Beautiful Sacrifice (The Maddox Brothers, #3)(11)

“Good!” Phaedra snapped. “I’d make myself a grilled chicken panini with pickles and chipotle mayo every day, right about the time Kirby would pass by on her way home from Columbia Elementary.”

Kirby smirked. “And she’d always magically lose her appetite.”

“Just because I knew you’d be ravenous by the time you poked your little crow head into my door,” Phaedra said, her tone a mixture of sass and silly. “She would talk nonstop with her mouth full, carrying on about her day, while she annihilated my poor panini, and then she wouldn’t even say thanks before wiping her mouth with her sleeve and walking the few blocks to Old Chicago where her mom waited tables.”

Kirby screwed on a saltshaker lid. “That isn’t entirely accurate.”

“Okay,” Phaedra spit. “She used a napkin. Sometimes.”

Kirby shook her head and chuckled as she detached the pepper shaker lid.

Noticing the time, I began unscrewing lids for Kirby, and she picked up her pace.

“Kirby is the only person in the world, including Chuck,” I said, nodding toward the kitchen, “who could get away with sticking her tongue out at you and live to tell about it.”

“No. I have two girls, and I take shit from both of them,” Phaedra said, arching her eyebrow at me.

I swallowed back the lump that had formed in my throat. Phaedra had a way of making me feel like family when I least expected it and always when I needed it the most.

She picked a hand towel off the counter as she approached me. She swung it over her shoulder and then glanced at her watch. She turned me to face the wall of glass, toward the three parked cars full of people.

She raised my hand with the open saltshaker still in my grip and began to recite her favorite sonnet, “Mother of Exiles! From her beacon-hand! Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command!”

After each verse, she would shake my elevated hand, salt falling over our heads like an erratic blizzard.

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses!”

After Phaedra finished, she let go of my hand, and I shook out the white specks from my hair.

Phaedra sighed. “No one talks like that anymore.”

“You do,” Kirby said.

“God, do I love my country.”

Kirby made a face. “Anyone would know that after seeing your arrest record from participating in sit-ins. What does that poem have to do with anything?”

Phaedra looked dumbstruck.

“It’s Emma Lazarus,” I said.

Kirby’s expression didn’t change.

I continued, “That sonnet is on a plaque at the Statue of Liberty.”

When recognition finally hit, Kirby’s mouth formed an O.

Phaedra rolled her eyes. “Dear Lord Jesus, help us all.”

“I’ll get the broom,” Kirby said, dashing to the back room.

Phaedra grumbled all the way to the kitchen. Failure to know important pieces of history, or ignorance of common knowledge in general made her temper flare.

Kirby reappeared, broom and dustpan in hand. “Shit. I’ve tried to forget all of that since graduation. It’s summer break. You’d think she’d cut me some slack.”

“It’s going to be a long day,” I said, fetching the broom.

Kirby and I worked to clean the mess, and she rushed to the trash can with the dustpan while I flipped it open. People inside the three parked cars in front began to stir, and by the time Kirby returned from taking the broom to the back, the customers were waiting to be seated.

“I didn’t finish the shakers,” she whispered to me.

“On it,” I said, rushing to finish her job.

I looked at the clock, wondering how we’d gotten so far behind schedule. Usually, we’d finish with ten minutes to spare.

Phaedra didn’t reveal her mood to the customers, but Kirby and I had to work extra hard to keep her smiling. An entire pitcher of sun tea crashed to the floor, Hector broke a stack of plates, and I didn’t get one of the saltshakers screwed on tightly enough, so Chuck had to make a Philly cheesesteak sandwich on the double to replace the one with more salt in it than what had been in my hair.

Kirby seated the author and her assistant, their second visit in as many days.

“Afternoon,” I said with a smile. “Back again, huh?”

“It’s so good,” the author said. “I wanted to try the Cuban before we left.”

“This is not what I ordered,” a man said loudly to Phaedra.

Dwayne Kaufman was sitting alone in the corner, licking his thumb after tossing the top bun of his burger to the floor.

“Uh-oh,” Kirby whispered in my ear. “Dwayne’s been drinking again. Should I call the police?”

I shook my head. Who gets drunk before noon? “Let Phaedra handle it.”

“I said, no ketchup! And it’s f*cking cold!” Dwayne yelled.

“My apologies, hon,” Phaedra said. “I’ll get that fixed right away, Dwayne.” She scooped up his plate and rushed through the double doors.

“I’m not your hon!” he called after her. “Piece-of-shit café.”

I walked over to Dwayne and smiled. “Can I get you a coffee while Chuck grills that up for you?”

“Fuck off,” he grumbled, facing me but keeping his eyes on the floor. “I just want a f*cking burger the way I ordered it. Is that so hard?”