Chapter 2
Cal
Fran freezes, her eyes wide as a cornered animal, too confused to run and too surprised to fight.
I spin around as a woman with her hair pulled back tight starts taking pictures of Fran.
I've got an idea why the lady is invading Fran’s privacy, and it’s not okay.
Fran clearly doesn’t know this woman or want her picture taken.
“I can’t believe I found you! I’m a huge fan of ‘Surf City!” The woman moves closer, still clutching her phone in front of her face, now videoing Fran.
I’m out of my seat and in front of the stranger before I have time to think about it. My only thought is to block her from Fran. Junie too, since she’s in the direct line of the video the woman is recording. But it’s Fran who’s in trouble here.
“You’re confused. I’m not Frankie Forsythe,” She says behind me in a shaky, unconvincing American accent.
The woman’s ponytail swings over her shoulder as she angles her phone around me. I block her again. “Turn it off.”
It’s not a threat, but it is a warning.
She glances at me, then lowers her phone and addresses Fran. “Can I get one pic with you, Frankie? I swear I won’t post it anywhere.”
That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.
“You heard her. She’s not the Frankie you’re looking for. Now delete the pictures and videos. Especially if you’ve got my kid in any of them.”
For the first time, the lady looks at me. I stand taller, my shoulders back, resisting the urge to use my size to force her to do what her conscience should be telling her to do.
Then a hand is on my shoulder. I unlock my gaze from the woman to meet Flo’s stern look. She nudges me off the defensive line and takes my place in front of the woman.
“You’re not the first tourist to make that mistake about our Fran, but she’s a local girl trying out a Bluey voice to entertain my niece,” she explains as she guides the lady back to her group of friends. “Did you enjoy your lattes? I’m thinking of adding them to the menu.”
“They were okay.” The woman glances over her shoulder, and I puff out my chest.
“Everything needs to be deleted before you leave here. All of them.” I say.
“That’s a good idea,” Flo says, more gently than I did, but just as forcefully.
“I’ll delete the ones with his kid in them.”
I don’t like the defiance in the lady’s voice, and I take a couple steps in their direction.
“It’s best to respect everyone’s privacy, including Fran’s. Particularly if you want to be welcomed back here again.” Flo’s words are loud enough to carry across the diner, like she’s warning everyone watching this scene while also signaling to me and Fran that she’s got things under control.
I stop my advance, but I don’t retreat.
Of course, I know the name Frankie Forsythe. Everyone does. And, yeah, everyone in Flamingo’s knows she’s hiding out here as Fran McVey.
What I don’t know is the why behind it. By the time I was let in on her secret identity, I knew her as Fran, and her reasons for being here didn’t matter. I’m just happy she is here. And I don’t want anyone chasing her away.
Fran looks ready to run right now. She’s been increasingly cautious the closer Sanctuary gets to being done and the more strangers coming into Flamingo’s. Every day she’s still at Flamingo’s is another day I get to know her better. And every day I get to know her better, the more I like her.
So, I glare the picture lady all the way back into her booth, then watch as Flo hovers over her while the lady swipes and taps on her phone.
“That all of them?” Flo asks.
She nods, her ponytail sliding up and down between her shoulder blades.
I turn back to Junie who, I’m relieved to see, is busy watching Fran as she puts a plate of pancakes in front of her and offers to cut them up.
“Not big,” Junie instructs.
“I’ll make them big girl bite size. How bout that?” With her lips pulled tight, Fran stabs the stacked pancakes and drags a knife through them. Her hands shake.
Fran’s not the kind of woman who needs protecting.
She’s a woman who commands attention every time she walks into a room and who can go toe-to-toe with anyone who tries to give her a hard time.
But more than once I’ve caught something vulnerable in her expression—a longing that reminds me of a foal I treated, who’d been rejected by its mother.
Maybe that’s why I rush back to my seat and take the knife and fork from her. “Take a break,” I whisper.
Fran’s eyes bounce from Junie, to me, to the corner of the diner where Flo thanks the intruder and her friends for coming in and tells them their check is covered.
With a nod, Fran grabs my plate of food from the order window, sets it in front of me, then rushes to the back.
In a matter of minutes, Flo coaxes the women out the door and carries their plates still heaped with food to the back where Miguel has taken over the grill in her absence.
I’d like to ask her what she knows about Fran, but I know better than to bother Aunt Flo when her mouth is screwed into a tight line like it is now.
