“Sissy, I wish it could, but not tonight.”
She whines for a few more minutes before she makes me promise to see her in a few weeks, when she is back in Manhattan.
We finally hang up when the server brings my steak. Well, I guess I can’t call my father while chewing.
But it’s not like the issue is kept at bay. I spend my dinner thinking about the ways I can avoid asking my father for a favor. I research other board members, and make a list of my contacts on the West Coast who can help me.
I contemplate calling Lottie to see if she could call in some favors, but I know my sister would help, andthen feel guilty about sneaking behind Dad’s back. I don’t want to put her in that position.
“Can I get you a dessert?” The server cleans my table. “The chef made his signature chocolate cake tonight.”
“No, thank you. I’m good.”
I wonder whether Cora likes chocolate cake. What? I don’t wonder that. She probably didn’t get a cake for her birthday.
Reaching for her journal, I consider the whole privacy situation for a beat, but open it anyway.
She built a sky-blue cottage for the sparrow with a broken wing.
A burrow with a library for the badger who had no friends.
A tall, pointy-roofed tower for the owl who wanted to feel closer to the stars.
What is this? The words are written in a tidy cursive, and I think it’s the same as the one I saw on the blackboard menu in the bistro. Is this a story?
I flip to the back of the journal and find another entry.
Someday…
Own a private island — Tiny.Useless. Mine.
Is this some sort of bucket list?
See the Northern Lights wrapped in a ridiculous fur coat.
Eat my weight in pizza in Tuscany. Maybe live there for a while.
I chuckle. I can picture her there.
Have my stories published.
Are the lines in the front the beginning of a story? Does Cora moonlight as a writer? The need to know is so powerful, I’ve half a mind to find her and demand answers. Yeah, fucker, as if you had any right to her story. To her answers. To her time.
But then, she is alone on her birthday.
Finally give up the bistro.
Be held like someone’s first and last choice.
Something squeezes my stomach. It’s like heartburn building in my digestive tract. This place always serves top-shelf wine. What the fuck?
Forgive my mother (maybe).
Another need to uncover what’s behind this wish hits me. Why do I care about her story? It makes no sense. I find the woman attractive, but when have I ever wanted to go beyond the superficial?
Fly first class without guilt.
Who feels guilty about first-class flying?
