Heart of glass, p.3
Heart of Glass, page 3
“How old are you anyway?”
“Eight.”
“And your parents let you walk home by yourself?”
From the look on his face and the shrug that's meant to be nonchalant but fails miserably, this is a sore topic. He doesn't respond immediately. “My mom's supposed to pick me up today...” He doesn't elaborate.
“But she's working at the cafe?”
He shakes his head and provides no more information. Hmm, family drama. Everything about him screams introvert. With a kid who's seemingly as sensitive as this, it's never just the school bullies plaguing his thoughts.
“It's right there,” he says, pointing and speeding ahead.
I follow him to the door of a cafe that's buzzing with life. It's a quaint little spot with a homely look and feel to it.
“Eat and be Merry,” I say with a disparaging tone, as I read the signage. “I hope the food is better than the name!”
“My grandparents,” he says by way of explanation. “Let's go.”
Before I know what's happening, he slips his small hand into mine and proceeds to tug me inside. My initial response is to recoil, snatch my hand back, but I don't have enough time to pull away. Several of the patrons stare at us as we enter, many of them waving and greeting Conan by name. Regulars. The kid wasn't lying about his ties to the place.
I look around. There's a dated, eighties feel to it, though this seems purposeful, affected, not simply the result of lack of modernization over the years.
A middle-aged man in an apron rushes out from behind the counter, balancing a plate of fries and steak on one palm, and a salad on the other. He saunters over to table five of twelve, before stopping and crouching down in front of Conan.
When he glances at our joined hands, I finally release Conan's. This is probably his father, and I'm a complete stranger.
“Hey, Lou,” Conan says.
The man, Lou, puts both hands on his shoulders. Tuts. “She forgot again, didn't she?”
Conan doesn't reply.
“Who's your friend?” Lou asks.
“Oh, this is...” Conan turns, peers up at me, waits for my response.
“Shard,” I say.
“Shard,” Conan repeats, grinning from ear to ear. “I said she could have a meal on the house.”
“You did, did you?” Lou raises an eyebrow. “I don't think your aunt would be too happy with you giving out free dinners to strangers.”
“I'll pay for my own meal,” I interject impatiently. I wasn't actually expecting a free one.
“But she saved my life,” Conan protests. The kid sure knows how to exaggerate.
Lou's eyes go wide. “Saved your life, huh?” He seems to consider this for a moment, then finally says, “Well, we can't allow our heroine here to pay now, can we? Not after she saved your life.”
Conan beams, shakes his head.
Lou winks at him, climbs to his feet again. Extends his hand to me. “Lou, manager, head chef, all around gofer.” He offers me a friendly smile, waits for me to shake.
I take his hand hesitantly.
“Table eleven's free. Take a seat. Shout when you're ready to order.”
Conan and I make our way to the only empty table in the place. He sits across from me, watches me as I place both duffel bags onto the empty seat beside me.
“I told you I wasn't lying,” he says, drumming his fingers on the table.
“You promised the best grub in the city. Jury's still out,” I say, getting comfortable in the seat.
He hands me the laminated menu. It looks homemade but designed with careful attention to detail, like it was someone's personal project. Fancy artwork and meal names written in calligraphy. When I do a scan of my surroundings, I notice the watercolor artwork adorning the walls. Some of people, others of landscapes. All quite loud and vibrant, in a similar vein to the menu.
I don't take too long to order. The French fries and steak I'd seen earlier looked appetizing enough, so I go with that. Medium rare, I tell Lou, and hope he knows what that means. Most cafes get the consistency wrong.
“You should have gotten the Eat and be Merry Burger,” Conan says, as he tucks into his. It's huge, and bits of lettuce and tomato come tumbling out as he takes a bite. He won't be able to finish it.
“I don't like lettuce,” I say simply, cutting into my steak. So far, so good. “Or tomatoes...”
This, for some reason, makes him giggle.
