Once a Charmer Read online

  I laughed. “Yeah, that was kind of an adventure. Sorry you couldn’t be there.”

  Then again the eye-sex with Bash might have been significantly more awkward if my daughter was there.

  “Did you find something for the—whatever he called it?”

  Oh, I had better than words. Visual aids had come in the mail in the form of those laminated cards like Alan had. I reached behind me and grabbed one, holding it next to my head like I was one of those showcase girls holding things on game shows.

  “The Honey King and Queen extravaganza?” I said dramatically. “Because what’s sweeter than a crown made out of honeycomb? What’s more amazing than a scepter carved from pure beeswax?”

  The sneer on her face was priceless. “Seriously?”

  “No,” I said, chuckling. “God, I hope not, anyway. But yes, I found a dress.”

  “Hang on,” she said, leaning forward and pressing things on her phone. “Say that again, I want to record it for posterity.”

  “I found a dress,” I said slowly.

  Two presses and my voice was playing back to me. “I found a dress—a dre-dre-dress. I-I-I found a dress.”

  “Cute, now please kill that before I do,” I said.

  “Dre-dre-dress.”

  “So, what does it look like?” Angel said, snickering.

  I pulled out my phone and scrolled to a picture Lanie had sent me. One she took of me primp-posing when I first emerged from the dressing room. Before I saw Bash and lost all my feminine power.

  “Holy sh—crap,” she said, grabbing my phone.

  “Nice save.”

  “Mom,” she said, her eyes bugging. “That’s you.”

  “So Lanie tells me,” I said.

  “That’s like a—serious babe dress.”

  A serious babe dress! Would that make me a serious babe?

  No.

  Calm down.

  “And that’s a problem?” I said.

  “Well, I thought you were just gonna get some—I don’t know, some soccer-mom-looking dress,” she said.

  “You don’t play soccer,” I said.

  “You know what I mean,” she said. “Something that covers everything.”

  I looked at her profile. She was such my mini-me. In looks, anyway. Inside, she couldn’t be more different.

  “So this is too out there, you think?” I said.

  “No!” she said, jerking her gaze my way. “This is so cool! Oh my God, Mom, I never knew you could look like that.”

  “Seems to be a common thread, today,” I said, taking the phone back.

  “Why?”

  I shook my head. “Good, I’m glad you like it.”

  “Has Uncle Bash seen it?” I closed my eyes remembering very well the moment he saw it. The eyes that went with the suit and the open shirt. I’d probably not forget that anytime soon. Or ever.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Did he like it?” she asked. “I mean he’s a guy. He’d have to be dead not to like that.”

  I drew in a long breath. “He seemed to.”

  “So what’s wrong, then?”

  I made a face, and she rolled her eyes. “Oh man, here we go. You’re wigging out about this dress, aren’t you?”

  “No, it’s beautiful,” I said. “It’s just—”

  Angel reached over and took my phone from me, pulling up the picture. “It’s just amazing,” she said, turning it to show me. “You don’t ever treat yourself like that.” She made a big production of pointing at it. “Go enjoy yourself being a little bit girly and crazy. You can be uptight Allie Greene the next day.”

  I would act insulted shortly. But first I had to take two seconds to just stare at this girl that could be an infuriating little brat one minute and then this budding mature young woman the next. The moment would pass, and I was sure it was already on the backslide, but I had to take a little snapshot while I could.

  I scoffed. “I am not uptight.”

  “Um—” Angel opened her mouth to say something, and then picked up her fork and looked down at her food all wide-eyed and snarky. “Yeah, okay.”

  “I’m not!” I laughed.

  “Aaron says his mom’s a little wound up, too,” she said.

  Oh, Aaron. Here we were.

  “You said she was in charge of the Sharp Group promoting the Lucky Charm?” I asked and Angel nodded. “I think I’ve seen her in the diner. She talks a lot.”

  She shrugged and kept eating, focusing back on her phone. We’d had about ten seconds of funny comfortable bonding, it was time to lose her again.

  “So, tell me about this kid, Aaron.”

  She gave me a quick look before dropping her gaze back to her phone.

  “This kid, Aaron,” she echoed. Sarcastically.

  “Isn’t that his name?”

  “Yes, but he’s not a ten-year-old,” she said, widening her eyes, not looking up.

  A laugh bubbled up. “So I’ve heard,” I said. “Rumor has it he’s eighteen.”

  She frowned. “He’s not eighteen. Yet. He won’t be for another two months.”

  Yet. I nodded. “Two whole months, huh?”

  Angel looked at me with a hint of a glare behind those dark eyes, and I watched all our good juju we’d had going on before start to trickle down some invisible drain.

  “I’ll be sixteen before that. He’s not even two years older than me.”

  I took a slow breath as I moved mashed potatoes around my plate. I could tread lightly or I could be my dad—which worked so well for me. I could tell her what I heard about him hitting on older women and hurt her feelings, and I really didn’t want to crush her self-esteem with that, either.

  “Do you need reminding that you aren’t allowed to date till then?” I asked.

  She gave me the dead-eye look. “Seriously?”

