Deep Down (Lockhart Brothers #1) (15 page)

“Go to hell, Tom,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “Is this the same kind of offer you make to women when you pull them over? Get a ticket or be my friend and I’ll get you out of it?”

His expression darkened and he wrapped a hand around my wrist.

“You better watch your mouth,” he said ominously.

I laughed humorlessly. “Me?”

“Hey,” a deep voice said behind us. I turned to see Reed approaching quickly, his expression just as pissed off as Tom’s. “What the hell is this?”

Reed grabbed Tom’s forearm and pushed his hand away from my wrist. He edged himself in front of me so he was between me and Tom. My relief was overshadowed by my embarrassment when other customers turned to see what was going on.

“Nothin,’” Tom said, folding his arms on the table.

“Bullshit.” Reed looked at me. “What was he saying to you?”

“I was complaining about my lunch,” Tom said. “It’s a free country, so I can still do that, can’t I?”

“Complain all you want, asshole, but don’t fucking touch her.”

I’d never seen Reed lose his cool. He was leaning toward Tom, waiting for a response, when Tom jumped up from his seat.

“You want your one o’ clock court appearance to be for yourself?” Tom said in a level, challenging tone. “For assaulting a police officer?”

“Bring it. I’d love to tell Judge Tennison I called you an asshole for grabbing a woman who clearly felt threatened by you for no good reason.”

“Gentlemen, is there a problem?” Margie asked, approaching and glaring between Reed and Tom.

“I think we’re done here,” Tom said, tossing a bill on top of his check.

“Did he touch you, Ivy?” Margie asked, turning to me. The entire restaurant was staring at us now.

“Yes.” I crossed my arms across my chest. “Today and pretty much every other day he’s been in here.”

“Douchebag,” Reed mumbled.

“Sergeant Marsh, I think you should find another restaurant to eat at,” Margie said.

A hush spread through the diner and Tom widened his eyes incredulously.

“No problem, Margie. You gonna find another police department to call when you have trouble here?”

“I suppose I’ll have to take that up with the chief.”

Tom shook his head and gave me a dirty look. “You gonna be happy when I get disciplined over this?”

“Get out,” Margie said in a raised voice.

Tom started toward the door.

“Shove that badge up your ass,” Reed said under his voice. Tom paused for just a second before continuing to the door and walking out.

The tension left the diner with Tom, and customers started buzzing about what they’d just witnessed.

“Did he hurt you?” Reed asked me.

“No.”

“What did he say to you?”

I sighed deeply. “He just offered something I’m not interested in.”

“What an asshole.”

“I’m used to it.”

“Other guys put their hands on you here at work?” Reed sounded both angry and surprised.

“I’m a waitress. Men think I’m here to serve them, whether it’s breakfast or a little ass grab.”

“Well, fuck that. Makes me want to get my laptop and work in here so I can teach them some manners.”

This side of Reed was even more charming to me than the polished gentleman I was used to. I touched his shoulder lightly.

“Thanks for standing up for me. I have to get back to work.”

“If you have any more problems with him, let me know. Can I give you my number so I know you can reach me if you need to?”

I nodded and he pulled a business card from his pocket, writing on the back of it.

“My cell number.” He handed it to me.

“Thanks.” I stuck the card in a pocket on my apron.

The excitement in the diner died down and I got back to work. Several customers gave me encouraging smiles to let me know they were on my side. I was more than ready to head home at the end of my shift, but I felt good about standing up for myself with Tom Marsh, and I couldn’t help but think about the way Reed and Margie had come to my rescue. I was reminded, again, about how lucky I was to have settled in Lovely.

PROMPTLY AT SEVEN FORTY-FIVE
the next morning, Walter slid onto his stool, wearing a scowl. I was there within thirty seconds, knowing how much waiting aggravated him.

“Morning, Walter. What can I get you?”

He eyed me silently. “I’ve been wondering something. How did a bright young woman like you end up waitressing?”

“So I could get to know charming customers such as yourself.”

“I’m serious, Ivy.”

“Well, it’s seriously none of your business how I came to have this job. Now what’ll it be?”

“Don’t be so defensive. I see something unfulfilled in you.”

I put a hand on my hip and leaned to one side. “Why the sudden interest in me?”

“It’s not sudden. I’ve been coming here every weekday for five months now.”

A customer at one of my other tables met my eyes, sending me a signal for a coffee refill.

“I work here to support my son,” I said to Walter. “Now what can I get you?”

“What was your favorite subject in high school?”

“That was forever ago.”

“Just humor me, girl. I may be a grouchy old man, but I’m very perceptive. I know you like reading, but when you aren’t flipping burgers or changing diapers, what else do you enjoy?”

I laughed humorlessly. Noah and my job were my life. “Uh . . . I don’t know.”

“Ah.” Walter pointed a finger at me. “Now we’re getting somewhere. You’re red as a ripe tomato. So tell me.”

“No. Just order your eggs and toast, please. I have other customers.”

He sighed. “Maybe there’s nothing there after all.”

“Or maybe I don’t want to listen to your critical opinions,” I snapped.