While I'm halfway through my steak, my eyes land on one of the somewhat garish paintings adorning the wall. Like pretty much all of the others, there's a hodge-podge of colors making up its composition, but it's clear that it's a portrait of my eight-year-old dining partner.
“Is that you?” I gesture with my fork.
He turns around, mid bite of his burger. A piece of lettuce drops on to his sweater, which he doesn't notice. “Yeah,” he confirms, smiling with what I assume is pride. “My aunt's an artist. Do you like it?”
I shrug. “It's all right. Too much color. Why doesn't she just paint everything as she sees it?”
It's his turn to shrug. “That is the way she sees things.” I'm not prepared for his answer; it's too sophisticated. He's clearly repeating what he's heard.
While he regales me with stories of some of the other paintings his aunt has done, my eyes drift to the door. A woman staggers in, a tattooed biker-type at her heel. She glances briefly at our table, before slipping, quite brazenly, behind the counter, making a beeline straight for the register. She goes unimpeded because Lou seems to have disappeared into the kitchen.
Tattooed biker drums his knuckles on the counter, peering around shiftily. The lookout. I watch on, fascinated.
“I've never witnessed an actual theft in real time,” I say.
Conan follows my gaze. He drops what's left of his burger and stands up.
“Mom!” he calls, his voice missing the fury I was expecting.
The cash register thief spins around, dollars in her hand. “Hey, sweetie. Just give Mommy a minute, okay?”
He returns to his seat and burger, paying the situation no more mind. Just a regular Thursday for him, I guess.
Lou returns, carrying a fresh batch of napkins, sees the “robbery” and shakes his head. “You know you're not supposed to do that.”
She slams the register shut with her hip, cuts Lou a nasty look before stepping out from behind the counter and rejoining her tattooed mate. She hands him the money. They kiss through the exchange, several pairs of eyes on them.
“Your sister's gonna have something to say,” Lou continues with his admonishment.
“She always has something to say,” comes the thief's response, once her lips are liberated.
“That's your mom?” I say, piecing together more of this messy puzzle.
Conan nods without looking up.
“And I suppose that's not your dad?” My guess is, he probably doesn't even know the guy's name. Perhaps she doesn't either. How much more of a stereotype could this woman be?
“My dad's dead. He was a brave soldier who died at war,” Conan explains with unmistakable pride. “A real-life hero.”
A butt is smacked in a playful manner. Giggles follow, before the guy takes the money and leaves.
The thief watches on dreamily, then shakes herself out of her haze. She turns and approaches our table, gives me a dubious look as she cuddles her son from behind, planting a kiss atop his head.
“Hey, sweetie.” She looks at me. “Hello?”
“Hello,” I say. It's not what she wants to hear – she wants an explanation as to why I'm eating with her son. I give her nothing but the once-over. She's younger than me, maybe not even thirty, though judging from the faded Powerpuff Girls T-shirt and the purposely ripped denim jacket that match her equally threadbare jeans, she's trying to recapture her adolescent years. Tragic.
The name 'Conan' is tattooed onto the back of her right hand in fancy script. I imagine that's not the only tattoo she has.
“Honey, aren't you gonna introduce me to your buddy?” she says.
“Mom, this is Shard. She walked me home.”
She frowns at me. “You walked him home?”
“Yes,” I say slowly, not liking her tone. “I was there; you weren't.”
Her look of outrage tells me I've made an enemy. It's far easier for me to make those than friends. It's just as well I won't be sticking around here.
She deliberates over whether or not to hurl insults at me, I can almost see her brain doing a risk assessment. She simply glares at me, then comes around to face her son, talking only to him. “I'm sorry, I got caught up.”
Conan shrugs. “It's okay.”
She ruffles his hair, which is the same shade as her messy, shoulder-length locks. Offers him a lopsided smile and picks up his plate. “Finish this upstairs, all right? I'll be up in a minute.”
He looks as though he might protest at first, but gets up, bids me farewell and heads behind the counter, before disappearing through a door that I assume leads to the apartment.
