Back to the Good Fortune Diner (8 page)

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll get a place of our own.”

“Uh-huh. So, are you planning to leave the restaurant business?”

“Of course...” He trailed off. He was going to say, “Of course not,” because what else was he going to do? He loved the diner, and his parents needed him. And one day, the Good Fortune would be his. Once Mom and Dad retired, he would renovate the dining room, redecorate, get new menus printed—he had grand plans for the place.

But what would Selena do? Work alongside him, waiting tables and taking orders over the phone? Pop out a few babies and raise them at home?

A slow, cold dread crept down his spine and puddled in his shoes. His sister went on ruthlessly. “Last I checked, the job market wasn’t so good. You might have a hard time getting an entry-level position at your age.” Tiffany pushed off the bed. As she headed out with her books, she said over her shoulder, “But I’m sure if you’re both ready for the next step, you’ll work it out, right?”

CHAPTER FIVE

T
IFFANY WASN’T SURE
the consignment shop would be open on a Sunday, but it had been the first opportunity she’d had to get away from her family without rousing suspicions. She’d told
Poh-poh
she was on her way to the Jamieson farm—which wasn’t a complete lie, since she was heading there straight after—then slipped out with her loaded backpack.

The Good Fortune was a few doors down the street and she didn’t want her family seeing her. She parked Daniel’s car in the tiny lot next to the shop, out of sight of the main thoroughfare. He’d lent it to her grudgingly, and only after
Poh-poh
had badgered him to be a good big brother and help his little sister out. It was good of him, considering how harsh she’d been last night. She shouldn’t have goaded him about his girlfriend or their future together. She should have been supportive and told him she was happy for him, but the misanthrope in her had insisted on pointing out the flaws in his plan. She supposed that was what came out of years of never being praised by her family. Not that it was an excuse.

The bell above the door jangled as she entered the shop. It was quiet before noon—a lot of folks were still in church. Big band jazz crooned from an old-fashioned radio in one corner. The place smelled faintly of patchouli and mothballs. Jam-packed racks of clothing barely left enough room for people to squeeze through. An adjoining room held household goods and small appliances lined up on metal shelves.

At the back of the store from behind a curtained doorway, a woman came out. For a moment, Tiff thought she’d walked into a fifties TV show, but the woman’s hair was all wrong for the era. She wore a bright blue tea-length housedress and a white apron adorned with big ruffles. A pair of cat-eye glasses hung off a beaded chain around her neck and her pumps clicked smartly across the parquet floor. Her face brightened, her pink lips parting in a huge smile.

“Tiffany? Tiffany Cheung?”

She had no idea who this woman was. She nodded with a helpless, questioning smile in answer.

“Maya Hanes, from high school.”

“Maya...” It was hazy at first, but then she remembered. Maya had been in a few of her classes. Back then, she’d kept her straight, sun-kissed brown hair in a slick ponytail. She’d run with the sporty crowd. She was still fit-looking, but her hair had been cut super short and was gelled into spikes. “Yes. Of course. Hello.”

“I’d heard you’d come home. Are you doing all right? Someone told me you were hit by a car.” She looked her over, beaming. “You look fantastic.”

“Um. Thanks. I wasn’t hit. It was a car accident. I’m fine.”

“I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Tiffany’s awkwardness increased when Maya hugged her. She held herself stiffly in the woman’s light grip.

“You own this shop now?” she felt compelled to ask as Maya let go.

“I bought the business and the building off the previous owners about a year ago. I actually specialize in vintage stuff now, but it’s always been a handy place for the locals to freshen up their wardrobes. How’ve you been? What are you up to these days? Are you moved back here permanently?”

“Only temporarily,” she said. Small talk was not Tiffany’s forte. She didn’t think Maya truly cared about what was happening in her life. They hadn’t been friends. They’d worked together on a group project in science once, but that was it.

“So, you’re on vacation?”

“I’m between jobs.”

“I see.” She nodded sagely, waiting for more details.

Tiff wished she could just get her business over with and move on. She was starting to think her mom was right—if she sold her clothes here, Maya would know right away she needed money. Considering small-town gossip, everyone else would know it, too, and then what would her parents say?

