Chapter 5
FRANKIE
Someone is breathing heavily in my ear.
I sit upright, heart racing at the unexpected sound, when I realize it’s just Miggy with his head resting on the side of the bed, staring at me.
“Go away, dog breath,” I tell him.
He, of course, doesn’t listen—just gives me eyes of love. And all right, fine, he is freaking adorable. Still doesn’t mean I want him waking me up with his foul panting in my face.
Groggy, I flop back down onto the pillows. Miggy. I turn my head and stare into the dog’s brown eyes. Miggy…where have I heard that before? Charlie, Frankie, Livvie…Miggy.
Huh.
The more I try to catch the thread, the faster it slips away, and then whatever thought I’m trying to form quickly disappears as the first wave of morning sickness hits me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will the nausea away.
I’m underslept, mentally drained, and not a single part of me aside from my stomach wants to get up right now, even though my alarm is going to go off soon anyway.
My mother’s confession kept playing in my head long after I’d gone to bed last night, and it took me forever to fall asleep as I skated through an obstacle course of emotions, most of them heated and pointed in my father’s direction.
Bile rises in my throat, and I have no choice but to leap off the bed. I nearly stumble over the dog, who runs after me as I hurry into the hall. A familiar clench bands beneath my ribs and I barely make it to the bathroom before my first puke of the day.
Yay. Just how I like to start my morning.
I hear my cell phone alarm go off in my bedroom and I groan. Time to get ready for work—the last thing I want to do today.
I manage to wash my face, brush my teeth, and throw my hair into a ponytail while expending as little energy as possible. It’s going to take all my willpower to get through my shift. Lack of sleep and the mental load of my father’s nastiness are not mixing well with my pregnancy hormones.
There’s a note from my mother on the kitchen table along with an odd-looking fruit that resembles a small, light orange tomato.
Persimmons helped me when I was pregnant with you girls. Careful though, Miggy likes—
Before I can finish reading, the dog snatches the persimmon from my fingers and chomps it in half, quickly wolfing it down in two bites. Stupid dog. But he looks so damned pleased with himself that I can’t help laughing at him.
Oh well. Might as well barf up a banana as a persimmon.
Along with the banana, I bag up a sleeve of saltine crackers and a bottle of water for my drive to work. Breakfast of champions. Then I put Miggy in his crate and quickly slip into my polyester waitress outfit and clunky white tennis shoes.
I swear, I’ll never get used to the heat here.
Within minutes, the uniform is sticking to my skin.
My feet sweat and the hairline at the base of my neck is getting damp.
Despite the air conditioning in the apartment, I constantly feel like I’m sweltering.
I don’t know how anybody chooses to live here long term.
Then again, I’ve probably been spoiled by Northern California.
I feel a pang of homesickness for Napa, but I squash it.
There’s some commotion outside the building as I exit the apartment.
My mom’s neighbor Teresa and her teenage son are putting up Christmas decorations around their patio—right alongside the Thanksgiving decor.
Glittery tinsel hangs next to pumpkins and striped gourds, plastic turkeys in pilgrim hats, and bunches of colorful corn.
The teenager is currently up on a ladder, hanging glass ornaments from the roof overhang. Teresa waves cheerily.
“Frankie, good morning.”
“Good morning,” I answer back.
Both of them are dressed in tank tops, shorts, and flip-flops.
Kinda boggles the mind. It never got much below 40° in Napa (if it did, it never would have become wine country), but at least it cooled down enough to enjoy the changing of the seasons.
Here? Not so much. I’m sure it’s sweltering year-round.
“It’s so nice of you to stay with your mother for a while,” Teresa is saying. “You know, she’s always been a lovely neighbor. And Miggy is such a gentle giant.”
“Yes, he is. And that’s nice to hear.”
My outfit is beginning to itch. I need to get in my car and crank the air conditioning, stat.
“We just love the Christmas season,” she goes on. “We couldn’t wait to put these out. You and your mom should decorate your porch this year! Let us know if we can help.”
I have no idea if my mother decorates for the holidays or not, but I force a smile.
“Oh, yeah. I’ll mention it to her. That’s a good idea.” I’m not trying to be rude, but I feel like I’m melting, and the heat isn’t making my nausea any better. “Anyway, I better get going. Don’t want to be late for my shift!”
I give a little wave and hurry to my car before she can start talking again.
The air conditioning inside the car feels so good that I take the long way to the diner. I feel slightly better by the time I arrive, until I find Charles waiting for me in the back. I hang up my purse and clock in, ignoring his glare and his trademark frown.
As I tie my apron on, I start babbling in self-defense. “Before you say anything, Charles, I promise that I’m going to do better today. I know I’ve been a little off my game lately, but it’s just a stomach bug I’ve had that’s been throwing me. I just need another chance.”
He puts his hands on his hips. “Another chance for what? To see if you can break your milkshake record?”
Without waiting for my response, he walks away.
Sighing, I grab an order pad and a few pens and shove them into my apron pocket as I walk through the kitchen toward the front of the house. I can see the dining room from here. It’s already packed, of course.
Something pulls my attention and I do a double take.
I know the glossy head of dark hair in booth seven.
The set to the shoulders, the expression carved from stone.
But the face doesn’t even register with me for a few seconds.
And then I push my way through the swinging double doors, and the man in the booth turns his head my way. That’s when it fully hits me.
It’s Dante.
My breath catches in my throat, and I spin right around and walk back into the kitchen. Fuck. He’s real. Fuuuuuck.
“You okay, Frankie?” Ruben asks from his usual post at the griddle.
“I’m good,” I lie, giving him a weak smile as my stomach churns.
What the hell is Dante doing here? It’s been over three weeks and he’s made no attempt to contact me. I had hoped that meant he was letting me go. But now, out of the blue, he’s here. And of course, he’s sitting at one of my tables.
Does he know about the baby somehow?
Double fuck.
I could try putting him off on another waitress, but he’s already seen me. I have no choice but to go over there. Pulling a deep breath through my nose, I go back out to the dining room, walk straight to Dante’s booth, and flip open my order pad. I avoid his eyes, keeping my distance.
“What can I get you?” I ask stiffly.
“What do you recommend?” Oh, fuck him. Sitting here trying to be cute.
“For you? Anything I can scrape off the top of the garbage.”
“Hm. How’s the coffee here?”
I don’t write anything down, just glare at him. “It’s coffee.”
A hint of a smile crosses his lips. “You’re a terrible waitress.”
“And you’re a shit husband,” I hiss. “You want fries with that?”
His voice drops intimately. “I want you to come home.”
The din of chatting customers, silverware scraping on plates, and clunking water glasses is loud in my ears, but I’m hyper focused on what he’s going to say next. What the hell did he come three thousand miles from home to say to me?
“You’re my wife,” he says. “You have a duty to me, and to the winery.”
Really? That’s the best he can do? He’s not even fighting for me, he’s ordering me to fall in line. He hasn’t apologized, either, or even asked why I left in the first place.
“If you’re not going to order anything, you’ll have to excuse me. I have work to do.”
He glares at me. “Stop wasting everyone’s time. You need to come back.”
I could not be less impressed with his little speech.
Slipping my order pad into my pocket, I say sweetly, “I’m sorry, but we don’t sell doormats here. Maybe you should try the hardware store down the…” My voice trails off as I’m gripped by a familiar wave of nausea. I consider running.
Dante grabs my wrist. “Frankie? Are you okay?”
Bad, bad timing. I try to pull back, but he won’t let me go. My insides lurch. There’s nothing I can do.
Bending over, I puke in Dante’s lap.