His mother looks at me, her mouth twitching as though she's fighting back the urge to spew forth a bevy of insults. Instead, she turns and heads for the counter. Resting her elbows on it, she asks Lou for her usual.
“Did Emilia say what time she'd be back tomorrow?” she asks him.
“Three, four in the morning, unless the conference runs over.”
I tune everyone out after that and finish my meal. Almost as soon as the last bite is taken, the lethargy and fatigue kick in. I haven't had a good night's sleep since my last night in Pasadena. I've never been able to sleep in temporary accommodation, and it usually takes me a month before I'm finally able to sleep in a new apartment. A pain in the ass considering how often I move. Mexico's going to change all of that. I won't constantly be on my toes there.
If I want to avoid wrapping my car around a tree or causing a pile up on the highway by falling asleep behind the wheel, I'm going to have to give in to the call of sleep. One night won't set me back too much. Plus, I still need a new car.
I wipe my mouth on my napkin as Lou comes to take my plate.
He looks at the empty dish and guffaws. “About the best endorsement I can get.”
I was hungry; the food was adequate. He doesn't have to know that. I still need something from him.
“Do you know anyone selling a car?”
He scratches his balding head, thinks for a moment. “Juan down at the Cressington Street Garage might have something for you.” He takes a peek at his watch then adds, “But you just missed him. He closed at five. You'll have to catch him in the morning.”
Great.
“Is there a B&B or something nearby?”
He smiles. “You're looking at it.” Then, off my confused look, “That's if you don't mind staying above a cafe. The owners rent a couple of rooms from time to time.”
“Convenient,” I say.
“Lexi, someone wants to rent a room,” he calls.
I'd almost forgotten that I'd already crossed paths with the owner. My enemy, remember? I slightly regret not being less contentious, because my body is suddenly crying out for sleep, and I'd rather not have to stroll around looking for somewhere else to stay. It must have been the meal: steak served with a side helping of sedatives!
Lexi, resident thief and mother of the year, spins around to face me, raising an eyebrow. There's just the faintest hint of smugness on her face, and I'm certain she won't rent to me.
“Sure,” she says with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Follow me.”
The layout of the building is confounding, that's my first thought as she leads me through the back and up three flights of stairs. Along the way, we pass other doors, four in total, until reaching the top. There are three doors, one of which she tells me is the shared bathroom for the fourth floor.
She unlocks one of the others and leads me into what will be my room for the night. It's spacious with a clean, white décor. The one window in the room is wide and offers a view of the main street. There's a small kitchenette area with an undercounter refrigerator and a microwave. The divan bed is fully made and looks extremely inviting.
“It's sixty a night,” Lexi says behind me. I turn around to find her standing with one hand on her hip, the other out, palm up. “Breakfast's not included.”
“One of the key components of a B&B is the breakfast...” I comment, as I fish some notes out of my jeans and hand them to her. I don't care either way, but seeing as we've already gone down this contentious road, I feel it's my duty to continue.
She rolls her eyes, stuffs the money into the pocket of her jacket. “If you need to leave after the cafe closes, there's a back entrance.” She proceeds to perfunctorily list off a bunch of other pertinent things I need to know about the place, then hands me the keys and leaves.
Once I'm alone, I plunk my duffel bags at the foot of the bed, then collapse onto the sheets. It takes just a few minutes for sleep to claim me.
*****
My bursting bladder yanks me from what seems like an endless slumber some hours later, and I scurry out of bed, leaving my room for the first time since arriving. The rest of the building is pitch black and so silent you could hear a pin drop.
When I return to my room, I notice that it's still dark outside. How long was I sleeping? I ditched my cellphone – my usual means of checking the time – days ago, and have yet to replace it.
My stomach growls at me rather unpleasantly, forcing me to go in search of food. Surprise, surprise, there's no sustenance anywhere in this room, unless you count a small bottle of water that looks like it's been in the refrigerator for a while. I'm likely the first guest this room's had in months.
