“Your ears will be bleeding by the end. Just wait,” he’d said.
I hadn’t understood his statement at the time, but five full minutes into an elaborate story about a vacation she once took with her daughter, I’m starting to catch on.
Beatrice is atalker.
And while it’s cool to be acknowledged rather than ignored, I don’t have all day to stand around and listen to her long-winded anecdotes, but I smile and nod until I’m able to extract myself and check on my other tables.
Everything is under control until I see them.
The Blairs.
My eyes snap to the tall, lithe figure of Landon Blair strolling through the room, then settle on his brother, Junior, who’s a few inches shorter and overall less appealing to look at. In their wake are Mr. and Mrs. Blair, looking as put-together and, dare I say it,richas the last time I saw them. This time there’s no sign of Mel.
I’d forgotten about the Blair family’s standing Sunday brunch date, and when Kirsten seats them in my section, I realize what this is—penance. Penance for my subtle goading in the kitchen, though I’ll admit that a small part of me had wanted to see how far I could push him.
I groan, debating whether I would have preferred Christian McCoy and his merry band of idiots over Dr. Douchecanoe and his stuck-up brood. My head starts to replay my awkward and unnecessary exchange with Landon this morning, and I try to push it from my brain. So he called me trash? Big whoop. I’ve been called far worse, that’s for sure, and I’m still standing.
If I allow destructive thoughts, I won’t get through this.
If I focus on the negative, nothing positive will come.
So, I vow to put this morning behind me—and every other less-than-desirable exchange I’ve had with my sister’s uptight, sorry excuse for a boyfriend—and offer the Blair family a chipper, “Good morning! Welcome back to The Golden Palm. I’m Violet, and I’ll be your server today. Is there anything I can get started for you all?”
The Blairs barely glance up from their menus.
“Non-fat latte,” Kathleen says, dispensing with the pleasantries.
“Coffee,” says Nathan. “Black.”
“Bloody Mary for me,” says Junior.
And then, I turn toward Dr. Doom-and-Gloom. He can judge me for seeking out my sister. He can judge me for running outside in a sports bra. Hell, he can judge me for waiting tables, but I have nothing to be ashamed of. And because of this, I give him a smile so sickly sweet he’s guaranteed to get a cavity.
“And for you,Dr. Blair?”
I make sure to emphasize theDr.part since that seems important to his ego.
“Black coffee’s fine,” he grunts, and unless I’m mistaken, he looks a little uncomfortable. I’m not sure if he’s regretting his rather hostile words toward me this morning or if he’s just butthurt that my cleavage lost him the stare-off.
“Great,” I say with a smile. “I’ll put those right in while you all peruse the menu. Our special this morning is a pecan-crusted French toast served with your choice of bacon, sausage, or turkey bacon and two eggs any style. Any questions?”
“We’re fine,” grumbles Junior.
If I was expecting apleaseorthank you,I’d be sorely disappointed, but I know better by now. I give them a nod and a smile, then head to the kitchen to put in their orders. I check on my other remaining tables, and by the time I’m able to extract myself from Beatrice’s latest tale, the coffees are ready for the Blairs.
One of the strangest parts of waiting tables, especially here, is that the majority of the clientele barely acknowledge your existence. You might as well be a fly on the wall, privy to all sorts of information, which is how, upon my return with their drinks, I stumble unknowingly into a conversation about my sister.
“Where did you say Melanie was again?” Junior asks as I set the Bloody Mary in front of him with the utmost care.
“Business trip,” says Landon, his voice curt, and his eyes flicker to mine before moving quickly away.
“Shame,” says his mother with a sigh. “I was hoping you finally ended things with her.”
I choke on my saliva at how blasé her statement is. More pieces of the puzzle fall into place, and I wonder if Landon’s family has something to do with the strain between him and Mel.
“Kathleen,” warns her husband.
“What? I’m not allowed to dream?”
