Broken Wings (A Romantic Suspense)(13)

Thankfully the waiter showed up right then and pulled a save. I can’t remember his name, but I remember what he looked like. Tall and bearded. He put my menu at the place setting across from Ellie and I sat down.

I ordered a Coke.

“I’ll have a Shirley Temple,” Ellie said after scanning the menu.

After he left I said, “What’s that?”

“It’s a mixed drink with no liquor in it. Fitzgerald makes them for me.”

I nodded and grinned. I probably should have said something suave, but she was just so goddamn pretty all I could do was stare at her. She kept looking up at me as she read the menu and her face got redder and redder.

“We shouldn’t be here. This is so expensive.”

“It’s fine.”

“I don’t know what to get.”

“A steak? It’s a steakhouse.”

“I can’t eat this. A twenty-ounce sirloin? That’s as big as my head.”

I laughed, and she scowled at me.

“I mean it.”

“Okay. Why don’t we just get some appetizers and split them?”

“Okay.”

“You want me to pick?”

She licked her lips. “Yeah. I want that, though,” she tapped her nail on the page. Her fingernails were bright pink. “The sausage.”

“Okay,” I shrugged.

I ended up ordering half the appetizer menu for us. It almost covered the table, and despite her protests, Ellie ate like mad.

“Are you hungry?” I asked her.

She looked up, embarrassed, and dabbed barbecue sauce from her lips. “Oh, I, um.”

“It’s okay,” I laughed. “God, you’re so cute when you get embarrassed.”

“I am?”

“You turn red.”

“Am I doing it now?”

“Yeah.”

She snickered and pushed some calamari rings around on her plate. “I’m getting full. I never eat like this at home.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, um.” She looked around like she thought someone might be listening. “I can’t. I have to eat what Mom picks out for me. I’m on a diet.”

“A diet?” I looked at her, confused. “Why? You’re already skinny.”

She frowned at me.

“Not like bad skinny. You’re cute. Hot skinny. Proportionate.”

Her frown twitched and slowly spread into a grin.

“No, I just have to stay in shape. I have this thing coming up…”

“What kind of thing?”

“I’m going to sing. She says I could get on TV.”

I sat up. “Really? Wow.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, prodding her food with her fork. “Exciting.”

She didn’t sound very excited to me. I reached into that deep well of courage that led me to drag her out onto the dance floor at the Halloween dance and rested my hand on top of hers. Her hand felt so small in mine, and delicate, like holding a bird. When she didn’t pull her hand back I began running my thumb over her skin, feeling her knuckles. She set her fork down and put her other hand over mine, and started doing the same thing, a funny smile on her face.

“Why are we doing this?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I like it.”

The light turns green. I drive.

I follow the path we walked that day, holding hands. It was just turning dark when I dropped her off at the house. I slow as I drive by. It’s still there, still the same, an Old City row house, set back from the sidewalk about ten feet with a tiny yard out front, cut off from the world by a big wrought iron fence with glossy black posts tipped like spears. When I look up it feels like the house leans over me, ready to fall and crush my car in a tide of bricks, and me with it.

There’s a light on in the upper window. Ellie’s room.





Ellie





The lamp on my nightstand and the gray, rainy day outside turn my window into a mirror, and I stare at myself, hiding under the hood of my sweatshirt. Tracing my eye over the scars is like reading a map of familiar territory, banal but oddly compelling. There’s a knock at my door.

“Come in.”

Fitzgerald has worked for my family as long as I can remember. I guess he’s a butler, but I can’t really think of him as some kind of servant. He cooks but doesn’t clean, a service comes in every week for that. He drives me when I need to leave the house. He makes travel arrangements, doctor’s appointments, takes care of things.

It’s almost scary, really. I’m not even able to take care of myself in the most basic way without him.

Not that I mind. I’ve never known anyone kinder. When my bandages first came off, he was there, and he didn’t even flinch, he just asked if I needed anything. When I need to be alone he leaves me alone.

Tall and thin and dressed in a shirt and tie, dark slacks, and oxfords, he carries a serving tray in perfectly steady hands. Perched on it is a Shirley Temple in a martini glass, a little private joke between the two of us. I pluck the drink from the tray, take a sip of the sickly sweet concoction, and let it cool my raw throat.

Fitzgerald sets the tray on my desk, spins my chair around, and sits in it. This is one of those moments when I look at him and realize he’s old. He had gray hair when I was little. Now he has nothing left but a fine dusty ring of white hair around the base of his scalp, as bald as an egg, and shiny. His hands look crooked, no matter how steady they are. He wrings his fingers and flexes them as he speaks.