The water does nothing to quell the hunger pangs, so I creep out of my room for a second time and head downstairs, remembering there's a cafe three flights beneath me. I'll pay for whatever I eat, of course, but I won't be the woman who makes the headlines tomorrow for starving to death in a fully-stocked cafe.
My descent is quiet and clumsy; I neglect to turn on the lights – in part because I don't want to wake anyone, but also because I don't know where the light switch is.
As I near the first floor, I see light spilling from below and hear the faintest humming. They're open already? What luck!
With practiced stealth, I make my way to the cafe and stop in the doorway. I had every intention of alerting Lexi to my presence, asking for something to eat in the most polite way possible. But when I go to open my mouth, I'm rendered speechless.
This isn't Lexi.
I know instinctively that this woman before me is the oft-mentioned sister and aunt. It's easy, at first glance, to mistake them for each other. They have the same light brown hair, approximately the same height, same petite build. But on second glance, closer inspection, the two couldn't be more different. There's a... softness to this sister, like she's made of delicate materials – silk, lace, something that feels wonderful on your flesh. If they were shapes, Lexi would be a hexagon while she would be a circle, something with no sharp edges.
I watch her as she majestically spreads mayonnaise onto seeded bread, humming a melody I can't identify. It might just be the most beautiful thing I've heard in a long time, maybe ever. If I were the crying type, I might be stirred to tears.
I take all of her in because my eyes won't stray anywhere else in the room. The long, flowing skirt, the cream-colored cashmere sweater that's rolled up to her elbows. A silver bracelet hangs loosely from her small wrist. She's a few inches shorter than me, five-four, maybe, to my five-eight.
My mouth waters for the sandwich she's just made. Yep, for the sandwich. I'm about to clear my throat, let her know that she's not alone, when she turns and sees me.
Her scream is deafening. The plate along with her freshly-made sandwich goes flying out of her hand and lands at her feet, smashing in two.
She blindly reaches for the butter knife that still has mayonnaise on it, not daring to take her eyes off me. She holds it up in a threatening manner as I slowly approach her.
“Don't come any closer,” she says, her words heavy with panic.
I can't help but smile as I raise my hands and continue toward her. For every step I advance, she steps backwards. We've unwittingly entered into a game of cat and mouse, and I'm suddenly having more fun than I've had in a long time.
“And if I decide to? Then what? Are you going to stop me with that?” I gesture with my head to her inadequate weapon of choice, smirk deepening. Inadequate to someone soft and pure with no sharp edges; not to someone like me – a dodecagon – who has them in abundance.
She seems to realize her folly; if I did mean her harm, it's a battle she'd lose.
“It's – it's sharper than it looks,” she says, unconvincingly. Then adds, “Please, just take whatever you want and leave.”
She's beautiful when she's panicked, her brown eyes huge with watery fear. Yet more beautiful when she's in a placid state, humming gently when she thinks no one's watching. I decide that this game isn't very fun anymore.
“Is this how you treat all your guests?” I say, and finally stop advancing. I keep my hands up.
Confusion. “Y–you're a guest?”
I nod. “Lexi rented me a room on the top floor.”
She narrows her eyes, not ready to take my word for it, knife still raised.
“I know Conan,” I add, when it becomes clear that she requires proof of the verity of my words. “Interesting kid. He looks more like a Cody.”
“How do you know my nephew?”
“I saved his life.” She'll like the sound of that. That's the official story Conan himself told. Who am I to refute it?
This seems to visibly trouble her. “What happened to him?” Her immediate threat – me – has suddenly become irrelevant in her concern for her nephew.
I finally let my hands fall to my sides. “Bullies. I intervened. For which I received a complimentary meal, on Conan's word.”
She lets out a small sigh of relief, rolls her eyes but smiles, revealing perfect white teeth. The knife slowly goes down. “Typical Conan offering strangers free food. He hasn't quite grasped how business works.”
