The Good Widow(10)
“You were a saint to put up with that little devil.” A voice wound its way into her ears. She looked to her left and saw that it belonged to the male half of the mimosa couple. He was now alone in the booth—Mrs. Mimosa must be in the bathroom, the champagne finally hitting her. She’d downed the third glass immediately, as Dylan had known she would. It had become an occupational hazard to notice details about the people she served. And she could tell Mrs. Mimosa was looking to get drunk by how fast she’d drunk the first one—even before she’d consumed a single bite of her crab cake Benedict. By how she’d looked expectantly toward Dylan when she’d drained her second flute, as if she’d barely wanted to take a breath before having a third. By the way her plump lips eased out of their frown with each sip. There was something sad in her eyes, and Dylan sensed the alcohol was helping her forget.
Dylan could feel a tense energy between Mr. and Mrs. Mimosa. They’d barely spoken two words to each other since they’d sat down, and whenever Dylan came to the table, it was only Mr. Mimosa’s voice she heard, ordering for both of them, asking for more salt, or now, talking to her about that unruly kid. She wondered if they were in the middle of an argument, or worse, if they were just at that point in their marriage where they didn’t enjoy each other’s company at all.
Dylan smiled at Mr. Mimosa, noticing how his right dimple overshadowed his left one when he returned her grin. “Thanks. The kid wasn’t too bad.” Dylan deflected, as she often did. “All part of the job, right?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head, glancing at the table where the child and his parents had been sitting. “I get that kids can throw tantrums, but come on. Those parents didn’t do a thing to stop it. And I’m not sure how dealing with a child like that should be included in any job description. I hope they gave you a huge tip.” He smiled again, and Dylan laughed nervously. This wasn’t part of the game. Good-looking men with deep-olive skin and fluorescent-green eyes didn’t lament with her about the lack of discipline of today’s youth. Sure, they smiled suggestively at you when they thought their wife wasn’t looking (she usually was), or “accidentally” brushed your boob when you set down their omelet. (She got that too, by the way.) But talk to her like she was a real person? No, they never did that.
“Beautiful ring,” he said, nodding toward the two-carat diamond that still felt like a foreign object. She had played with it so much since accepting it the night before that she was already developing a red indentation mark on her finger. It was just slightly too tight, something she was trying not to focus on.
“Thank you,” she said, holding it up. “Just happened last night!” Dylan added as Mrs. Mimosa reappeared, stumbling slightly as she slid into the booth. Dylan glanced at the simple gold band on Mrs. Mimosa’s finger, something a lot more along the lines of what Dylan would have wanted, and suddenly felt silly about the size of her bauble. She buried her left hand into the pocket of her black apron.
“Congratulations,” Mr. Mimosa said, his eyes wandering over to Mrs. Mimosa as if he were silently imploring her to speak.
“When’s the big date?” Mrs. Mimosa asked, her words slightly slurred.
“Oh, we don’t know yet.” Dylan waved her hand in the air. “Don’t people usually wait at least a year?”
“Sometimes. But we didn’t,” she says, pointing at her husband and grimacing so slightly that Dylan almost didn’t notice it. Dylan wondered what the woman’s pinched face represented. Was she thinking they should have waited longer? Or not gotten married at all?
“Everyone’s different, I suppose,” Dylan said.
“Well, good luck to you,” Mrs. Mimosa said, holding Dylan’s gaze for a few beats longer than was comfortable.
“Thank you,” Dylan said, thrown off by what felt like more like a warning than a sentiment. She started to clean the neighboring table, taking a napkin and scooping the ketchup onto a barely touched plate of pancakes, the red sauce dripping from the cloth and settling into the accent diamonds in her ring, dulling their sparkle slightly.
Later, Dylan clocked out on the computer and caught her reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall. She sighed. Her face had that bad kind of shimmer to it—a combination of sweat and grease.
She grabbed her purse, a weathered Kate Spade that was older than the ketchup kid, one her mom had proudly announced she’d found on clearance at the outlet. She still loved the quaintness of the black-and-pink sunglasses print and refused to part with it, despite the frayed edges of the straps.
She fumbled for her keys as she walked up the street to the employee lot. Parking was scarce in Laguna on the weekends, and the best spots were sold for upward of twenty-five dollars on a Sunday. But even after her worst shift, she didn’t mind the trek to her car. Laguna Beach had majestic views and a sea breeze that was addictive, and Dylan’s spirits would always rise the minute she exited the restaurant and turned right to take in the sweet, salty air and waves breaking below.
“Excuse me,” a familiar voice called out, and she knew before looking that it was Mr. Mimosa. She turned and saw him gripping a twenty-dollar bill.
Dylan froze. She’d never had a customer track her down. In her mind, she wasn’t the type of girl you went to great lengths for. Nick was the exception. He always found a way to do something extra when he didn’t have to, like carrying her trash down to the dumpster when the chute was broken or taking her Volkswagen to the car wash after she’d made a passing remark about how someone had scrawled wash me in the dirt on the back window.