Patricia Johns – A Baxter's Redemption (страница 7)
“I do,” he said.
“You don’t count.” She looked away.
“Ouch,” he said, sinking down to the seat next to her. “I like to think I count a little bit.”
“Sorry,” she retorted.
“So what happened?” he asked. Jenny didn’t answer right away, tears misting her eyes, then she turned toward him, her lips quivering with anger.
“He called me retarded.”
James blinked. “Bob did?”
“No, not Bob.” She shook her head, eyes flashing in exasperation. She put her fingers up to make air quotes. “The customer.” She still wasn’t clear about how to use air quotes, and she tended to use them when she was upset.
“And Bob didn’t stand up for you?” Images of lawsuits danced through his head, but he sucked in a breath to try to calm his anger. “So tell me what happened. Exactly.”
“This little boy was pointing at me and laughing,” Jenny said. “So the boy’s dad said, ‘Don’t do that. It’s not nice. It’s not her fault she’s retarded.’ So I threw cheese at him.”
An image of his sister launching Gouda at a customer’s head struck him as funny, and James stifled a laugh. “You had to know that wasn’t a good idea,” he said.
She shrugged, not looking the least bit apologetic.
James attempted to control the smile that tickled the corners of his lips, but he had a burning question. “How was your aim?”
“I have great aim. I hit him in the face. With a nice, old, gooey brie.”
James laughed out loud and shook his head. “Jenny, you’re a nut.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a nut with good aim!” she shot back, but a smile toyed at the corners of her lips. “It was expensive, too.”
“I don’t think we have a leg to stand on to argue this one, Jenny,” he said apologetically. “You can’t throw cheese at people.”
“I know.”
“We’ll find you a different job.” The words came easily enough because he wanted them to be true, but Jenny already had a reputation around this town. She stood up for herself, but she had her own method that didn’t always suit customer service. And what other jobs were there for her?
“Really, Jimmy?” she asked hopefully.
James paused. “I actually don’t know. But we’ll sort something out.”
“I’m not retarded,” she said, her voice low. “I’m a person.”
“I know, Jenny. And you’re a good person, too.”
The problem was that people didn’t understand Jenny the way he did. He’d gotten her a job in his office stuffing envelopes and doing some photocopies, but the pace was too quick for her and he’d felt terrible when he saw how frustrated she was. It would have been perfect to have her close, but what could he do?
His phone blipped and he glanced down at the text message. It was from Isabel. She wanted to meet up.
“Who’s that?” Jenny asked.
“A client,” he replied.
“Do you have to go back to work now?”
He sighed. “No, it’s okay. I’ll take you home first.”
He paused to text Isabel back, his thumbs hopping over the keys: I can meet you around 2, if that works. Let me know where.
Jenny scooted forward until her running shoes hit the ground and glanced up at James. “I wasn’t ladylike.”
James shot her grin. “So? I’m not ladylike, either.”
It was a long-standing joke between them. Jenny grinned and rose to her feet.
“Do you want to stop for a milk shake on the way home?” James asked.
Jenny cocked her head to one side coyly. “I wouldn’t object.”
He chuckled and opened the truck door for her to get in. As he shut the door after her, he wondered what he could do to find a place for Jenny to belong. She’d always be his sister, and this would always be her town, but she needed more than that—she needed the equivalent of what his legal practice was to him. It seemed so simple, but it wasn’t. She needed more than a job. She needed someone who would understand her, and that was one tall order.
His phone blipped again, and he glanced down at the text. It was from Isabel again.
Ruby’s Diner. 2 pm is perfect. Thank you, James.
There was something about the words that struck him as sweet, and he pushed any softening feelings firmly away. For the moment, he had an important appointment with his sister and the ice-cream parlor.
“HOW LONG HAS it been, Izzy?” Carmella asked, hitching her apple-green Coach bag higher up onto her shoulder. She looked away from Isabel’s face uncomfortably and shot a smile at a passing waiter instead. They stood inside the foyer of the little bistro with Britney, the tinkle of cutlery and the clink of glasses melting into the murmur of chatting customers.
“Only a couple of years,” Isabel said with a chuckle. “Remember, I was here when you got married.”
“Feels like longer, doesn’t it?” Carmella cast Isabel a tired smile, then lowered her voice. “Are you and Britney okay being in the same room together?”
“Perfectly,” Isabel replied. It was mostly true. She could be polite. Carmella and Isabel had been friends in high school, and with Isabel gone, Britney and Carmella had gotten chummy. Girlfriend loyalty went only so far in a town this size, where there weren’t many people to choose from.
Isabel glanced around the little restaurant. She remembered this place well. This was where her father used to take her to celebrate her birthday every year. It hadn’t changed since she’d been gone. The same watercolor art hung on the walls, and even the smell of the place was the same. A server approached them—a young man with a mane of dark hair and dark, smoldering eyes. His smolder didn’t seem to be very discerning, however, since he gave each of them the same sultry look, including a woman in her seventies behind them. He knew how to get tips, that much was obvious.
“Hi, Carlo,” Carmella said. “Just us girls. Are you going to be serving us?”
“Of course,” Carlo replied with a smile. “Women as lovely as yourselves need the best service.”
Isabel winced. Carlo was probably barely out of high school, and if she’d been the babysitting type as a teenager, she probably would have babysat him. Britney pursed her lips into an oval mirror in her hand and dabbed at her lipstick, looking up only when Carlo led them into the dining room and over to a table by a window.
“I hate to intrude on your brunch,” Isabel said as they sat down.
“You aren’t intruding, right, Brit?” Carmella rolled on without waiting for a response. “Carlo, let’s start with some mimosas. What do you say, girls?”
“Make mine virgin,” Britney sighed. “You want one, too, Izzy?”
“Sure.”
Carlo winked, mostly for Carmella’s benefit, it seemed, and disappeared once more, leaving them in quiet.
“Britney said you were back in town,” Carmella said, “but you didn’t call.”
“I’m sorry,” Isabel replied. “I meant to. I’ve been busy getting things set up.”
“Set up for what?” Carmella’s brows rose.
“I’m moving back. For good.”
This didn’t seem to be news to Carmella, and she and Britney exchanged a look. Then Carmella leaned closer. “I see there’s no ring on your finger, but is there a guy in your life at all...?” She let the question hang there.
They didn’t have much else to talk about. That was the problem with leaving town for several years—you were no longer part of the same rumor mill. Carmella was trying to make conversation, but the question still grated.
“No. Not at the moment,” Isabel replied.
“Well, Britney and I could take care of that,” Carmella suggested. Her gaze went to Isabel’s scars once more and she cleared her throat. It was a friendly offer that Carmella couldn’t make good on. Not anymore, at least. Besides, the implication that the kind thing was to “get her a man,” chafed.
“Let’s just get this out into the open,” Isabel said. “I’m badly scarred. Things are different now. And I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”
Just as the words came out of her mouth, Carlo returned with three champagne glasses filled with mimosas—just orange juice for Britney—and set them in front of each woman at the table. They all smiled weakly up at him, and when he’d left, stared at each other in uncomfortable silence.
“What about plastic surgery?” Carmella asked at last.
“I’m not doing any more of that. I had one reconstructive surgery done after the accident and I had a bad reaction to the anesthetic. I just about died. So this is me. I’ll just have to get used to it.”