Chapter 24: Split It

The diner on Wilmington Pike opened at six, and by eight on Sunday every booth was full.

We took the one by the window.

Hazel sat in the wooden high chair the waitress dragged over, with a bib that said I'm the boss.

She was six months old and had discovered that her hands could throw things.

A spoon went first.

"That's strike one," Rafe said, and bent to get it.

"She's practicing."

"For what?"

"Board meetings."

He laughed, and the waitress laughed, and Hazel, who had no idea why, shrieked with joy and threw the bib.

I had been to the cemetery before breakfast, alone, with a bunch of grocery-store tulips.

I had told my mother that her father had not forgotten us.

I had told her that a man had written to me eight times and kept every letter.

I told her I had a daughter with her eyes.

I did not cry, and the wind was warm.

When I came back, Rafe was waiting in the car with a thermos and our child.

He did not ask me anything.

Now he held a menu in one hand and Hazel's ankle in the other.

"The pancakes," he said. "I've been told they're the thing."

"By whom?"

"By the entire sign over the door."

At the next booth, Phyllis sat with a slice of lemon pie and a cup of coffee.

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