23750932750

so-good ones I’d experienced before. And then there was Will. I hoped I was letting go of something
good in hopes of getting something great, but for all I knew Will was done with me.
Still, it was unusual for him to disappear like this. I looked at my watch, then up and down the quiet
alley, worry setting in. The news of the baby was a devastating blow, but what if he really had been in
love with Tracina? What if he was feeling this only now, now that he not only couldn’t have her but
was learning she had never really been his?
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a curtain flutter out from one of the open upstairs windows of the
Café. Will was still waiting for the custom screens. And that’s when I knew. I burst in through the
door, back through the kitchen and into the dining area, where two customers had grabbed a window
table next to where Claire was bent over her phone, flanked by two new friends from school who
were also looking at something on her screen.
“Claire!” They leapt like I’d interrupted delicate surgery. “Can you stick around for a little while
longer? And please get those people some menus. I’ll pay you double overtime. I have to check
something upstairs. I won’t be long.”
I didn’t even wait for her to answer. I would have been a crappy, bossy mother, I decided, as I
quietly took the stairs. The knob for the new oak door was on back order, so I had to gently nudge it
open with my shoulder. The door would eventually separate the old Café from the new space, once
the stairs leading directly outside were complete, but right now Will kept it shut to keep the
construction dust from wafting into Café Rose.
The space was dim for the middle of the afternoon. Then I noticed all the curtains were drawn.
Newspaper trails still lined the floor to catch spatter from the ceiling paint. But the tables had finally
been delivered, a cluster of twelve of them, with marble tops and wooden legs. I let a hand caress a
cool, smooth surface. And then I saw them, Will’s bare feet on the floor peeking out from behind the
cocktail bar, a mickey of whiskey, one quarter empty, on top. Will wasn’t much of a drinker, and he
never drank during the day, so this was probably his idea of “making quite a dent in the bottle.”
“Is that you, Officer?” he asked, his voice groggy.
“Why? Are the police after you?” I went along with him, slowly rounding the bar until I stood at his
feet.
He was in his jeans, no shirt, using the duvet as a pillow, the mattress bent like a loose taco to fit
the narrow space, his face wrinkled from sleeping, probably unsoundly.
“They will be after me when they find my truck out on North Peters,” he said, clasping his hands
behind his head, stretching awake.
I couldn’t read his tone. I couldn’t tell if he was still sad or mad or well past both and into an
emotional zone even he’d never visited before.
Oh, Will. I wanted to crawl down there, wrap my arms and legs around his pain. Instead, I said,
“What’s your truck doing out there?”
“Took that bend at Saint Ferdinand,” he said, using a hand to trace the truck’s path. “And there was
this huge possum in the middle of the road and bam—”
He clapped and mashed his hands together.
“Poor possum.”
“Possum’s fine. My truck is wedged in the ditch, stuck between fence posts near the lumberyard.
Had to smash the back window to get out. At least, I hope the truck’s still there. Actually, it might be
worth more if I claim it was stolen.”
He laughed softly, but I couldn’t. Should I ask? Where have you been and what are you thinking
and can you be mine now? Can we be each other’s?