Page 9 of Sugar Coated Lies
His blue eyes find mine. “I visited Kentucky once.”
Sometimes it amazes me what he can remember, given his mind doesn’t always keep things in order.
“It looks like a beautiful state.”
Green tall grass blows in the wind across a vast field on the TV.
“I didn’t see grass like this.” He points a shaky finger from where his hand lies on the armrest. “It was snowing.”
“Ah.” I nod. Normally, I would indulge him, asking about his experience, but I don’t have the time. “I’d love to hear about it, but I have to get to work. Carol is here for you, though. I’ll be back later tonight. Okay?” I kiss his cheek.
He grabs my hand, surprising me with his quick reflex. His blue eyes bore into mine. “You’re too young to work this hard. You need a nice fellow to take you dancing. Your grandmother loves to dance. Isn’t that right, Claire?” His eyes dart around, searching the small room and adjoining kitchen for her.
I glance at Carol, worried he’ll have an episode when he realizes Grandma isn’t here.
“I’ve got this.” She waves for me to go and carries the tray with Grandpa’s orange juice, pills, and a bowl of cheesy grits over to him. “Tell me about this trip to Kentucky, Miles. I’ve never been to that state. I’d love to hear about it while you eat your breakfast.”
“Thank you,” I mouth and step aside so she can put the tray on the table Grandpa uses when eating.
She sits on the small ottoman beside him and smiles.
Instead of telling Grandpa I love him like I usually do when I leave, I quietly sneak out, so I don’t interrupt him telling Carol about his trip.
The humidity hits me like a wall. Sweat immediately forms above my lip. I wipe it away and hurry to the car. The front tire looks low on air. I don’t have time to stop and fill it at the only gas station I know of that offers free air. I’ll have to deal with it after my shift.
Fifteen minutes later, I park in the back of the diner and race in through the kitchen entrance.
“Sorry,” I say to Annabeth, who is prepping the kitchen for breakfast.
“Can you unlock the door and flip the sign to open?” she asks.
“Of course.” I tuck my belongings into one of the lockers, grab my apron, and log in on the archaic computer that Gary refuses to update.
“And fix your hair before Gary sees you,” she says as I pass by on my way to the dining area.
I touch my hair. The black strands fall in disarray down my back and over my shoulders. I can’t believe I forgot to put it up. I dig in my apron pocket for a hair tie but come up empty. Dammit. I’ll have to bun it. My hair is long enough to twist into a bun atop my head, but the shorter layers fall out, and Gary likes a neat, crisp look to go with our fifty’s diner uniforms.
I twist the locks and secure them as tightly as I can, tucking stray hairs behind my ears as I hurry to unlock the door. The sign doesn’t want to light up and I have to jiggle the plug in the outlet to get it to work. There.
The day passes in a whirlwind of steady customers. On my lunch break, I snack on a grilled cheese and apple sandwich—a specialty of our cook, Mike—while I make two of my famous pecan pies.
“One day, I want to add diced apples to a pecan pie. I think it would be delicious and a fun surprise,” I tell him.
“You’ve got my vote, but Gary will never allow you to use our reserve of apples. We never have enough as it is.” He flips a burger on the stove.
“It’s just an idea.” I pour the syrupy pecan mixture into the second pie crust and put both pies in the oven.
Annabeth pokes her head in through the kitchen door. “You got a special request at table seven.”
“Now?” Two o’clock is a slow time. That’s why I use it to take my lunch, and I never get special requests for lunch on the weekends. For breakfast, yes.
“Okay. I’ll be there in a second.” I wash my hands in the sink and say to Mike, “Can you please monitor the pies?”
“On it.” He scoops the burger patty he’s making for himself and sets it on a bun.
I exit the kitchen and dig in my apron for my pad and pen. My shoes stick to the floor as I walk. When did I step in something? What did I step in? It’s time for a new pair of sneakers, anyway, but I don’t have the extra cash. My gaze on my apron pocket, I stop at the table, the pad in my hand but my pen nowhere in sight. What did I do with it? It registers. I tug it from above my ear where I’d stuffed it earlier.
My hair comes undone, tumbling around my shoulders.