I finish my breakfast long before Junie finishes hers, and after months of resisting, I give in to the temptation to google Frankie Forsythe.
Generally, I prefer a direct approach when it comes to getting information about someone, rather than going to the internet, which is why I haven’t googled her before.
Also, why I haven’t dragged the info out of anyone else, like Mom, who, when I tried, told me Fran deserves to tell her own story.
A lot of stories pop up, and I click on the most recent headline, “Where’s Frankie Now?
” After wading through way too many pop-up ads and a lot of very basic info about Fran—like that she’s Australian—I laugh out oud when I reach the end.
The writer’s guess, based on “very conclusive evidence” is Croatia.
“All done, Daddy!” Junie drops her fork on her plate with a loud clang, then climbs out of her seat.
I check the time on my phone. Eight twenty-nine. Junie’s going to be tardy. Miss Merry doesn’t mark kids tardy, but I’ll know Junie’s late, and it will bother me for the rest of the day.
But as I follow Junie out the door, Fran still hasn’t reappeared, which is also going to bother me. I’ll spend the rest of the day worrying whether she’s okay. So, after walking Junie to Miss Merry’s Little Lambs and dropping her there, I pop back into the diner.
Fran isn’t in the dining room. I check my watch, debating what to do.
I don’t have appointments this morning, but I like to be at the clinic in case anyone pops in with their pets.
My specialty is large animals, but sometimes Dr. Gomez, the other vet in town, gets too many cat or dog walk-ins and sends them my way to be treated sooner.
And while Fran and I are friends, I might be crossing a line getting into her personal business.
I’ve tested the waters with jokes about asking her out, but she’s never quite said yes.
I don’t blame her. I’m not exactly a catch when I come with a kid.
At least Junie’s cute. The mountains of vet school debt and loans I took out to buy the clinic come with me too. Those are flat-out ugly.
I turn to leave, then hear Aunt Flo yell, “Get back here, Cal!”
I do as she orders and walk in the kitchen where she and Miguel are working through orders like a well-oiled machine. “She’s in my office,” she says without looking up from the grill.
“Thanks.” That’s all the permission I need to tuck away my doubts and take a chance Fran will be happy to see me.
I go to the back of the kitchen and open the door to Flo’s office. Fran’s back is to me, and she’s twisting the handle on the antique gumball machine in the corner.
“Everything okay?”
She startles and turns at the same time a large gumball rolls down the shoot and clinks against the metal door. Her blonde wig is on the desk and red-brown curls tumble to her shoulders.
“Nah, yeah. I’m alright. Just a bit startled.” She forces a smile.
“By the lady taking pictures? Or by me?”
“Both.” A breathy laugh escapes and her mouth relaxes into a more natural grin.
“I didn’t realize your hair is red.”
Her hand flies to her head, like she’s forgotten then she huff-laughs again. “Auburn is the name for it.”
“I like it.”
“More than the beehive?” She waves her head toward the wig, her eyes shining like they do when she teases me. They’re not as bright as usual, but I’ll take it as a good sign there’s still some spark in them.
“I mean, can anything beat a beehive?”
Fran laughs and turns to take the gumball out of the shoot. “I should have believed you when you said Junie was a firecracker.”
“I don’t exaggerate when it comes to my kid.”
When she faces me again, she’s trying to look more relaxed, but a jittery energy rolls off her like a nervous colt.
“That holds true for her being…” She cocks her head and squints one eye closed. “The cutest, smartest, and most polite kid in the world. I think that’s how you put it.”
“Like I said, I don’t exaggerate.”
“No, Cal Holloway, I reckon you don’t.” Fran pops the orange gumball into her mouth then mashes it between her teeth with a slow, painful effort.
“That gum’s ancient.” I point to the machine. “I was with Flo when she found that at Larry’s antique store. I think those are the same gumballs that were in it then.”
She stops chewing and tucks the gum into her cheek. “How long ago was that?”
“I was nine…so twenty years? Roughly.”
Fran pivots toward the garbage can between her and Flo’s desk and spits the gum into it, then grabs the glass of water on the desk, takes a big sip, and spits the water back into the glass. She makes enough of a production about it, that I can’t help it, I laugh.
Fran glares at me before laughing too. Except there’s a hitch in her laugh, before she tucks her chin and wipes at her eyes.
“You okay?”
She shakes her head. “That was really gross.”
“I wasn’t talking about the gum.” I step closer and crane my neck, so I’m at her eye-level.