Page 43 of Beautiful Revenge
I glance at the menu. “Some things never change. I think it’s the same as when I was a kid. At least no one recognizes me. That’s a relief.”
“That won’t last long,” he mutters.
He barely has a chance to set his coffee down when Winnie appears at our sides. “What’ll it be, and who’s your friend?”
Devon’s sharp blue eyes zero in on me. He wasn’t kidding when he said I won’t be able to fly under the radar long, but I didn’t know he’d be the one to out me. “Do you need more time, Harlow?”
“Oh my Lord!” Winnie exclaims. “Oh my Lord, Harlow Madison? It is you!” She turns to yell over her shoulder. “Carl! Get out here! There’s a celebrity in the house!”
I glare at Devon across the chipped Formica table.
He winks.
The man actually winks at me and has the nerve to follow it with a smirk.
I have no time to process it. Or how that wink combined with agotchasmirk makes me feel. It’s foreign, and I’m trying to remember if I ever felt that with Albert.
“A celebrity?!” Carl echoes. My back is to the room, but Ihear chairs scooting on the chipped tile and murmured whispers behind me. “I’ve got bacon on the griddle! Take a picture. We’ll slap it on the wall with the others.”
Winnie turns back to us. “We haven’t put anyone on the wall in years. Not since that one guy who was stuck on the deserted island with a basketball stopped in.”
A man from two tables over butts into the conversation. “It was a soccer ball.”
“Real fans call that football,” Devon corrects him.
“You’re all wrong,” a voice says from behind me. I turn in my seat where two women are sharing an enormous plate of fluffy pancakes. The one with thick white hair goes on, “It was a volleyball, and its name was Wilson.”
“Whatever,” Winnie chides and turns back to me. “That guy’s on the wall. The collection is small. It’s him and an Elvis lookalike from Vegas who was passing through. Carl has a thing for the oldies and insisted on adding him to the wall even though he was a lame dupe for the real thing. Not that I ever saw Elvis. I’m not that old.”
“No, you’re not,” I agree.
“See! I like you already.” Winnie slaps my shoulder so hard it stings. “I’d sit down and make you dish out all the goodies on why you left that squirrely guy at the altar, but it’s just me and we’re in the middle of the mid-morning rush. Come back around two this afternoon. That’s when we’re slow before the early-bird specials kick in.”
I make a mental note to never visit The Combover unless half the tables are occupied. Maybe the mid-morning rush means she won’t have time to take my picture.
She keeps talking. “That Humphries guy is skin and bones. I always say don’t trust a man who can’t carry your suitcases. You know what I mean?”
Winnie has a point. Now that I think about it, I don’t think Albert ever carried his own suitcase let alone mine.
Shit. I don’t like what that says about me.
“Harlow Madison in The Combover. I can’t believe it. Your grammy was a daisy. We loved her, God rest her soul.” Winnie crosses herself. “What are you hungry for?”
I pick up the menu to skim it, so she doesn’t have to wait. “I’ll take two poachedeggs?—”
She gives me the palm of her hand. “You know what? I’m gonna have Carl whip you up something special. Are you gluten free? I heard everyone in Hollywood is gluten free.”
“No. And I’m not from Hollywood,” I correct her. Not that being from the Upper East Side is much better, so I don’t tell her that.
“Oh, that’s just a saying.”
I’ve never heard that saying, so I keep my mouth shut since I’m not going to get to choose my own breakfast.
“You want your normal, Donnelly?”
“You know it.” When I look over at Devon, he’s leaned back in his chair looking pleased with himself.
For as busy as Winnie claims to be during the morning rush, she sure is chatty. She doesn’t run to the kitchen to tell Carl to whip me up something special. She puts one hand on her plump hip and uses the other to point at me with her pen, to Devon, back to me again, and finally settles on Devon. “You know, people are gonna talk about this.”