“So it
is
writing.” His smirk was satisfied. “And you’re worried the famous author will judge you.”

“Well, there certainly aren’t any
modest
authors in the room, so I suppose you’re right.”

“I’m too old to pussy foot around. So what do you write, girl?”

“These days, just orders in this pad right here.” I tapped my pen on it for emphasis. “So, what’ll it be?”

“Write something and bring it to me. I’ll read it and tell you what I think.”

I burst out laughing. “No, thanks.”

“Opportunity may never knock again.” Walter peered at me over the rim of his glasses. “And don’t write about the beauty of a flower, or the magic of first love. Write about something that matters. Something that’s hard to say. Show me something buried inside you.” He scanned the menu, his moment of humanity passing. “Two eggs, over medium. Wheat toast with real butter. Small dish of plain oatmeal.”

I took the menu he held out and hustled to grab a fresh pot of coffee. Walter had to be experiencing a moment of temporary insanity. He couldn’t possibly see something unfulfilled in the waitress who delivered his coffee and eggs every morning, and collected his fifteen percent tip.

I’d loved writing in high school, but I wouldn’t be sharing that information with a rich, famous author who was so critical he could bring down your mood with just a glance. Walter would have to settle for judging my waitressing skills rather than my writing ability.

For the rest of my shift I tried to keep my mind on taking orders, delivering food and maximizing my tips with fast service. But my thoughts kept wandering back to Walter’s offer, and his comment about seeing something unfulfilled in me.

Why had I given up writing? My high school ACT test scores had been very good, but not exceptional. I knew in my heart that it was the essay I’d written about my mother’s death that had won me the Stanford scholarship. I could hide my truths from others, and even from myself, by pushing aside painful memories. But there was something about writing that forced me to pour out my raw feelings.

Maybe that was why it was hard to think about picking up a pen again. I still wasn’t ready to confront the darkness that had changed the course of my life.

When my shift ended, I was drawn to stop by the library and email April. Lillian wasn’t at the desk so I sat down, opened my email and started typing.

Dear April,

I wish you weren’t so far away. It would be good to talk to you about something in person, but e-mail will have to do.

There’s an author here in Lovely who is one of my customers at the diner. He’s kind of an old grouch, but I can’t help liking him. He said he sees something unfulfilled in me and somehow got me to admit I used to like writing. Then he said I should write something and he’ll judge it for me.

The thought of writing again is so scary to me. Not because I have nothing to say, but because I do. Does that make sense at all?

Also, a guy asked me out. Not just any guy, either. He’s tall, dark and way beyond handsome. He’s the one who caught me that day when I slipped and fell. His name is Reed, and he’s everything I’m not. He’s an attorney who grew up in Lovely and he has a perfect, huge, close-knit family. He’s straightforward and sweet. Also, he smells amazing. That’s an insignificant detail, but I thought you should know.

Sounds great, right? So of course I said no. I don’t know how to go on a date with a man like him. And what if he found out about my past?

I just looked at the time and I have to go. Hopefully all this will pass and I can get back to my quiet, peaceful life. But, having said that, I would sure love to get your take on things.

Miss you,

xo Ivy

THE NEXT DAY I
was leaving work an hour early to volunteer at craft time in Noah’s daycare class when Margie stopped me.

“Something came in the mail for you,” she said, handing me an envelope, her eyes narrowed in confusion. “Michigan postmark.”

My heart thumped hard in my chest as I took the letter and put it in my purse. “Thanks, Margie. I’ve gotta go, but I’ll see you in the morning.” I dashed out of the diner before Margie had a chance to ask the questions I knew were forming in her mind.

I rushed to my car and tore into the envelope, praying he’d sent the information I’d asked for. There was a hand-written letter and attached to it were two fully completed medical forms.

Closing my eyes, I sighed with relief. Part of me wanted to shred the letter without even reading it, but curiosity got the better of me.

Dear Ivy,

After more than three years, you send nothing but a request for medical information? I think you owe me more than that. I’ve never even met my grandson.

I wish you wouldn’t have left without talking to me, but I’m not mad anymore. All I want is to put the past behind us and find a way to get to know each other again.

You know how to reach me. Better yet, come home for a visit. It would be great to see you.

Love,

Dad

I slammed my hand on the steering wheel of my car, angry tears welling over. My disgust and anger toward him had reached a new level.

I owed him? He wasn’t mad anymore? Come home for a visit?

Gripping the steering wheel with all my strength, I rested my head on it and tried to force away the rage that was consuming me. I had to pull myself together. I was expected at Noah’s school in fifteen minutes and I couldn’t show up there upset and crying.

With a deep breath, I put the papers back in the envelope and buried it in my purse. Later I’d find a cathartic way to destroy his letter. Maybe I’d cut it into pieces and burn them individually.

He wasn’t even sorry. I knew deep down that if he was, he’d have found a way to contact me and say it. But even when opportunity was staring him in the face, he’d tried to make it out like we were estranged over some insignificant teenage hissy fit.

Damn him. Not just for what he did, but for how he could still make me feel. I started the car, forcing away thoughts of him. That was my only way forward—bury the past and take on the future, one step at a time.