See. Only ten days in town, and I was already lling Dad in on choice gossip he hadn’t heard, living here for an entire year. ?e man needs me, clearly.
My reward for spanking Dad’s behind in putt-putt is that I get to pick our lunch location. Since we grabbed a light breakfast before our golf excursion, I call a breakfast do-over at the Pancake Shack. It’s got a 1950s Americana diner vibe inside, and we grab stools at the counter, where a waitress in a pink uniform brings us glasses of iced tea while we wait for our pancake orders. My dreams have nally come true! Only, they haven’t, because the Pancake Shack doesn’t exactly live up to my expectations, not even their “world-famous” almond pancakes, which I give one thumb down.
When I voice my lukewarm grade, Dad sticks a fork in my order and samples a corner. “Tastes like Christmas.”
“Like those almond cookies grandma used to make.”
“?e gross, crumbly ones,” he agrees. “You should have ordered a Dutch Baby. Taste mine. It’s terri c.”
His is way better, but it’s no churro.
“Still haven’t found him, huh?” he asks, and I know he’s talking about Alex. I told him the basic deal, that I’m gun-shy about confessing to Alex that I’ve moved out here, and that I’m trying to nd him on my own. Dad and I are a lot alike in many (unfortunate) ways. He gets it. Mom wouldn’t. Mom would have freaked her pants off if she knew Alex even existed in the rst place, so there’s that. But Mom didn’t really pay much attention to anything going on in my life back in DC, so it wasn’t like I went to any trouble to hide him. And now that I’m here, I notice that she still isn’t all that concerned, as I have yet to receive any communication from her since the initial Did Bailey arrive okay? phone calls. Whatever. I try not to think about her lack of concern too much.
From my purse, I retrieve a tourist map of the boardwalk. It’s just a cartoony one I picked up for free one morning. I’m using a marker to X out the shops that I’ve either surveyed or that don’t fall into the parameters that Alex has unwittingly provided me— can’t see the ocean from the window, not a shop with a counter, et cetera. “?is is what’s left to cover,” I tell Dad, pointing the sections of the map I haven’t hit yet.
Dad grins and chuckles, shaking his head. I try to snatch the map away, but he holds it against the diner counter, moving aside the cast-iron skillet that holds his half-eaten Dutch Baby. “No, no. Let me see this marvelous thing. You’re thorough and precise, a chip off the ol’ block.”
“Ugh,” I complain. “Weirdo.”
“What? ?is is quality CPA blood running in your veins, right here,” he says proudly, thumping the map like a dork. “Wait, how do you know he just wasn’t working in one of these places on the day you went by? Or unloading a truck out in the alley?”
“I don’t, but I gure I’ll hit every shop twice.” I show him my homemade legend on the corner of the map. Dots for even-day visits, squares for odd. Male symbol for a boy my age working there—but ruled out as a possibility for Alex upon initial assessment. Triangles for churro cart locations. And wavy lines for all three stray boardwalk cats I’ve found so far, including Señor Don Gato.
He puts his arm around my shoulder and kisses the side of my head. “With superior deductive skills like this, how could you not nd him? And if he’s not worth the hunt, you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I knew I liked you.”
“You kind of have to,” he says with a grin.
I grin back.
Someone walks over to the counter, and Dad leans forward to look past me. His face goes all funny. He clears his throat. “Good morning, Sergeant Mendoza.”
Waiting for a waitress to take her order is a tall, curvy Latina cop in a navy uniform. Wavy hair, brown woven through with strands of gray, is pulled tight into a thick ponytail at the base of her neck. A pair of dark purple sunglasses sits on her face. I recognize those: She’s the cop who ashed her lights at Davy and Porter at the crosswalk, the rst day I got into town.
“Morning, Pete,” she says in a husky voice. One corner of her mouth curls at the corner. Just slightly. ?en her face turns unreadable. I think she’s peering down at me, but it’s hard to tell, especially with the sunglasses on. “Dutch Baby?” she says.
“You know it,” my dad answers, and laughs in an odd way.
I look between them. My dad clears his throat again. “Wanda, this is my daughter, Bailey. Bailey, this is Sergeant Wanda Mendoza of the Coronado Cove Police Department.”
Like I couldn’t gure that out. She smiles and sticks out her arm to offer me a rm handshake. Wow. Knuckle-cracking rm. I’m awake now. And I’m not sure, but I think she might be uncomfortable. Do cops get nervous? I didn’t think that was possible.
“Heard a great deal about you, Bailey.” She has? Who the heck is this and why hasn’t Dad mentioned her? Are they friends?
“I do the sergeant’s taxes,” Dad explains, but it sounds like a lie, and both of them are looking in different places—him at the counter and her at the ceiling. When her head tilts back down, she taps her ngernails on the counter. I glance at the gun holstered to her hip. I don’t like guns; they make me uncomfortable, so I guess we’re even.
“I like your brows,” she nally says. “Glamorous.”
I’m caught off guard for a second. ?en I’m pleased. “I do them myself,” I tell her. Finally someone who appreciates the importance of a good arch. Plucking is painful.
“Impressive,” she con rms. “So, how’re you liking California?”
“It’s a different planet.” I realize that might not sound positive, so I add, “I like the redwoods and the churros.”
?at makes her smile. Almost. She lifts her chin toward my dad. “Have you taken her to the posole truck?”
“Not yet,” he says. “She’s never had posole. Have you?” he asks, giving me a questioning look.
