I felt trapped behind the register as I looked at my mother and her husband standing just inside the café door. I held my breath and hoped I was up to whatever happened.
I’d watched too many movies. There was no “Carrie, I can’t believe I’ve finally found you!” There were no eager hugs, no signs of recognition as Mom’s gaze brushed over me.
She did look at my sling and say, “Oh my, I bet that hurt.”
I managed a nod and the word, “Jetty,” but she was already scanning the room for her new best friend, Mary Prudence.
Luke smiled at me. “Breakfast for two,” he said. I couldn’t get my mind around the idea of his being my stepfather.
Of course he didn’t know me. Why would he? I doubted Mom had a picture of me at any age to show him. Even if she did, I looked different. Back then my hair, an unappealing dishwater blond that I hacked at every so often, was pulled straight back in a ponytail. Now it was a glossy highlighted blond cut shoulder length with feathered bangs that made my eyes pop, or so my beautician told me. I had developed a figure, lost the acne and the slouch, but most important, I’d learned confidence I hadn’t had as the kid everyone pitied.
I slid off my stool and picked up two menus. As I walked from behind the register counter, I had a chance to study Mom.
Her curls, a permanent I knew, were an artful chestnut, flipped back and up with the visual effect of a facelift. The puffiness that had been her chronic look courtesy of the booze was gone, replaced by a healthy glow. Her makeup was subtle and expertly applied, a far cry from the runny mascara and heavy eyeliner that used to cake and bleed under her eyes and run down her cheeks. She wore a collared red shirt under a textured royal blue sweater flecked with the red of her blouse. She wore a loose denim jacket over the sweater. Her black jeans looked comfortable, as did her white walking shoes.
In spite of myself I wondered about her story. How had she gone from my drunk and unfit mother to this sleek, sophisticated woman I resented with an antipathy that shook me? What right did she have to this man and his money and position after what she’d put Lindsay and me through?
God, I’ve got to tell You, seeing her all put together and happy stinks. What would our lives have been like if she’d been this way when we were little? You should have changed her back when we needed her!
Mom was busy waving at Mary P, who was behind the counter. Mary P smiled and waved back, then glanced at me with one eyebrow raised in that you-know-what-you-must-do look.
I ignored her as I led the way to an empty booth.
“Lou will be your server,” I told Luke, unable to look at my mother. I gave a little head bob and ran. I slid onto my stool behind the register, nervous sweat wrapping me like a damp beach towel.
Thankfully I didn’t have much free time to worry over them. I had customers to seat, customers to take money from, and customers who wanted to know what had happened to my arm. Then Luke was in front of me with their bill.
I forced a smile, took his platinum card, and ran it. Mom walked to Mary P while Luke waited for the machine to do its work. The women talked for a brief moment; then Mom wandered back to the register.
“I’ll wait outside,” she said to Luke. She gave me a little nod and stepped out into the gusting wind. She lifted her face and let it sweep over her.
I breathed a huge sigh. Safe once more.
“Your baked goods are exceptionally good.” Luke slipped his receipt into his wallet.
I smiled for the first time since they’d walked into the café. “My sister’s the baker. She is great, isn’t she?”
At that moment Lindsay walked out of the kitchen. “We’re going to have to drop the minestrone and the blueberry crumb from the lunch menu, Carrie. What with serving breakfast for Andi, I didn’t get a chance to make them.”
I stared at Lindsay. I hadn’t realized it before, but she was the image of a younger Mom, or rather Mom as she would have been if she’d been clean and sober. I didn’t look much like Mom. I’d always assumed I looked like my father, whoever he was. I might have thought I was a cuckoo in the nest if I hadn’t known Mom’d never have bothered to keep me if she didn’t have to. However there was no doubt about parentage with Linds.
Thinking about the uncanny resemblance and not thinking about what I said, I nodded. “Thanks for letting me know, Lindsay. I’ll take care of the menus.”
She nodded and headed back to her domain. “Oh, by the way, Greg is at the motel with Chaz, the sheriff, and the furniture rental guys. Thought you’d like to know instead of wondering where he was.” She grinned. “It’s SweetCilla on Twitter. She must spend all day glued to her window, reporting every little thing she sees. She tweets that Chaz looks evil.” With a ladylike hoot she disappeared through the kitchen door.
I turned and saw Luke staring after her.
“Lindsay?” he said.
With a sinking feeling, I wanted to deny it, but he’d heard me. I nodded.
He settled his gaze on me, and I thought I never wanted to be a hostile witness at any trial he was participating in. He skewered me with intense brown eyes. “And Carrie. Carrie and Lindsay Carter?”
I stared at him dumbly. With desperate hindsight I thought I should have changed our names when we came to Seaside, but Atlanta had seemed so far away. What were the odds we’d ever be found out?
“She looks just like her mother.” Luke jerked his head toward the kitchen. “Does she know?”
Again I wanted to deny understanding what he was talking about, but someone like him would just laugh and start investigating us. In no time he’d discover what he was already convinced of. “Lindsay doesn’t know.”
“You have to tell her.”
I nodded miserably. “I know.”
“And you have to tell Sue.”
I glanced at Mom through the picture window, her face still raised to the wind. I loved to do the same thing, to feel the power, to be invigorated.
I turned back to Luke. I had no idea what my expression revealed though I suspected panic. “You don’t understand,” I blurted. “You didn’t know her back then.”
His expression softened. “Ah, but I did.” He stretched out his right hand. “Hi. I’m Luke, and I’m an alcoholic.”
He knew her from AA? What was I supposed to say to that? Hi, I’m Carrie, and I’m bitter? Hi, I’m Carrie, and I’m having a hard time forgiving? Or, Hi, I’m Carrie, and I resent that she looks so good?
What I said was, “Don’t tell her. Please.”
“It’s not my place. That honor is yours.”
Honor. Now there was a laugh.
“Honor your father and your mother.”
The trouble with memorizing Scripture was that the verses came back to bite you at the most inopportune times.
“You have no idea how she mourns for you two.” Luke piled on the guilt. “I can’t tell you the number of nights I’ve held her as she’s cried over the mess she made of her time with you.”
What about the nights I quaked with fear and held Lindsay while my little sister cried herself to sleep? What about the nights I was sure some man was going to break through the feeble barricades to my bedroom and I’d have to use my knife? What about the horror of the night I’d actually knifed Bob?
Luke laughed without mirth. “I understand her grief because I lost my family before I sobered up. At least I get to see my kids every so often and can try to make them forget the father who made their lives a living hell for so many years.”
I had stepsiblings. What a strange thought. How many? Male? Female? And would they like to share horror stories?
He skewered me with another look, making me itch all over. “You know what you need to do.”
And he left.