What Happens to Goodbye(20)

“Shutting the door and cutting our losses would be the easiest,” he replied. “I’m thinking that might be the way to go.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” He sighed, then looked out the kitchen window, taking another bite. For someone who made his living out of a love of food, my dad was a fast, messy eater. He never lingered or savored, instead just wolfing down what was on his plate like someone was timing him. He was almost finished as I got up to pour myself a glass of milk, only a few bites of my own meal taken.
“Well,” I said carefully, “I guess it was bound to happen sometime.”
My dad swallowed, then glanced at me. “What was?”
“No potential,” I replied. When he raised his eyebrows, I said, “You know. A place that really can’t be fixed, even by you. A hopeless situation.”
“I guess so,” he replied, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Some things can’t be saved.”
This was a fact we both knew well. And maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, I thought as I opened the fridge, letting this ship sink. Sure, it would mean another move, another change, another school. But at least I’d get to start right, not like I had here, where I was stuck with Mclean, despite my best—
“The thing is,” he sd suddenly, interrupting this quickly snowballing train of thought, “there is some good talent in the kitchen.”
If I’d been paying closer attention, I probably would have heard it, the sound of the bottom getting hit. Followed by the beginning of this small rise.
“Not Leo, obviously,” he continued, glancing at me. “But a couple of the line guys, and one of the prep cooks. And there are possibilities on the floor as well, if I can just weed out the gloom-and-doomers.”
I slid back into my seat, putting my glass in front of me. “How did the customers like the new menu?”
“The few we had, who actually got their meals hot and complete,” he said with a sigh, “were raving.”
“And the pickles?”
“Went over huge. Opal was furious.” He smiled, shaking his head. “But the new menu, it’s good. Simple, flavorful, plays to all our strengths. The few we have anyway.”
Now I was sure he was going to stay in. This, when he went from using “them” to “us”—an outsider to one within—was another sign.
His phone, parked by the sink, suddenly jumped and buzzed. He reached over, grabbing it and flipping it open. “Gus Sweet. Oh, right. I did want to talk to you. . . .”
As a voice crackled from the other line, I glanced over at our neighbors’ house, just in time to see Dave Wade’s mom coming out her side door. She was dressed in jeans, a white, cable-knit sweater, and sensible shoes, a tote bag over one shoulder, carrying a foil-covered pan in her hands. As she walked down the steps, she moved carefully, looking down so she wouldn’t trip.

“. . . Yes, that’s exactly what I said,” my dad was saying as she crossed the driveway and started up our steps, equally cautiously. “Why? Because I don’t like the look of the order I got yesterday.”
Mrs. Wade was almost to our side door. I got up to meet her, just as she leaned into the screen, covering her eyes with her free hand. When she saw me, she jumped back, startled.
“Hello,” she said as I pushed the door open. “I’m Anne Dobson-Wade. I live next door? I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood, so I made some brownies.”
“Oh,” I said. She extended the dish to me, and I took it. “Thank you.”
“They are nut-free, gluten-free, and sugar-free, made with all organic ingredients,” she said. “I didn’t know if you had any allergies.”
“We don’t,” I replied. “But, um, thanks for the consideration.”
“Of course!” She smiled at me, a bit of frizz blowing in the wind coming in behind her. “Well, as I said, we are right next door. If you need anything or have questions about the neighborhood, I hope you’ll let us know. We’ve been here forever.”
I nodded in response to this, just as Dave came out of her door, wearing a green T-shirt and jeans, and began dragging the garbage can down to the curb. His mom turned, saying something to him, but he didn’t hear her over the wheels scraping the pavement, and kept walking. Then my dad started yelling.
“I don’t care if you’v been supplying them for a hundred years. Don’t run a muddle on me. I can tell a light order when I see it.” He paused, allowing the other person, who was now talking even more quickly, to say something. “Look. This isn’t up for debate, okay?”
Mrs. Dobson-Wade looked at my dad, clearly alarmed at his tone. “It’s a work call,” I explained, as behind her, Dave came back up the driveway. When he saw me talking to his mom, he slowed his steps, then stopped entirely.
“Who am I?” my dad said was saying as Dave Wade and I, strangers but not, just stared at each other over his mother’s small, bony shoulder. “I’m the new boss at Luna Blu. And you are my former produce purveyor. Goodbye.”
He hung up, then slammed his phone down for emphasis on the table, the sound making me jump. Only then did he look up and see me and Dave’s mom at the door.
“This is Mrs. Dobson-Wade,” I said, keeping my own voice calm, as if to prove we weren’t both total maniacs. “She made us some brownies.”
“Oh.” He wiped his hands together, then came over. “That’s . . . Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome!” There was an awkward beat, with no one talking, before she said, “I was just telling your daughter that we’ve lived here for over twenty years, so if you need any information on the neighborhood, or schools, just let us know.”