12. Chapter 12
Kwemby
Funny enough, I find my diners are busiest during the morning and afternoon rush. I think people like the scent of vanilla and maple with their French toast and eggs. We go through so many of them.
Since my internal clock is hardwired for diner hours, I wake at five in the morning.
Rather than move right away, I listen to Harriet breathe.
She’s here with me, and we’re both okay.
I prop myself up on one elbow and look at her.
Her face is slack. Her mouth is slightly parted.
Her hair is loose across the pillow. She looks younger like this.
Everything about her is painstakingly beautiful.
I have never watched her sleep. Not once in thirty years. That fact sits in my chest, alongside the memory of last night.
I’ll never forget. Damn it all to hell, I’ll never let him hurt her again.
Getting up carefully, I ease my weight off the mattress in increments, keeping my footsteps light on the carpet until I’m in the bathroom with the door pulled closed to give Harriet a few more minutes of sleep.
Then I turn the tap to cold and grip both edges of the sink and gaze at myself in the mirror.
The man looking back at me has a bruised right hand.
I note it as I grip the sink. My knuckles are slightly swollen, a shadow of purple already developing across the two middle ones.
I open and close my fist once, feeling the stiffness.
It is a fair trade. Especially since I had an amazing day yesterday.
Harriet has an appointment at ten. I need to function.
I dress quietly in yesterday’s clothes since I only had one spare set and hadn’t thought to purchase more.
My phone reads 5:47 a.m. when I check it, then I pull up the mapping app and run the route: Three hours by car, less if I take the expressway all the way through.
That means we have a good hour before we need to hit the road.
With Harriet still asleep, I call down to the front desk and ask for room service to deliver scrambled eggs, wheat toast and two orange juices. The woman on the other end confirms the order.
It isn’t until I hang up that I consider our need for coffee.
The room has an in-room coffee machine. I make one cup with the packet provided, and carry it to the armchair beside the window.
I drag the chair a few inches closer to the bed before I sit down, close enough that I can see Harriet clearly in the low light seeping around the edges of the curtains.
About fifteen minutes later, room service arrives. I’m out of the chair and at the door before Harriet has done more than shift under the duvet. Even though Buck is in jail, I still check the peephole first. Thankfully, it is, indeed, room service.
After I grab the food, Harriet is sitting up when I turn around. Hair loose around her face, duvet bunched at her waist, eyes not quite focused yet. She looks at the cart. She looks at me.
“Why Kwemby,” she says in an affectionate, teasing voice. “Breakfast in bed for two mornings in a row?”
I walk over to her and then kiss her forehead. “Anything for you.”
Next, I grab the tray of food and set it on the foot of the bed within reach of both of us and we eat. Harriet pulls one of the toast slices from the rack and butters it without asking me if I want the other. She already knows I take mine with jam.
“Since your appointment is this morning, I already mapped the route,” I say. “It’s a three-hour drive back home and to Maple Street. If we finish eating, showering, and packing up, we can hit the road by seven and get you there right on time.”
She nods, swallowing a bite of eggs. “I should send Ronetta’s office information on Buck’s arrest, right?”
“I’d say so. Even if he bonded out, I think it’s important for your lawyer to know.”
“Agreed.” She picks up her phone from the nightstand with one hand and scrolls with her thumb while holding the toast in the other. “I’ll also reserve a rental car back home and stay with Whitney until I find a place.” Whitney is our mutual college friend.
We eat and then get ready. We’re both out the door on time.
The highway stretches out ahead of us, three hours of open pavement that feels entirely different from the drive that brought her here, based on what I’ve heard. I reach over and click the radio on a low volume for background noise. After a few minutes, it ends.
“My turn,” she says, a small spark in her eyes as she leans forward to flip the station to an old pop song we both used to blast decades ago. She starts humming along, her shoulders relaxing back against the passenger seat.
After a few tracks fade out, she pulls her phone from her pocket, looking at me with a quiet, hopeful smile. “I downloaded a trivia app a while back. Want to try it?”
“Name the category,” I say, glancing over at her with a grin. “Just be prepared to lose if it’s business or fishing.”
For the next two hours, we play and talk.
She reads out questions about geography, science, and pop culture, laughing out loud whenever I confidently guess the wrong answer.
When I miss a few easy ones, she laughs so beautifully that it makes me want to purposefully mess up.
I never want her to shut up. I just want to listen to her talk for the rest of the drive, and for every single road trip that comes after this one.
Still, every now and then I catch her glancing out the window, and I come to the realization that she wishes she had taught her daughters better. Knowing her, she misses them. Halfway to our destination, I text Coris and Maren and drop a pin to where we’re headed.
Me:
Your dad may never have backed your mom up, but I sure as hell will. Meet me at the dropped pin’s location by 10:30 a.m. I realize this is last minute, and I apologize about that, but this is important.