She was about to make her excuses and walk out when Maya nodded at her overstuffed backpack. “Hey, if you have clothes to sell, I could always use more stock.” She extended her hand for the bag.

Tiffany hesitated.

“Don’t worry. I know what you’re feeling. I assure you, I use absolute discretion when it comes to my customers. I don’t tell anyone where the clothes came from, and you won’t find out who bought them.”

Tiffany handed Maya the backpack. Her need to pay the bills was greater than her pride or her worries. In the next moment, Maya spread her clothes across the worktable in the back for inspection.

“It’s all in great condition. Nice, quality stuff. I’m not sure it’ll sell too quickly, though.” She pointed at the size six label on a silk blouse. “Most of my customers are above size ten. That’s not to say I don’t want it,” she added quickly. “You never know who’s going to come in here, after all, and variety is where it’s at in a shop like this.”

She explained the process, then wrote up all the tags and paperwork, and had Tiffany sign her designer labels away. Maya waived the seller’s fee for old times’ sake. It wasn’t a lot, but Tiffany didn’t have the luxury of wasting even a few dollars these days.

“I appreciate this,” Tiffany said, putting the paperwork into her backpack.

“Hey, I’ve been where you are. And we’re old friends. Doesn’t hurt that you have such good taste.”

Words stuck in her throat. Maya couldn’t possibly have known about her mountain of debt, though she supposed she could have guessed. She wondered how many others had come in to trade their party dresses and hand blenders in the hopes of raising a little extra cash. “Thanks,” she managed to say.

“You’ve got that look,” Maya said, tilting her chin.

“Look?”

“Regret. Shame. Like you’re giving up your babies to the orphanage.” She ran her fingertips over the clothing. “I promise you, they always go to good homes. There’s no shame in making sure someone else looks fabulous at a good price.” Her beatific grin actually made Tiffany feel better.

“Thanks for the reassurance.” She turned to go.

“Hey, when you’ve got time, give me a call and we’ll go out for coffee.” She handed her a business card. “Or pop by. It gets kinda lonely here.”

She looked at the business card, then at Maya. “Okay.”

“Promise?”

Tiff pursed her lips. “You need a promise from me?”

“I never knew you to break one. But then, I don’t really know you. I hope we can change that.”

Tiffany hesitated. She’d probably be away from Everville before she had to make good on her promise, but then again, a promise like this couldn’t hurt her. It wasn’t binding. “All right. I promise.”

Maya grinned. If for nothing else, she’d call to see whether her clothes had sold.

* * *

O
N HER WAY
to the Jamieson farm, Tiff kept one eye on the map and the other on the two-lane road. The GPS on her smartphone didn’t work very well, and she didn’t trust it—it would probably lead her into the middle of a wheat field.

The farm was about thirty minutes south of town, and she hated long drives. It left her with too much time to think. In New York, she walked or took transit everywhere, and was constantly distracted. But on these long, deserted stretches, not even blasting the radio could keep her from navel-gazing.

Her mind went to Maya. She and her clique had been in all the clubs and teams. They’d been an active, popular bunch, and had little to nothing to do with Tiffany. She was confused as to why Maya would reach out to her all these years later. Then again, some people liked to talk and were always looking for an ear to listen. There wasn’t much else Tiff could honestly offer her.

Ahead, a brightly painted sign that read Jamiesons’ Organic Farm loomed. She turned onto the driveway. From the road, she could see a two-story farmhouse with a wide veranda and wood siding with flaking paint in dull shades of gray. Next to the house were the remains of something that might have been a fruit stand, though it was mostly filled with firewood and scraps now. The gravel driveway forked around a large maple tree and led to a red barn. Three horses of varying colors stood flicking their tails in the adjacent paddock, greeting her with low whinnies. On the other side, beyond a fenced-in area, sat four long, squat greenhouses.

Tiffany wasn’t sure how big the farm was, exactly—it sloped up and over a hill, covered in large swathes of green and dotted with the occasional worker or animal. It was probably safe to say the Jamiesons owned all the land as far as the eye could see. From what she knew, it was one of the biggest plots in the county.