  “I don’t remember it being a suggestion,” I said. “It’s the rule. And besides that, at your age, babe, two years difference is a pretty big deal, maturity wise.”

  Angel stared down into her plate and stabbed a piece of meat.

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “Because my dad was two years older than you, and all that went south and pear-shaped. So because of your bad choices, I can’t hang out with a nice guy?”

  The dad card, and the teenage pregnancy card, all in one. Nice. She was stepping up.

  “Watch it, Angel,” I said, not letting her push my buttons. “You’ll mouth yourself right out of that phone you’re so stuck to.”

  “Sorry,” she muttered, still scrolling.

  “This isn’t a new rule, you’ve always known it.”

  “So I’m supposed to tell him we have to wait a month?” she said, looking at me like I just suggested she don a veil and a head wrap.

  I set down my fork and gave her my have-you-lost-your-mind mom look.

  “Baby girl, you wouldn’t have to tell your boy-man anything if you hadn’t started something you weren’t allowed to do.”

  She huffed and a myriad of emotions played over her face as she shook her head and shoved her food around.

  “It’s not like we’re dating anyway,” she said. “We’re just—hanging out. Talking and stuff. He’s really easy to talk to.”

  And stuff.

  “Then why are you arguing?” I asked.

  “Because maybe I’d like to go to a movie,” she said. “Maybe go wander around the Lucky Charm, ride the Ferris wheel and get some unhealthy food.”

  “You’re welcome to go to a movie,” I responded. “And cheesecake on a stick and rides are there any time you want them.”

  “With Aaron,” she said, slamming her fork down. At my raised eyebrow, she picked it back up and set it down slowly, never breaking eye contact so I’d be sure to know her true feelings.

  �
��In a month, we can have this conversation,” I said, taking a bite of potatoes.

  “He may not still be interested in a month,” she exclaimed.

  “Then why the heck do you want him?” I said. “If he’s not interested in you a month from now, then he wasn’t worth having.”

  Oh sweet God, even as the words were flying out of my mouth, I heard every old person I’d ever known. That logic was sound enough in theory, but I’d been young once, and you want them because you want them. There’s no reasoning to it. Hell, most adults I knew had problems with that, how was a kid supposed to wrap their mind around it?

  “Mom.”

  “Angel.”

  She blew out a breath in disgust and looked at me with all the toxicity a girl her age can muster. I’d be willing to bet I wasn’t so cool now, serious babe dress or not.

  “I’m not hungry anymore,” she said. “I have homework.”

  “Again?” I said. “This is a banner Saturday for you.”

  “What can I say, I’m dedicated,” she said, her eyes burning holes through me.

  Fun.

  “By all means,” I said. “Go be brilliant.”

  Angel stalked off, banging the food off her plate with her fork so violently I was waiting for the sound of smashing stoneware. I sat there at the table alone, sighing as I speared another bite of gravy-laden turkey.

  “That went well.”

  * * *

  “Where are you going?” Lange asked as I left my office, keys in hand. Yes, it was still my office, so far. I felt like he was throwing me a bone with that, but I wasn’t about to bring it up for discussion.

  Everything was always up for discussion. That was his spindly, sleazy little way of taking over, by throwing me little breaths of air that sounded like I had a say when I really didn’t. Not if he wanted to be an asshole about it. And from what I could tell, Lange frequently did. He changed the table order and sectioned them off. He took out the old jukebox, which didn’t work anymore but still added ambiance. He had one end painted blue, which was kind of okay, but was talking about replacing a few of the tables with the standing variety.

  Standing tables. In a diner. We weren’t a nightclub. People came to eat lunch and dinner, and maybe dessert. As a general rule, most people like to sit down for that.

  Now he was perusing the schedule, and had already fired my morning waitress when she showed up ten minutes late.

  “I thought you normally stayed till after the dinner rush,” he added.

  “I do when I can,” I said. “But I have excellent people here. I trust them.” I held up my keys. “And today I have something I need to do.”

  “Well, I think it’s time we discuss the new name,” he said, nodding as though this was already done.

  “New name,” I echoed. “What new name?”

  “I sent you an e-mail with some choices to consider,” he said. “I’d be happy to let you choose.”

  “No,” I said simply.

  Lange blinked, looking a bit taken aback. “No, you won’t choose?”

  “Just no,” I said. “That’s not on the table.”

  “Allie,” he said in his trademark condescending tone. “I told you it was up for discussion.”

  “It’s not,” I said.

  “It’s dumb and unappealing.”

  “It’s personal,” I said. “The Blue Banana Grille stays.”

  “Listen to the choices,” he said, pulling a tiny notebook from his pocket.

  “I told you—”

  “The Eatery,” he said, flipping a page. “The Grille. Charmed Foods. The Charming Skillet. The Lucky Skillet. The Charmed Chef. The Honey Pot. Miss Sharp suggested that one.”

  My eyes popped open. “Miss Sharp?”

  “We’ve been working on compiling a list for you,” he said. “And I put customer cards out on the tables for people to make suggestions. Sometimes the best gem—”

  “You did what?”

  I dropped my keys where I stood and strode out into the diner, snatching up the little cards from the empty tables and trying to figure out a subtle way to get them from the occupied ones without having to answer questions.

