Fugitive Heart - By Bonnie Dee Page 0,1
Volvo or something with New York tags.”
“New York!” She wished she hadn’t said it so loudly. But apparently Marty hadn’t noticed her overreaction.
“It’s a state back east.” Marty picked up her cup and put her lips in exactly the same spot.
Ames bit her thumb at her, Shakespeare-style. They’d had to work out a system that didn’t include flipping each other the finger. Gopher, the diner’s owner, didn’t tolerate profanity of any sort, even the finger-wiggling kind. “So what else did Missy say?”
Marty lowered the cup, wiped the lipstick from it. “Hair too long. Dark sunglasses. He didn’t wave back, but people from New York never would. He’ll have to come into town. He’ll end up here eventually.”
“Everyone does,” Ames agreed. “The Back Porch Diner and that café in Paris. Eventually everyone in the world passes by those spots. Although passes by has two different meanings.”
“Honey, you’re young. You can do something about the ants in your pants or stay put.”
“I don’t have ants anywhere,” she said, and Marty just rolled her eyes. Ames’s lack of forward momentum was one of their usual topics of conversation. A lack of courage, Marty called it. Ames didn’t argue.
“But what about this guy with the New York car. I wonder if it has something to do with Elliot.”
Marty gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Missy knows Elliot. It’s not him.”
“No, I know. I just wonder.” She shrugged.
It couldn’t be Ames’s brother. Just a coincidence. She ignored the creeping feeling at the back of her neck. She felt it far too often when she thought of her lost brother.
Marty patted her pockets and sighed wistfully. Time for the standard eight p.m. ritual.
“Go on.” Ames made a shooing motion.
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll quit tomorrow.” Marty pulled the pack from her apron and ambled out the door to smoke that very last cigarette ever—just as she did every night. Nothing like ritual to either be reassuring or make you feel as if your life was ticking slowly away.
Ames added their coffee mugs to the last bin of dishes and lugged the Rubbermaid container to the kitchen. The dishwasher ran as she did the checklist in her head. The ketchup and sugars were full. The pies covered. Counters wiped. Coffeepots washed. Who was it who measured life by coffee spoons?
Marty would mop the floor and lock up.
She wiped off her hands and picked up Gopher’s new price lists. Tonight she’d update the Back Porch’s web page and maybe finish her design for Logan’s Lumber. She did the sites for most of the businesses in town. They usually paid her with services or goods, which meant that she sometimes had bushels of fresh vegetables overflowing from boxes in her kitchen. Now that Logan’s had signed up with her, she’d soon have a lot of floorboards waiting for her. Not that she needed them anymore. The New York stranger had stolen the floors she’d intended to refurbish along with the rest of her house.
Rituals, she thought as she picked up her cardigan. Later, if she could bear all the dead ends, she’d search for Elliot online. Every night Marty smoked one last cigarette, and Ames searched for traces of her missing brother.
The bucket in the front hall had a collection of dead bugs floating in the water. The railing going up the stairs must have fallen off years before. The whole house smelled like a dank old cellar and mold. It was perfect.
No one who knew Nick would ever believe he’d end up in a place like this. Small town? No way. A wreck of a farmhouse? Never.
The last half year of high school and the summer after, he’d lived out of a car, but even people who knew him back then hadn’t figured that one out.
His old, useless humiliation about his family’s sudden drop into poverty had vanished long ago, but he still felt proud he’d managed to cover up his desperation.
Nick had already looked around downstairs. Time to expand the search. If he could get the money and whatever else had been stolen, then he could take it easy and figure out his next step in peace.
He’d memorized the text that bastard Elliot had sent. Should’ve listened when you told me to keep clear of the Espositos. Somebody may come to your apartment looking for something, but it’s safe in a place they’ll never find. Sorry I suck as a friend.
When Nick had tried to send a return message asking what the hell Elliot was talking about, the text