.
“Well, then,” Isabel said, “I’d have to play one of those Rush songs with a ten-minute drum solo. I wouldn’t want to, but I’d have to.”
“Okay,” Morgan said. “I promise I’ll only play this once tonight. I just miss him, that’s all.”
Isabel didn’t say anything. She hardly ever did when Mark came up; his name always made her twist her mouth a little bit tighter and turn away.
Celine Dion kept singing, and Morgan brushed her bare foot across the porch, back and forth, mouthing the words. They didn’t say anything for a while. When the song faded, Morgan stuck out her bottle, and Isabel leaned forward, clinking hers against it.
This was always the truce.
If one or the other didn’t have plans they’d stay out there all night. As it got later they’d get lazy and stop changing the music, letting one CD run its course. Isabel always sang along; she knew the words to everything.
I was amazed that they had so much to talk about. From the second they saw each other, there was constant laughing and sarcasm and commentary, something connecting them that pulled taut or fell limp with each thought spoken. Their words, like the music, had the potential to be endless.
Chapter six
Mira had a thing for astrology. She started each morning by reading her horoscope very carefully, then made predictions about the day.
“Listen to this,” she called out as I spread fat-free cream cheese across my bagel. She was halfway through a big bowl of Cap’n Crunch drowning in whole milk, the kind of breakfast that would have horrified my mother. “ ‘Today is a five. You will find yourself challenged, but stay calm: relax and you’ll discover you had the wiggle room you needed all along. Highlight energy, patience, faith. Capricorn involved.’ ”
“Hmmm,” I said, which was my usual response.
“Ought to be an interesting day,” she mused, taking another heaping spoonful of cereal. “I’d better get my errands done early.”
This meant that when I set off for work, Mira rode alongside me on her bike, pedaling slowly. She was wearing leggings, a big paisley shirt, and the purple high-tops, her hair tucked under a baseball cap. And, of course, her Terminator glasses.
She always acted like she didn’t notice that people were looking at her, ignoring the laughter and occasional horn beep. That was fine; I was embarrassed enough for both of us.
When we got to the Quik Stop, right across the street from the restaurant, Mira turned in by the gas pumps and came to a squeaking stop. She waved to Ron behind the counter, who smiled and went back to his paper.
“Okay,” Mira said, getting off the bike and taking her pink vinyl purse from the front basket, “we need some white bread, sliced cheese . . . and what else?”
I thought for a second as a green Toyota Camry pulled up beside us. “Ummm . . . I can’t remember.”
“It was something,” Mira said thoughtfully, pushing up her Terminator glasses. “What was it?”
The door of the Camry slammed and I heard footsteps coming around the front of the car. “Soda?”
“No, no. It wasn’t that.” She closed her eyes, thinking. “It was . . .”
Someone was standing behind me now.
“Milk!” Mira said suddenly, snapping her fingers. “It was milk, Colie. That’s what it was.”
“Well, Mira Sparks,” I heard a woman’s voice say. “Aren’t you something this morning.”
I didn’t even have to turn around; I just glanced into the back of the Camry. Sure enough, there was that baby, in a carseat, sound asleep with its big head hanging over to one side.
“Hello, Bea,” Mira said, acknowledging her. Then she hitched up her purse and said to me, “I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“Okay.” I turned, facing Bea Williamson, who narrowed her eyes at me. I took a few slow steps, unsure whether I should leave.
Mira opened the door to the Quik Stop, then disappeared inside. Bea Williamson took the baby out of the car, settled it on one hip, and followed right behind her.
Maybe nothing more would happen. Maybe Bea would leave it at just that tone, that one question. But I had been the butt of the joke long enough to know not to put much faith in the benefit of the doubt.
I crossed the road to the Last Chance, dodging the morning traffic. But even as I chopped lettuce, the radio up full blast, I kept glancing back at the Quik Stop, wondering what was going on inside and upset with myself for not being there.
It was a Friday, about a week later, when it happened.
Fridays were usually crazy, with day-trippers and weekenders stopping in before hitting the beach. Morgan had almost every Friday off, in case Mark was in town, which left me to suffer through them with Isabel. I’d already had two large tables and at least ten small ones and it was only one-thirty.
“Your food’s up,” Isabel snapped. She balanced a huge tray on her shoulder, hurrying past the line of people still waiting to be seated.