Her astute hazel gaze assesses me. “You’re wearing a suit, and it’s later than usual. Did you have a meeting?”
I smile, slipping my hands into my pockets. “Can’t get anything past you, can I? I met with some producers about a passion project I’m pitching.”
She polishes the steam wand with a white cloth. “Well? How did it go?”
“They seemed interested but said they’d discuss and get back to me.”
“That sounds promising.” She reaches for a steel container, filling it with milk and putting it under the steam wand before turning back to me. “And how’s Nisha? She’s what, thirty-eight, thirty-nine weeks now?”
“Hey, Patton!” Rach, the other owner and friend from the duo, emerges through the double-doors in the back, wearing an apron with their company logo. Her shoulder-length waves, a mix of chestnut, auburn, and gray, are secured in a clip at the back of her head. “Glad you were able to come by before we close. Well, actually, that’s not true; wetechnicallyclose in ten minutes, but both Rachel and I will be here for the next couple of hours, cleaning up and doing inventory and accounting.”
“What she means is,” Rachel says, pouring a shot of espresso into the cup she’s making for me before lifting it toward me, “feel free to stick around. We won’t be rushing you out.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the cup from her. “And Nisha’s good. Tired, but good. She’s thirty-nine weeks. The home stretch.”
Rach offers a wide smile. “That is so exciting! Now, not that I pay attention to tabloids or anything, but?—”
Back at her position near the coffee machine, Rachel coughs discreetly, muttering what sounds like “bullshit,” making me chuckle.
Rach lifts her chin, ignoring her friend. “As I was saying, I don’t read gossip magazines, but I couldn’t help but notice one when I was in the grocery line. You and Nisha were on the cover, and there were doulas and supposed doctors predicting you were having a boy based on the way she was carrying.”
“What a load of crock!” Rachel rolls her eyes, dumping old espresso into a compost bin. “Those gossip rags have nothing better to talk about.”
Holding my cup, I lean in over the counter conspiratorially. “Well, I’ll tell you both, if you promise to keep it between us . . .”
Rach nods, making a gesture like she’s zipping her lips. “We promise. You know you can trust us.”
And I do trust them. These women have been nothing but friendly and dependable, keeping me under the radar from even their own families. It’s a luxury fame rarely affords.
Rachel saunters to the counter. “We even made Abby swear not to tell anyone you came in here from time to time. She’s the woman we hired a few weeks ago to help us over the weekends. We told her straight-up that she’d be out of a job if she blabbed.”
I’m just about to tell them Nisha and I are having a girl when the double doors swing open and a woman steps out, balancing a plate on her hand.
“Um, Ms. Rachel? You said to bring out a glazed donut when they were ready?”
That voice. It’s soft and hesitant, and . . .
Recognition scratches at the edges of my memories.
My eyes lock on her, though she hasn’t lifted her gaze yet. My breath stalls inside my lungs, and the cup threatens to crack in my hand.
“Ah, yes. Speak of the devil!” Rachel says brightly, oblivious to the way I’ve gone rigid. “Patton? Why don’t you take a seat at your booth? Abby will bring over your donut.”
And that’s when she looks up?—
Abigail Shaw.
Her eyes widen and her mouth falls open, revealing several missing teeth. Her feeble hands tremble so hard, the donut slides to the edge of the plate.
Rach rushes to Abigail’s side, wrapping a hand around her wrist, making Abigail flinch. “Abby, what’s going on? Are you okay?” She looks from Abby to me. “Do you . . . do you know each other?”
I blink, taking in the woman in front of me.
She’s a shadow of her former self with hollowed cheeks, pale skin, and her frame lost beneath the restaurant’s uniform that hangs off her like borrowed clothes. Her once thick mane is nothing but wisps clinging to her scalp. And yet, there’s no mistaking those eyes.
They’re muted now, dulled to the color of dry grass when they used to remind me of lush trees. The same eyes that sharpened on me as I asked if there was anything to eat when she came home an entire day after having locked me inside a one-room trailer. The same eyes that turned cold when I asked her about the sores on her arms. Or darted around the room, wild and paranoid, when her dealers broke into our trailer.
And the same eyes that glistened, resigned and grieving, at the sight of me sobbing, begging for the cops to let her go.
