Heroine Addiction (31 page)

It scares me on some level, that if the SLB's faraway watchers peeled away the curtain of my father's powers and peeked inside, they would have seen the same comforting embrace years ago, and if so didn't lift a finger to stop it. Instead they handed it a contract and told it to build giant robots.

I live in a strange world full of strange people, honestly.

“Morris,” Dad says, his low voice a warning.

Ignoring the venomous looks being shot their way from the nearby booths, Morris leans back to stand beside my father, his lips forming a close-mouthed mockery of a Cheshire grin as he elbows Dad in the side. With a small “Oomph,” Dad forces a tight smile.

“Hi,” I say.

It takes him a moment, but he finally says, “Hi, Vera.”

“Would you like something to eat? We've got fresh blueberry pie this morning.”

Morris beams, absently giving Dad's arm a pat. “Oh, you'll have to try that. Vera makes wonderful pie. It's to die for.”

Someone else in the cafe makes a muffled choking sound. I decide to ignore both the throttled sound from behind me and Morris's assumption that I'm the one slaving away over a hot oven and whipping up our baked goods every day.

“I'll have the peach cobbler, my dear, and a pot of my usual,” Morris says, then reaches out to grab onto Dad's hand, leading him towards the only empty booth left in the place. They sit on the same side of the booth, sharing a bench, Morris completely at ease and Dad staring in a low-key sort of awe at their joined hands resting on the table.

The other customers stare at the both of them, openly hostile, discomfort simmering in the air. I bite my bottom lip as I gather their food and serve them, wondering if I'm going to have to hold off a roomful of office workers and small-town retirees by wielding hot pots of orange pekoe tea like samurai swords.

Breaking the silence, Mrs. Santamaria struggles to her feet, propping herself up with her walker.

I can see it coming, so it's not worth fighting it. I hold the door open for her, not bothering to stoop to faking a “Come back soon!” and a cheery smile for her. She won't buy it and presumably won't appreciate the polite white lie, not with the snide glare she shoots Dad and Morris's way as she scoots past me out the door.

I suppose I should be grateful that she leaves enough money behind to pay for her meal.

“To hell with this,” I hear someone say.

A moment later, Mr. Carroll and his son toss money on their table and walk out, taking care to avoid looking Dad and Morris's way.

“Sorry, Vera,” Mr. Carroll says as he leaves, not sounding sorry at all. “My appetite just up and left me.”

A few more people trail out, making sure to pay before they go, most of them murmuring apologies to me even as they glare at my father and Morris before departing. I stare after them as they leave, wondering if this is social obligation or fear or genuine disgust, if they're leaving because they want to or because they just don't have the backbone to stay.

Or perhaps I'm just being far more optimistic about the rest of the human race than normal for a change.

Dad and Morris pass each other somewhat unsettled looks but don't move. Dixie hovers behind the counter, swiping absently at spots that aren't there but saying nothing. Tara and Benny argue quietly to themselves in the kitchen, but don't come out or look our way.

I glance over at Hazel's grandmother, her face buried in the depths of a knitting magazine. “What about you?” I sigh.

She doesn't lift her head. “I'll take a chai, and keep them coming.”  

Aggravated shouting rises outside as I go to fetch Mrs. Whiting her chai, an enthusiastic string of colorful profanities growing in volume as the speaker moves closer. Hazel appears in front of the window as I'm handing her grandmother her drink. Hazel turns on her heels, walking backwards as she flips off one of the customers leaving the cafe, loudly implying something foul about their ancestors and farm animals. I can't imagine that will help with return business, I think with a wince.

Hazel stomps inside with a low wordless grumble and slams the door shut behind her. Sniffing the air in thinly veiled irritation, she gives Dad and Morris a frustrated look. If I didn't know any better, I'd think she was annoyed at the two of them for dragging her into this mess, regardless of the fact that no one asked her to defend them. I stare at her, blinking in confusion.

“Will you kick me out if I ask for a bottle of water?” she asks.

“Of course not.”

“Well, come on then,” she says, beckoning with one hand in a gimme gesture as she flops down on the couch in the right front window and grabs a book from the nearest bookshelf. “You know how I like it.”

“Room temperature, straight from the bottle, no lemon?”

She winks without smiling, then lowers her gaze to the hardcover murder mystery in her hand. “That's my girl,” she murmurs.

I roll my eyes, but bring her one of the unchilled water bottles from behind the counter, tossing it her way before sitting down on the other side of Dad and Morris's booth. I steal a plump blueberry from Dad's pie plate, grinning as I pop it into my mouth. He frowns, no heat behind it.

“Oh, don't give me that look,” I say. “You two just scared off most of my customers.”

Morris makes a disgusted noise and waves a hand dismissively. “More trouble than they're worth, if you ask me.”

Just for that, I steal the rest of his peach cobbler.

Dad silently offers Morris the rest of his pie, and the two of them share a look, cautious and intimate. I shouldn't be here. I'm sure I shouldn't. I lift my gaze to see both Hazel and her grandmother watching us, watching
me
, and I look away before I can tell whether they're seeing Dad and Morris and getting ideas. Now's not the time to dwell on it. I'm still on vacation, at least in some small ways, and it can wait. 

I savor the silence, the sweet warm silence, and pour my father his tea.