  “Allie,” he said, clearly right on my heels.

  “You don’t get to do this on your own,” I said under my breath. “You don’t get to fire my waitresses. You don’t get to make the schedules. I run this place. I don’t care if you own ninety percent. You don’t go polling my customers for a new name. We’re called the Blue Banana Grille.”

  “I was thinking about that other stuff as well,” he said. “I might take over the books and such. Free you up to manage the floor. Or look elsewhere, in case you decide to sell your percentage.”

  My mouth formed words but there was no sound. Sell my percentage. He wanted me to—

  “I don’t think so,” I managed.

  “Well, it’s up for discussion,” he said with a nod.

  I headed back for my keys, plucked them from the floor, and passed him without so much as a glance.

  “I have to go,” I said. “Try not to put up a new sign while I’m gone.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  I pulled into the trailer park at exactly 4:55 p.m., waving at Miss Gerry, Carmen’s mom, as she swept the steps of the office trailer. She owned the place now. That was wild. Miss Gerry had gone from selling handmade hemp necklaces out of their trailer when we were little, to working at the Feed Store, the drugstore, the Walmart in Denning, a paper route for a time, and I think she’d done a stint bartending at Rojo’s. Throughout all that was various other private little industries I’d hear about her trying out, mostly through my father, who thought her to be a supreme flake and yet he bought every single thing she ever tried to sell him.

  I didn’t know what to think when I heard that good old Larry was selling her the park after the land sold to Sully. I was a little worried that I’d have to move my father out of there, that she’d forget to pay the note or the maintenance on the rentals, and something would shut down or blow up while she was making candles out of pine cones.

  I’d been pleasantly surprised. Miss Gerry had stepped up and formed a clean-up committee, had landscaping done with some pretty trees to fancy up what was just a bunch of trailers on concrete, had new lamppost lighting put in, upgraded the playground, and started a monthly potluck picnic by that playground for those who wanted to participate. It was pretty cool. People who barely talked to each other were now hanging out and eating good food, watching their kids play. And she was there for everything. It was like she’d wandered for decades just to find what she was supposed to do, and it was right there all along, right where she lived.

  I was happy for her. I wish my dad had had that much luck. I wish I did.

  Pulling up to his trailer at a couple minutes till five, I turned off the ignition and absorbed the quiet. I had to wait till exactly the top of the hour, or he’d get all bent up in a tizzy over the change, but that was fine. I happily took the three remaining minutes to breathe and calm my nerves.

  Sell Lange my portion of the diner? My diner? I couldn’t believe the audacity. Or I could, but it was almost too over the top to be imagined.

  And then there was Bash coming over tonight. Then Mr. Mercer from the drugstore came up to the counter to say he needed to talk to me privately about something. Whatever the hell that meant. On top of that, I knew I couldn’t put off coming to see Dad any longer. I had to face him, without being able to say a word about what he did.

  My phone dinged with a text from a number I didn’t recognize, telling me whoever it was, was about to call me.

  “Okay,” I said, glancing at the clock. Four-fifty-nine. “Get on with it.”

  The same number filled my screen seconds later and I answered with all the intention of saying I needed to go. I opened my door and turned to sit sideways.r />
  “Hey Allie,” said an older man’s voice. Mr. Mercer. Who evidently got my number off an old prescription order. Wasn’t that crafty of him.

  “Hi, Mr. Mercer,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Well, like I said, I need to talk to you about something,” he said. “It might be nothing, but it might not be nothing.”

  I sighed and checked the clock. Five o’clock straight up. “Um, I hear you, but can it wait? I’m about to go visit my dad, and—”

  “Sure, but it’s about Angel,” he said.

  The words already on my tongue dissolved. “Angel,” I echoed. “Is she—” A million scenarios played through my head, and none of them resembling I just wanted to track you down twice today to tell you that your daughter is the best thing since sliced bread. “Did she do something wrong? Oh my God, she didn’t steal from you, did she?”

  I wanted to throw up. She’d never done anything like that, but every day was a new day and a new age, and a new opportunity to give me gray hairs.

  “No, no,” Mr. Mercer said. “Nothing like that.”

  I let go of a breath. “Oh, good,” I said, chuckling nervously. The clock read two minutes after five. Crap, I was going to have to field drama for that. “So then, what’s the issue?”

  “Well, I hesitate to put my toe in other people’s business,” he said. “You know, people’s private lives are their own.”

  Yeah, and a few months back, you announced to a field full of people that your cousin was a transvestite, so your sense of private is a little skewed.

  “I understand, Mr. Mercer,” I said. “But I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re getting at unless you tell me.”

  “Well, Allie,” he began. “Angel was in the store yesterday afternoon with a young man.”

  “A young man,” I echoed. “Let me guess, blond hair?”

  “Yes, so you know him then?” he asked.

  I shook my head, not that he could see it. “No, but I’ve heard about him.”

  “And—you know he may be a little older than our Angel?” he asked.

  She was our Angel now. Okay. As in this boy is an outsider, and something really bad was about to be revealed. My stomach found everything I’d put in it today and went on standby.