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  Carol observed, “They didn’t get along, then.”

  “Like chalk and cheese.” He set the empty bottle on the table, held the decanter by the base, and poured a small amount into both of their glasses. “Tell me what you think.”

  There was a singular pleasure to watching their eyes go round from that first incredible taste. Connor stood there a moment longer, observing them with a genuine satisfaction. When he excused himself to go see about their orders, Marcela caught his eye and nodded. Connor entered the kitchen, buoyed by the sense of having gotten something very right.

  When he returned with their plates, Carol had reached across the table and taken her husband’s hand. She was a handsome woman, strong and solid and deeply in love. Carol saw in Porter what others did not. With a simple molten look, she elevated her lumpish husband to a throne of her own making.

  Connor wished them a bon appétit and turned away, his pleasantly attentive mask firmly in place. But the way Carol looked at her husband had drawn Connor down a memory lane littered with women whose names he could not recall.

  CHAPTER 11

  Connor slept fitfully. Every hour or so, he was jerked awake by the image of that simple wooden sign hanging over the pantry door. By dawn, it felt as though LAST CHANCE SALOON was branded into his brain.

  His final dream was about Phil Hammond, sort of. Connor stood by the table and looked down at himself, only thirty years older. He woke up knowing what had troubled him about the guy. Phil was smooth, urbane, and played his role well. Just like Connor. The dream’s message was clear enough. This was the best he could hope for? Striving and struggling and finally reaching stardom, so his own team of sycophants could crowd around him at a meal they didn’t enjoy, giving the king his due?

  He gave up on sleep and dressed. His feet ached and his back felt stiff. His left thumb was blistered and he could not remember when he had burned himself. Despite it all, he actually looked forward to performing in scene two.

  A little after seven, Connor walked to the diner and was waved into the same booth he had sat in the day before. Connor caught the cook looking his way. The man was obsidian black, with a froth of gray curls covering his scalp. When Connor nodded, the cook gave him a friendly wave. Then the same waitress came over and told him, “Joey says you get the locals discount. Ten percent.”

  “Joey is the cook?”

  “And owner.” The waitress was about Connor’s age, but she carried herself like a woman much older. Her expression said everything hurt. Her polyester uniform and pale hose and support shoes made her look shapeless. “How’d you land the gig at Castaways?”

  “I asked.”

  She sniffed. “I asked, too. Like, what, a dozen times. Look where it got me. Working for Joey.”

  Connor had no idea what to say, except, “Could I have a coffee?”

  She walked back to the station, lifted the pot, and filled his ceramic mug. “Is it true what they’re saying, you bought the cop a hundred-dollar bottle of wine?”

  “Who exactly is saying that?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She sniffed again. “Don’t expect it to do you any good. You step out of line, he’ll still lock you up.”

  Connor was still searching for a response when the elegant woman he had noticed in the guesthouse walked over and asked, “Would you mind some company?”

  * * *

  After the waitress filled the woman’s coffee cup and turned away, Connor said, “I don’t think I understood what it means to live in a small town until just now.”

  Joey called through the pickup window, “What’s the matter, you’re not eating?”

  Connor started to say something about the waitress being too preoccupied to even ask, but he saw her wince and changed his mind. “What’s good?”

  “I smoke my own turkey sausage.”

  “I’ll have that and two eggs over easy.”

  “You got it. Miss?”

  “Coffee is fine, thank you.” When the cook turned away, she said, “I owe you an apology. I was very impolite yesterday.”

  “Do me a favor. Take off those sunglasses.” Connor watched her hesitate, then fumble the oversized glasses from her face. She was an attractive woman in her fifties, but her gray eyes were hollow. She looked like she had not slept in weeks. Connor said, “You don’t need to apologize.”

  “My name is Estelle Rainier.”

  “Connor Smith. Nice to meet you, Estelle.”

  She tightened her lips in what might have been a smile. “Anyway, I’m sorry. I had a shock yesterday.”

  The waitress chose that moment to return. As she refilled their mugs, Estelle murmured, “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” When they were alone, he asked Estelle, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  She turned toward the window. “Sylvie Cassick is my daughter.”

  Connor wondered if this was another part of small-town life. How every bend in the road, every passing hour, carried the potential to punch him in the soul. “Really?”

  “Of course, really. You think I would suggest such a thing if it wasn’t true?” She picked up her coffee mug, then set it down, untasted. “She’s my daughter and we haven’t spoken in nineteen years. I didn’t even know where she lived. I hired a detective.”

  “So when I saw you yesterday . . .”