Her tires crunched along the gravel as she parked beside a white pickup truck. The scent of hay, earth and animal poo hit her as she got out of the car, and she wrinkled her nose. The wind blew dust against her bare calves and sandal-shod feet, which slipped and caught tiny, painful rocks between her soles. It had been a while since she’d been anywhere without paved sidewalks.

A loud clatter drew her attention as a tall, middle-aged woman in a trucker cap, red T-shirt and blue jeans strode toward her through a side gate. “Would you be Tiffany Cheung?” she asked in a rough voice.

She put on what she hoped was a smile. “That’s me.”

“Chris sent me to bring you into the house and introduce you to his son. He says he’s sorry he can’t be here himself. He’s fixing a fence on the other end of the property and can’t get back in time. I’m Jane Orbach, the farm manager here.”

They shook hands. Tiffany had to admit she was a little disappointed she wouldn’t get to see Chris. Actually, she was downright crushed. Who else had she dabbed on her Obsession perfume for? “Nice to meet you.” She forced herself to smile.

“He told me you used to tutor him back in high school.” Jane regarded her curiously. “You don’t look all that old.”

“I was in the same year as Chris.” She didn’t mention that she’d skipped a grade. That fact had never earned her any allies.

They started toward the homestead. “I’m glad Chris is doing something about his son. It’s not easy being a single parent. It’s been especially difficult for them, what with Simon’s mother leaving and then William losing his leg.” She glanced at Tiffany to make sure she knew. Tiff nodded. “If I was more inclined, I’d probably be seeing to them myself. But frankly, I have better things to do than to play referee. Word of advice—keep out of their fights and you’ll do all right.”

Tiffany hummed in agreement. She’d dealt with being stuck in the middle of arguments before.

“A couple of other things. Will’s on crutches. Unless he asks, never, ever,
ever
offer to help him with anything. He’s so full of pride, I swear he’ll pop at the seams. Simon can be a little shit, too, sometimes, pardon my French, but don’t let him boss you around. And Chris...” She glanced back over her shoulder toward the fields. Tiffany followed her gaze, saw a faraway speck of color striding across the brown dirt. Even at that distance, she could recognize his broad shoulders and sure gait. “Well, he’s in and out all the time, and his head’s in the clouds a lot. So, if there’s something important you need to tell him, it’s best to write him a note. Maybe pin it to his shirt or something.”

Tiffany nodded, though she was getting more and more nervous. “Anything else?”

Jane grinned. “I like mocha lattes from the Grindery. So, if you happen to be passing by on the way over, a large with double espresso and extra foam will sweeten my mood and motivate me to swing by the house to save you if any of these fellas go for your throat.”

Tiffany gave a weak laugh. What was she getting herself into? “I’ll do my best.”

They walked into the house through the front door. The foyer led into a large open-concept space that served as living room and dining room. Warm, earthy, masculine colors dominated, mostly tans, grays and hunter-green, and the furniture was bulky, comfortable-looking and thoroughly worn.

The tiled area in front of the door was cluttered with dirt-crusted boots and running shoes. Outerwear from all four seasons was strewn across the lower banister post and railing that led upstairs. Clumps of animal fur and dust formed large cloudy entities trapped within spiderwebs in dark corners. The place smelled like bacon grease, stale beer and old cheese. Tiffany pinched her lips tight. Ugh, men were so disgusting. No way was she taking her shoes off in here. The Jamiesons could really use a housekeeper.

“Simon, your tutor’s here,” Jane yelled. She nearly tripped over a pair of boots, cursing. Her sardonic look mirrored Tiffany’s thoughts precisely: not our mess to clean.

“What’s all this yelling about?” William Jamieson came stumping in from the kitchen. Tiffany shifted her purse from one side to the other and tried not to stare. The elder Mr. Jamieson had gained quite a bit of weight since she’d last seen him. She would have thought he’d get leaner with the exertion of having to use crutches, but apparently that wasn’t the case. His hair was more white than gray now, still military-short. The lines in his leathery face and especially around his frowning mouth and eyes had deepened. She couldn’t help but glance down at his leg, cut off above the knee, his cuff folded up and neatly pinned. Despite the loss, he still managed to cut an imposing figure. He gave her a critical once-over. “We’re not hiring anymore seasonal laborers right now,” he said.