one...it was all on her.
Shooting one last glance to the front of the diner to be sure he was gone, Sarah stepped into the deserted dining room. She grabbed the tub of refilled salt and pepper shakers, ketchup bottles and containers filled with sweetener packets on her way past the counter.
Ted plucked a peppermint from the bowl by the cash register and popped it in his mouth. “I wondered where you’d wandered off to.”
“Just planning the desserts for tomorrow.”
She marveled at how effortlessly she lied, but then most things came easier with practice. And at age twenty-eight, she’d had plenty of practice.
“The fuzz boys do something to upset you? Because if they did, I could talk—”
“No, they’re good customers.”
“Good. But if they get out of line...”
As Sarah leaned into a booth to reset the condiments, she turned away so that he wouldn’t see her eye roll. Ted hadn’t even hinted that he would ban them for bad behavior. He couldn’t turn away paying customers, especially those who appeared harmless.
But she’d made the mistake of trusting the police once and had barely survived to tell the story. She brushed away that thought with a swipe of her forearm over her forehead. Compared to those Chicago officers, this group seemed like choir boys.
When the image of one particular choir member invaded her thoughts, his wide eyes staring back at her, Sarah’s hand jerked. A saltshaker slipped from her fingers and skidded across the table, leaving a sticky white mess on the laminate.
“Butterfingers tonight?” Ted asked.
“I’m just tired.”
The sound system blared with one of the country ballads she’d once adored, as a singer crooned about a love that didn’t exist. Hearts and hope and heaven easily turned to hurt and hits and hell.
She righted the saltshaker and cleared the residue with her cloth. If only it were as easy to erase the other mistakes she’d made tonight. She had one rule—keep her distance from others—and she’d broken it faster than an order up for scrambled eggs and toast.
She moved to the next table, but Jamie’s face flashed back at her from the mirrored napkin dispenser. He had kind eyes, she decided, and then shook her head. Why had she chosen now to think about that? She must have noticed his eyes before. Maybe because they matched his boyish face. But when she’d really looked at him tonight, what she’d seen had ripped at her heart.
So, blame her odd behavior on the misery in his eyes. That rare vulnerability in a guy whose career suggested a preternatural fearlessness had drawn her in, but that was all there was to it. All there ever could be. Friendships were a luxury she couldn’t afford.
Sarah blinked, the absurdity of those thoughts as shocking as her actions tonight. She needed to go home, where she could reclaim her good sense and her survival instinct. She had to remember the truth: She could count on no one but herself.
“Marilyn’s late,” Ted said.
“Again?”
“She called this time. Car trouble.”
She’d moved to the set-up table and was rolling cutlery, but now her gaze shifted to the door. At least there wasn’t a crowd of diehards arriving from Salute Lounge. If they had a rush, Ted might ask her to stay until Marilyn arrived. Again.
“You’d better clock out then,” he said, as if reading her thoughts.
“I do need to get home.”
“Aiden’s already in bed by now, right?”
“He’d sure better be, or he’ll never get up for school.” She wished she didn’t still stiffen at his mention of her son’s name. It hadn’t turned out too bad, anyway, the few times she’d had to bring her son to work with her.
“He doesn’t have to. There’s no school tomorrow.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know. One of those teacher in-service days. A kid holiday.”
Or a single parent’s nightmare. What was she supposed to do with her son now? Even her sitter, Nadia, worked days twice a week.
“Bring Aiden with you in the morning,” Ted said. “We never get to see him.”
“I just don’t want him to be bored.” Or seen.
“You kidding? He loves it here. Who wouldn’t?”
Maybe a six-year-old who’d prefer to play outside? “Why do you know about this schedule change and I don’t?”
He held up a sheet of paper. “Local school district calendar. I watch it to know which mornings we’ll be overrun with kids and their parents.”
But that didn’t explain why she hadn’t known. Had she missed something in Aiden’s backpack? She tried to keep on top of that mess, but sometimes she was just too tired. It was easier to curl up with her sleeping boy after she’d carried him down the freezing second-floor walkway from Nadia’s apartment to her own.
“Everything’s ready for the morning, right?” Ted asked.
“The cinnamon rolls are all ready to go in the oven.”
“You made extra, like I asked?”
She nodded, his earlier request now making sense.
“And you’ll be able to come in earlier since Aiden doesn’t have school? Eight maybe?”
Her second nod hurt a little more. Aiden would be grouchy if she got him up early on his day off.
“Good. Then you’d better get home.”
She headed back into the kitchen for her jacket before he changed his mind. She slid it on and pulled up her hood in case it was still raining.
Jamie had been soaked when he’d come in earlier, though the others had been dry. The thought struck her as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, where puddles remained, though the downpour had dwindled.
Why was the police officer on her mind again? Didn’t she have enough on her plate without taking on someone else’s problems? Bigger problems even than that she’d known nothing about her son’s school holiday. Obstacles like caring for a child who deserved a better, safer life than she’d given him, and too many bills with a paycheck that wouldn’t stretch. And the ever-present need to look over her shoulder for a boogeyman with a recognizable face, a booming voice and pain-inflicting hands.
As a familiar tickly sensation scampered up the back of her neck, she splayed her apartment keys between her thumb and first two fingers to face off with a possible attacker.
No one was following her. She knew that. Aiden was safe. They were safe. So why did every drip of leftover rainwater from the gutter echo in her ears? Why did each crunch of her shoes on the concrete
