Two from the Heart(42)

“I have to ask,” he says. She looks back, knowing exactly where his eyes have been. “Is Sunny a real name, or are you in the witness protection program?”

There’s that great laugh again. “Nope. It’s for real,” she says. “And that’s not the best part. Go ahead. Ask me my last name.”

“Okay…”

“Day.”

It takes Bron a second to put it together. “Day? Sunny Day??” Now it’s his turn to burst out laughing. “Are you serious?”

“Yep. Sunny Day. My parents said they always wanted me to be optimistic.”

This is great. She’s sharing. Bron decides to go for broke. “Well, Sunny Day, can I buy you a beer?”

She gives him a half smile and a little sigh. “Thanks, but I’m driving tonight. I’ll treat you to a Diet Coke, though.”

He’s got no more game.

“Deal.”

She takes two plastic cups and fills them from the dispenser. Bron gulps down his drink, savoring the cold, satisfying fizz in his throat.

“Believe it or not,” he says, “this has been fun.” And he means it.

Well, you have a great future as a furniture mover. The words are in her ear, transmitted through a nearly invisible earpiece.

This is where her improv skills pay off, hearing the dialogue, then turning it into a natural delivery in the moment, seamlessly.

“You have a great future as a furniture mover,” she says. Flawless.

Tyler feels himself flushing. He blinks, somehow not able to look directly at her as he formulates his next sentence, but Sunny preempts him.

“Well, I’m going to call it a night. Thanks again for the heavy lifting.”

Hug and release, says the voice in her ear, then exit.

She wraps her arms around Bron’s shoulders, gives him a quick squeeze, then steps back before he can even register what happened. She cocks her head toward the rear hallway.

“This way out.”

They step out into the cool night air. The service door shuts behind them with a heavy thud. As his eyes adjust to the dark, Bron sees a black Yamaha dirt bike leaning against the stucco wall behind the building.

“Yours?” Bron asks.

“Beats walking,” says Sunny. She grabs the handlebars, then hikes her skirt way up her thigh. She throws her right leg over the saddle, tugs a helmet over her head, and kick-starts the bike.

“Have a great night,” she says, raising her voice over the growl and pop of the two-stroke engine. She drops her visor, rolls the throttle forward, and takes off.

Bron watches her go. For a sweet young waitress, she’s not at all timid on the bike. She really leans into those curves.

Almost as if she were trained.





Chapter 22


OUT OF all the minions under Daisy’s command, I like the kid named Karl best. He’s not just a whiz with remote cameras and mainframe maintenance but also knows the proper temperature for a beer cooler. Which is thirty-eight degrees. Or as Karl would say, “three point three Celsius.”

On nights when Daisy and Bron both happen to rack out early, like tonight, Karl and I sometimes break out a couple of cold ones.

“Any way we can get the Red Sox game on that thing?” I’m staring at the massive monitor in the middle of the room, which is currently showing the main street of town. Might as well be a still life.

“Nope. It’s a closed circuit. I could probably rewire it though—if I wanted to lose my job.”

“Can’t have that,” I say. “I’d have to manage my own beer supply.”

We’re both quiet for a while, then Karl asks, “So, is this really what you do for a living—just make stuff up?”

I guess that’s a fair way to put it.

“Pretty much,” I say. “I write books and just hope people read them.”

“Are you on any bestseller lists? Got a fan club? Any groupies?”

“Well, I’ll be honest with you, if Tyler Bron didn’t love my books, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

Karl looks puzzled. “Tyler Bron?”

“Right. He’s read everything I’ve ever written—such as it is.”

Karl sets his beer down and looks straight at me. “You’re kidding, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is… ask anybody who works for him… Tyler Bron has never read anything but a textbook in his entire life.”





Chapter 23


IN HIS wildest dreams, Bron never imagined himself walking a kid to school. First, he’s always had a hard time imagining himself with a kid. Second, that’s what those big yellow buses are for, right?

But here he is, just as the sun starts to burn off the morning cool, walking alongside Gonzalo toward the low stucco building that houses grades K through twelve. Fewer than a hundred kids in all, with a lot of mixedgrade classes. And from what Bron knows already, a really overstressed faculty.

“So who’s your science teacher?” asks Bron. He wonders why the school’s science scores are so low. Lack of effort? Lack of interest?

“Mister Vern. He’s funny. He’s cool. Everybody likes him.”

“And what about you, Gonzalo? You like science?”