Page 21 of Please Send Snow
I know I should question this stroke of unbelievable good fortune. But the quiche smells so savory and delicious that I can’t think of any reason to argue. I still don’t have any money, so Margo is in for a disappointment if she expects me to pay for any of this, but it will be easier to deal with that on a full stomach.
“Thank you,” I tell Anna.
She sets it down in front of me and the steam coming off it smells so good that it’s all I can do not to wolf it down without waiting for it to cool off.
“And your fresh squeezed orange juice,” she tells me, setting down a glass.
I’m pretty sure the lodge only serves the stuff in a box from the grocery store, but it sure looks like heaven to me. I realize that I haven’t eaten since that grilled cheese with Dylan at lunchtime yesterday.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” Anna mumbles before backing away with the tray in front of her.
What in the world is going on here?
But it doesn’t really matter. I’m going to enjoy this meal like it’s my last. I take a sip of the orange juice. It’s definitely the grocery store stuff, but it tastes amazing to me.
“What’s that?” Dylan asks, gazing suspiciously at the quiche on my plate. “Is it a pie?”
“Kind of,” I tell him. “But it’s not sweet. It’s made of eggs and bacon and cheese and things.”
“Weird,” he says, nodding.
“Would you like a bite?” I ask.
“I like pancakes,” he says, shaking his head.
I would buy him some pancakes if I could. But he doesn’t seem too worried about it. He’s already focused on his letter again.
“Hey,” Jake says, striding over from the fireplace just as I’m about to take my first bite.
“Hi,” I say, setting the fork down. It’s interesting that he doesn’t apologize for having been on the phone all that time. I get the feeling guys like him don’t do a whole lot of apologizing.
“We’ll spend today at my place,” he tells me.
I think sadly of my uneaten breakfast, but a job’s a job, and if he says it’s time to go, then it’s time.
“Okay,” I tell him, hopping up.
“No,” he says. “You didn’t eat your breakfast yet.”
“You shouldn’t have to wait for me,” I tell him.
“Then I won’t,” he says.
He waves to Margo and she scrambles out from behind the counter.
“How may I help you, Mr. Stone?” she asks in a very professional tone.
“I’d like a breakfast sandwich,” he tells her.
“Of course, sir,” she says. “What kind?”
“Ham and cheese,” he says. “That sort of thing. And pancakes for the boy.”
Dylan’s little head pops up from his work and he gives his dad a sunny smile that spills over onto me and instantly lights up the darkest places in my heart.
“I like pancakes,” Dylan repeats before diving back into his letter.
“Very good, sir,” Margo says, and I think I detect the tiniest bit of a British accent.
