were doing, so they skipped me.”
“I knew you were smart,” he said. “Where’s your family?”
She wondered how much to say. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, okay?” she said.
“Sure, okay.”
She played with the wrapper from her straw. “My mother is dead, too,” she began.
“Oh, no,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“She had breast cancer, even though she was only in her twenties, and we moved down here from New Jersey so she could be in a study at Duke. She died when I was twelve, and then I got kind of shuffled around.”
Tim reached across the table and rested his hand on hers. “In her twenties.” He shook his head. “I didn’t think that happened.”
His eyelashes were as pale as his hair and very long. She studied them to keep from doing something stupid, like turning her hand over to grasp his. “Neither did she,” she said, “so she never looked for a lump or anything.” She didn’t tell him that she would always have to be vigilant about her own health. She didn’t want him to start thinking of her as a woman who would lose both her breasts, the way her mother had.
“What do you mean, you got shuffled around?”
He hadn’t moved his hand from hers. As a matter of fact, he tightened it around her fingers, running his thumb over the skin above her knuckles. Her pulse thrummed beneath his fingertips.
“Well,” she said, “they put me in this place … I was never sure what it was, exactly … I called it juvenile hall because it was full of kids who were screwed up.”
“A residential facility.”
She smiled. “Right, Mr. Social Worker.”
“Go on.”
“I stayed there while they tried to find my father. My parents weren’t married and I’d never met him. It turned out he was in prison for molesting kids, so I guess it’s just as well that I never did.”
“I’d say so.” Tim nodded. “It must have been a huge disappoint—”
Bets picked that moment to show up with their orders, and Tim had no choice but to let go of CeeCee’s hand while she put his food in front of him.
“Here you go, hon,” Bets said to CeeCee as she set down the key lime pie. “You want some extra sauce, Timmy?” she asked.
Timmy? CeeCee squirmed. How well did Bets know him?
“We’re good,” Tim said.
“Okay,” Bets moved on to another table, calling over her shoulder, “Y’all enjoy, now.”
Tim pushed his plate an inch or so toward her. “You want a bite?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Looks good, though.” She played with her straw wrapper again as he bit into his sandwich.
“So,” he said, once he’d swallowed, “after they found your father, then what happened?”
“They put me in foster care.”
“Ah,” he said. “You’ve had some experience with social workers.”
“Plenty.” She drew the tines of her fork across the smooth, pale surface of her pie. “I was in six different foster homes. It wasn’t because I was a problem,” she added. “Just crazy circumstances.”
He nodded. He understood.
“The last one was the best. It was a single woman with some young kids who were really sweet. As soon as I graduated, though, I was on my own.”
“You’ve been through a lot,” he said, taking a sip of water.
“It wasn’t all bad,” she said. “I met a lot of people. You can learn something from everyone you meet.”
“That’s a very wise statement.”
“Hey, Gleason!”
CeeCee turned to see one of the jocks walking toward their table. He was black, clean-cut and handsome, and probably seven feet tall. She’d see him around town from time to time, usually carrying a basketball. Sometimes she could hear him dribbling the ball even before she saw him.
“Hey, Wally, what’s up?” Tim set down his glass and slid his palm across Wally’s in greeting.
Wally shook his head in disgust. “That chick you saw me with the other night? She laid a bad trip on me, man,” he said.
Tim laughed. “Tell me something new.”
“You hangin’ at the Cave tonight?”
“Not tonight.” Tim nodded in her direction. “This is CeeCee,” he said.
CeeCee raised her hand in a small wave. “Hi,” she said.
“Out to lunch with that hair, girl,” Wally said, in what she assumed was a compliment.
“Thanks.”
“All right, boss,” Wally said to Tim. “Check ya later.”
They watched Wally walk away, his hand smacking the air as he bounced an invisible basketball.
“Do you know everyone in Chapel Hill?” she asked.
Tim laughed. “I’ve lived here a long time.” He picked up the sandwich from his plate. “You have to talk for a while so I can make a bigger dent in this thing,” he said. “Tell me about your mother. Were you close to her?”
He was definitely social-worker material. He wasn’t shy about the questions he asked. “Well.” She ran the tines of her fork the other way on the pie and admired the checkerboard pattern she’d created. “My mother was an amazing person,” she said. “She knew she was going to die and she did her best to prepare me for it, although you can never really be prepared. I guess you know all about that.”
He nodded as he chewed, his face solemn.
“At first, she was really angry,” she said, remembering how her mother would snap at her for the slightest infraction. “Then she’d sort of … you know, swing between being angry and being down. And then she got very calm.”
“DABDA,” Tim said.
“Dabda?”
“The five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.”
“Wow, yes, that fits,” she said. “What’s bargaining, though?”
“It’s like making a deal with God.” He wiped his lips with his napkin. “Dear God, if you let me get better, I’ll never do anything bad again.”
“I
