Page 3 of Stealing Embers

Watching her perform her pre-opening ritual, I gently rap on the glass that separates us, careful not to make too much noise. She raises her chin and swivels her eyes to me on the second tap. A warm smile blossoms on her face that reaches her crystal blue eyes.

I wave and stretch my smile to match hers. When she motions with her hand, I nod my understanding and go to the back door.

I don’t “people” well, but my awkwardness hasn’t deterred Karen yet. Whether she’s pushing her unease aside, or it truly doesn’t exist, I’m not sure—I’m simply grateful for it.

Leaning against the alley wall with my arms crossed, I watch the sky change colors. As the blue lightens, the shadows shorten.

I’m ready for the door when it bangs open, so I don’t startle. Karen walks through backside first, her hands occupied with a tray. My eyebrows pinch together as I take in several overflowing plates as well as a glass of orange juice and a mug of coffee.

The meaty scent of maple-glazed bacon tugs at my taste buds, and my mouth waters. I’m like Pavlov’s dogs when it comes to bacon; I lose complete control of my salivary glands.

When Karen moves past me I catch sight—and smell—of eggs, berries, toasted bagels with butter and jam, and hash browns as well.

This amount of food is excessive.

“Do you mind grabbing those crates and turning them over, Lizzie? I thought we could sit and have breakfast together this morning. Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day and I have some time before the other employees arrive.”

Karen thinks my name is Elizabeth, and calls me Lizzie. My name isn’t either of those, but giving out my real one isn’t something I do anymore.

Grabbing the overturned vegetable crates, I right them so we can both sit. Karen sets the tray down on a cardboard box that hasn’t been broken down yet.

I regard her and the food with a small measure of trepidation.

With glossy-black hair that hangs several inches below her shoulders, Karen is a beautiful woman. In the past, she’s eaten with me a time or two, but when she did she kept her distance, knowing I was skittish. She usually stands with a shoulder leaned against the building, munching on something small while sipping coffee, as I eat leftovers from the night before. Since I only ever stop by before business hours, the cook is never in.

Leftovers are more than fine with me. I learned a long time ago not to be picky. Not having to dumpster dive for food is a luxury I don’t take for granted.

Today though, she’s brought a feast—and I’m suspicious of the change. Did she make this food while I was waiting for her? Surely it would take more than a few short minutes to conjure up so many dishes.

Catching me silently eyeing the bounty, her smile kicks up a notch.

“Believe it or not, I was a cook in another life.”

I suppose that’s the only explanation I’m going to get. I don’t welcome questions myself, so asking them in return feels hypocritical.

The crease between my eyebrows smooths as the sweet tang of pulp-filled orange juice slides down my throat. I savor the taste of the sugary goodness as if it were a sip of fine wine.

“This is too much. I couldn’t eat half of this if I tried.”

That’s not entirely true. I may not eat often, but when I do, I can really pack it in. I usually pace myself, because a girl who eats like a linebacker tends to raise a few eyebrows.

She swats a hand through the air as if to brush away my words. “Just eat what you want and leave the rest. I felt like making sure you had a full belly today.”

My smile tightens as I nod and reach for a strip of bacon, wondering if she’s become a little attached to me. If that’s the case, this is going to have to be my last visit to Anita’s. I can’t risk Karen getting used to having me around. Besides, I don’t do attachments. I’m not used to them, and the few I’ve made over my lifetime have always broken apart in painful ways.

Nope. The only person I want to be around is myself.

I’m a loner by design. Why else would I have been dumped on a doorstep as a baby? If my own parents hadn’t wanted me, why should anyone else?

Someday I’ll find a place to live where no one will bother me. Somewhere no one will judge me.

That’s life goals, as far as I’m concerned.

“So, what are you up to today?”

I shrug. It’s not as if I lead an exciting life. “I thought I’d stop by the Waldorf for high tea later.” I wink as I chew my bit of egg to let her know I’m teasing rather than being smart with her.

“Oh, yes,” she replies, playing along, “I hear their spread is absolutely divine.”

---