We hug. It’s not awkward, and relief fills my chest. “Yeah, I noticed. Paris wasn’t this cold.”
I help her with her coat, and she doesn’t stop me. Why would I think she would? My nerves are on high alert, and I should chill, but I’m happy to see her. “You look great, by the way,” I say.
With a shyness I don’t recall, she sighs and slips into her side of the booth as I ease into mine.
I pass her a menu. “I’m starving for a fried USA breakfast. One more buttered baguette, and I’d lose a significant number of brain cells.” I laugh and feel infinitely better when she does, too. “Forgive me for my lack of manners. Paris. Jet lag. How are you? How have you been?”
“Not too much different from what I covered in my last email, Sawyer.”
The waitress arrives, a young woman with large-framed blue glasses, striking against her winter-pale skin and dark red hair. “You ready to order?” She glances at the unopened menus. “Or do you need more time?”
“He’s starving,” Lula says. “He’s been dreaming about this breakfast for a while.”
I laugh. She’s right, and I go for it. “Two eggs with bacon, wheat toast, hash browns, orange juice. Black coffee. Do you have grits?”
“Yes, sir. We have grits.”
“I was right. You are starving.” Lula turns to the waitress. “Two scrambled eggs and coffee. Thank you.” She passes the menus to the waitress.
“How’s your dad?” A flash of concern fills her eyes, which I appreciate.
“He’s on this self-prescribed twelve-step program, but I’m the only person on his guilt list.” I chuckle. “He checks in on me often, and he does care about my well-being, but other than that—it’ll take time.” I lower my voice. “We still don’t talk about Azizi, but the last month in Paris was decent.”
She nods; her closed-lipped smile is comforting. “The whole rebuilding-relationship thing takes time.”
The waitress arrives with water and coffee.
“Are you returning to Berkeley? Did you finish your thesis?”
I only answer the question that matters. “Yes, I finished the thesis.” We do a fist bump. “I have my doctorate.”
“Congratulations, Sawyer. Great news, exactly what you wanted.”
“Thank you, but I’ve got better news. I submitted it to the Santa Monica Film Festival, and it was selected.”
She places a hand over her heart and smiles. “Sounds like you are on the path to win a few Oscars.”
“No, but if it happens, I’ll dedicate my first Oscar to Black film legend Oscar Micheaux—and Miss Honoree. I mean, Bessie.”
Her eyes cloud. “I miss her. The facility is different without her.”
We both glance down, harnessing emotions, recalling Honoree’s rough voice challenging my identity, my wit, my emotional consciousness. “I only knew her a few weeks, but I miss her, too.” I gulp down some coffee. “How about you? How are things at Sage Fool’s Pub?”
“I have news, too. The band is recording an album.”
The waitress arrives, balancing a tray loaded with plates of food expertly. She one-hands the tray and fills every spot with some kind of dish.
“Excellent. Excellent.” I bite my lip. “You mind if I dig in?” I gobble down some orange juice and a forkful of eggs, pausing when I sense Lula watching me. “God, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” She pauses. “Toast looks good.”
I shake my head and laugh. “Here.” I push my plate of toast toward her. “Let’s share.”
“You’re a good man, Sawyer Hayes.”
“Working on it.”
“You are welcome.” Lula butters her toast. “Deidre wanted to make sure I thanked you for convincing your grandmother to donate her collection. It is fabulous, and she is ecstatic. The opportunity to dig into Maggie’s box—it’s a once-in-a-lifetime project. We thought for sure it would end up in the California library system.”
