Chapter 9
“Smells like pancakes,” I say of Lucy’s, the fifties-style diner that feels more authentic than retro: chrome-edged tables, linoleum floors gone dull with age, and a row of old guys at the counter who look like they came with the building.
“That’s because we serve breakfast all day, every day,” our server chirps as she sets menus in front of us. “Oh, hey, Maggie. Who’s your—oh my God!”
“Leah,” Maggie whispers after sneaking a peek at her name tag. “You didn’t see us. Got it?”
Leah nods fervently, her brown curls coming loose from the paper cap in her hair.
“Because Lucy would draw and quarter you if she found out you leaked this.” Maggie levels her with a look. “And I’d help.”
“Tell you what, Leah.” I give her the kind of smile publicists dream about.
“My friend Magnolia here suggested this place because she knew you’d take care of me.
It’s such a relief having somewhere I can relax without worrying about the paparazzi, you know what I mean?
” I bite back a laugh as she nods a second time. “That’s why we chose you.”
Her wide, brown-eyed gaze jumps between us. “Wow, thanks, Maggie. I won’t say a word. Promise.”
“We’re gonna need a few minutes.” A tight-lipped smile stretches across Maggie’s face, but the second Leah turns to leave, her brows shoot up. “‘That’s why we chose you?’ Five bucks says you’re already trending.”
I laugh and fold my hands on the table. “In my experience, flattery works better than threats of physical violence.”
“Maybe in California,” Maggie mutters as she skims the lunch specials.
“What do you recommend?” I’ve been craving pancakes—but my pancakes, which I can’t exactly make in a motor lodge.
“The tenders are my favorite.” She closes her menu. “Don’t even know why I bother.”
I follow Maggie’s lead and order fried chicken tenders with extra gravy and a Big Red, whatever that is.
“So where’d you learn to dance?” I ask, draping my arm along the back of the booth.
“My mother.” She twists a straw wrapper around her finger. “Legend has it, we were dancing before we could walk.”
“Did she pass down any other secret talents? Fire eating? Chess prodigy?”
“I write,” she says, voice quieter now. “But that didn’t come from her.”
There’s a beat of hesitation, like she doesn’t say this out loud much.
“It’s why I want to meet Graham Barrett.
” She wads up the wrapper and flicks it across the table.
“There’s a contest for a writing class he’s teaching.
I thought maybe it’d give me a leg up if I met him in person.
So he could put a face to the name?” Her gaze lifts, and she bites her lip.
“Or he could think I’m being presumptuous and cut me on the spot. ”
I take a slow sip of my water. Based on my experience with the asshole, I’d put my money on the latter. “Graham can be…”
“Difficult?”
I press my lips into a thin line.
“I’ve read that about him,” she says. “And that he’s demanding on set.”
“He is.”
“But I’m not working with him. Not yet, anyway. And I’m a fan.” She scrunches her nose. “Possibly his biggest fan.”
“What’s the contest? What do you have to do?”
“Write an autobiographical essay. Nothing major, just a page.” Her posture caves a little. “But it’s taking forever. I overthink everything.”
“I’d offer to put in a good word for you, but that’d definitely tank your chances.”
Leah drops off our freakishly red drinks. Somewhere behind her, a cash register dings, followed by the hiss of something hot hitting the grill.
“Food will be out soon,” she says, then after a stern look from Maggie, scurries away.
I smirk. “Pretty sure you’re going to scare the poor girl into witness protection.”
“I know. It’s this town. I have a hard time trusting people.”
Something about the way she says it nags at me, but before I can ask, my phone skitters off the table and onto my lap.
Her brows lift over the rim of her bottle. “It’s fine if you need to get that,” she says, though her tone says otherwise.
It’s not fine, but it can’t be helped.
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling like a complete asshole as I push out of the booth. “I’ll be quick.”
I slip outside and duck into an alley to call Hannah’s mother back. She answers on the first ring, her voice strained and jumpy, my name stumbling out.
Goddammit.
With Cara, it could mean anything from I’m out of chardonnay to Hannah’s hurt.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Is Hannah okay?”
“She said she called you.”
“We talked earlier. What’s up?”
“She’s heartbroken, Holden. I can’t b-believe he’s doing this.”
Maybe he wouldn’t be if you got your shit together and did something about it.
The words grind out between my teeth. “Like I told Hannah, I took care of it.”
“He said she can forget Hawaii.”
“I know, Cara. And I took care of it.”
“No. He j-just told her,” she chokes out, wheezing like she can’t catch her breath. “Just now.”
“Slow down. What do you mean he just told her?”
“She said something about going s-shopping for Hawaii and they fought.”
My head meets the brick wall with a dull thump. Jesus.
“That was my fault.” I drag a hand down my face and groan. Hannah’s eleven and stubborn. When she latches onto something, she doesn’t let go. “Look, Cara, I’ll fix it. Dad’s just being Dad.”
A kid in an apron rounds the corner with bags for the dumpster. I turn my back until the lid slams, then lower my voice.
“Cara, have you been drinking?”
“No. I s-swear.”
“Because I’m still in Texas, and I need you to keep a clear head.”
“I’m not drinking. Just tired.” But just comes out like shust, the slip unmistakable.
And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it from here.
“Is Hannah with you?”
“Not yet,” she says. “Lois is bringing her later.”
Loish. Not Lois.
Her nanny, good. “Make sure she stays.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m worried about you, Cara.”
“I…I know.”
“Okay. Tell Han I’ll call her tonight.”
“Thanks, Holden.”
When I get back to our booth, lunch is waiting, and Maggie’s already halfway through hers.
“Sorry about that,” I say, sliding in across from her. “That was—”
She shakes her head, cutting me off. “None of my business.”
“I know, but—”
“But nothing.” She nods toward my plate. “Food’s probably cold.”
I dip a tender in gravy, thick and congealed, and take a bite. “Still good, though.” Better than the donut sticks and Bugles I’ve been living on at the lodge, but after that back-and-forth with Cara, my appetite is shot.
She was drunk. I’m sure of it.
I manage a scoop of corn, eat a few fries for show, then set down my fork. “So what is it you write?”
Maggie lowers her gaze. “I started with poetry, but—”
Our waitress appears before she can finish. “Can I get y’all anything else?”
“We’re good, thanks,” Maggie says, just as my phone goes off again—my dad, this time. I ignore it.
She sets her napkin on the table and slides out of the booth. “I’m going to run to the ladies’ room while you finish up.”
After a quick exchange with Leah, I settle the bill, send her for a box, and risk a sip of the red soda that tastes surprisingly like bubble gum.
My goddamn phone doesn’t stop.
“You ready?” Maggie says, eyeing it—possibly glaring at it—when she returns to the table.
Yeah, Magnolia. I hate it too.
Then her gaze drops to the autographed napkin beside it.
“She asked,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. I don’t just go around signing things.
“I wasn’t judging.” Maggie grabs her keys and sunglasses and slides them on. “Thanks for lunch.”
I drop a hundred on the table. “You’re welcome.”