Page 127 of American Hellhound
When her last class let out, she headed to Stella’s Café.
She’d made the phone call that morning. “If you want to talk, I can spare a few minutes after school.” Cool, disinterested.
Denise had faltered for a moment, then said, just as cool, “Fine.”
Maggie had chosen the venue, and the time.
Rita hadn’t wanted to pick Aidan up from school, but had agreed with a sour grumble.
Maggie parallel parked the truck – it took three tries and a lot of swearing – in front of the café and sat a moment, willing herself to go inside. She didn’t want to show up first. She didn’t want to do this at all.
She wondered how Ghost had fared with Duane, if he’d gotten past the you-tried-to-kill-me portion of the conversation and into the business pitch part. She shook her head; here she was worried about her mom, when Ghost thought his uncle hadtried to kill him. There was no comparison that didn’t make Maggie look like a sad wimp. Her mother was just a woman; chances were good she didn’t have a gun in her purse. And she loathed public scenes – the whole reason Maggie had refused to go by the house.
She took one last deep breath.Me too, Ghost had said. Because he loved her. She coulddo this. And went inside.
Stella’s had once been a boring diner with vinyl booths and cracked tile floors. The new owners, Stella and her husband Julian, were Italian New York transplants intent on turning the sad space into something rustic and authentic. They’d already put in pastry cases and a fireplace, were midway through renovations, the walls now a buttery fresco.
Maggie preferred the patio, open air, flow of traffic, trill of birds. But Denise didn’t like sitting outdoors; the breeze always messed with her hair. She was seated at a booth halfway down the long bank of windows, glass of ice water in front of her, menu unopened. She worried an Equal packet between her fingers and snapped a laser gaze to Maggie as she entered.
It struck Maggie, as she walked to the table, that her mother looked sad sitting there by herself. A bitter, joyless woman who loved no one, and therefore had no one. Maggie had seen mothers and daughters out to lunch before, laughing, linking arms and bumping hips, friends and not just family. But Denise judged everyone, disliked everyone, and cared for nothing saving the cold pearls around her neck and the varnish on her fingernails. The worst part was that she didn’t know she’d driven everyone away; didn’t care that her country club friends were fake.
“Hi, Mom,” she greeted as she slid into the opposite side of the booth. “How are you?”
“Fine.” Denise dropped the packet and pulled her hands back into her lap, leaning back away from the table. “Are you sleeping? You don’t look like you’re sleeping.”
“I’m a little tired,” Maggie admitted. “A normal amount.”
“Is helettingyou sleep?”
“Stop,” Maggie said, calmly. Shefeltcalm. The image of her mother as sad had been more settling than any pep talk. “Can’t we just have a normal conversation?”
Denise reeled back as if she’d been slapped. Her tone was low, but vibrating with anger. “You never would have dared to speak to me like that before.”
“Maybe that was a mistake,” Maggie said, still calm. She’d decided the only way to handle this was with a level head, without emotion. “You talked to me like a pet dog because I acted like one. I’m a person, Mom, with my own thoughts and ideas.”
“Iknowthat.”
“Did you know that I hate cotillion? And FBLA? And going dress shopping? And girls like Stephanie Cleveland?”
A waitress arrived, and Denise pressed her lips together, silent as Maggie ordered a cappuccino and a sandwich.
When they were alone again, Maggie said, “Look, I don’t want to fight. Okay? Can we just talk?”
Denise wrestled with herself for a moment, turning words over in her mouth, jaw working. Finally, she said, “I have some questions.”
“Okay.”
“Is he a Lean Dog?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what that means?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know?”
“Yes, Mom.”Better than you, she added silently.