  “I’ve been here four days and the closest I’ve come to Castaways is across the street. I watched you go inside. I started to follow you, but then I heard that dreadful Sinatra music—”

  “Sinatra is many things,” Connor replied. “Dreadful isn’t one of them.”

  She studied the steaming mug. “You’re right, of course. My ex and Sylvie loved that sort of music. I felt so excluded.... I accused him of making her share his addiction. Which is nonsense. I knew it at the time. But it seems like Sylvie was closer to him than me from her very first breath. I was bitterly jealous.”

  Connor handed her his napkin and waited until she had cleared her face. “So you heard the music and, what, you left without seeing her?”

  “Yes, Connor. I ran away. Can you understand that?”

  It was his turn to stare out the side window. “Absolutely.”

  The waitress set down his plate and announced, “This is on me.”

  For once, he was grateful for the interruption. “What’s your name?”

  “Gloria.”

  He introduced himself, then said, “It’s nice of you to offer. But really—”

  “Hey, it may not be a hundred-dollar bottle of wine, but still.”

  Connor showed her his best smile. “That’s very nice of you, Gloria, thanks.”

  When the waitress departed, Estelle asked, “What was that all about?”

  “It’s nothing. Estelle, why are you telling me this?”

  She leaned across the table, her features taut. “I want you to tell me what my daughter is like.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Nowadays Sylvie’s life contained few opportunities to watch the sunrise, once her favorite hour of the day. Since opening Castaways, there was always so much to do. However, a migraine and the medicine were always followed by a day where she lived in shadows. Sylvie had built her life on being strong, and she hated this period of enforced weakness as much as the pain itself. She knew from experience that if she reentered full speed too early, she would suffer another attack. So she forced herself to sit by the bedroom’s open window and watch gulls dance their silent ballet against the backdrop of shimmering blue. The wind hummed a gentle melody through the cypress and California pines. The clouds sailed great billowing ships across the sky. She felt as though she watched the day through a medicinal blanket.

  The old ship captain had lived on the top floor, under the garrets, which now saw duty as her bedroom and walk-in closet and bath. Sylvie often imagined the adventurer seated where she was now, watching sails head into the world from which he had retreated. Sylvie had bought a love seat and matching coffee table, and positioned them so she and Brad
ley could enjoy a private alcove overlooking the Pacific. That was, of course, before Sylvie had discovered the love of her life had forgotten to mention the wife and three children and Labrador in Santa Cruz. Since that bombshell had landed nineteen months earlier, she went through weekly debates over whether she should burn the love seat in her backyard.

  Around eleven, Sylvie descended to the middle floor, entered the kitchen area, and made herself a cup of tea and toast. The entire middle floor was now one great room. The west-facing area had formerly housed four blackjack tables and a trio of roulette wheels. Every shred of that tawdry past had been ripped out. The striped red wallpaper was gone, along with the calico carpet, the fake Art Deco lightshades, and the benches where the fancy ladies had sat and waited to be summoned.

  Rick phoned around midday, assuring her he would take over the setting-up responsibilities. Sylvie protested, as usual. Her migraines were part of the restaurant’s routine, coming as they did once or twice a month. She liked to think of herself as a woman who thrived on being independent and self-sufficient, but these attacks were a habitual reminder of how much she relied on others. Rick, Bruno, Marcela, and Carl would arrange among themselves to take deliveries and make decisions over the night’s specials and do everything she simply did not have the energy to do today.

  She drifted downstairs at four-thirty. Her feet seemed scarcely able to find the next step. She made a quick tour of the kitchen, accepted the polite wishes from her staff, then settled onto her stool by the front door. She did not plan on moving one inch more than was absolutely necessary all night.

  Ten minutes later, Marcela arrived bearing a carrot cupcake with a single candle. “Happy birthday.”

  “Shame on you,” Sylvie replied. “I had almost managed to forget.”

  “Hey! Last year, you got your wish, right? You survived that dreadful Bradley. You recovered. You moved on.”

  Rick stepped up beside her. “We’re not supposed to speak his name, remember?”

  “Once a year, it’s permitted.” Marcela lifted the cupcake. “Now wish and blow.”

  Sylvie looked at the flickering flame. “I still can’t think straight. You wish for me.”

  They both liked that a lot. Rick said, “A guy who deserves you.”

  Marcela said, “Old Phil gets hit by lightning, run over by a Greyhound bus, and buried in a mudslide. Tomorrow.”

  Rick said, “You don’t think maybe that’s a tad overkill?”

  “Hey, did I criticize your wish? A guy who deserves Sylvie? Huh. So he walks in and has a meal and leaves? I mean, really.”

  Sylvie relished having a reason to smile. “So edit the poor man’s wish, why don’t you.”

  “You meet the lover who has been looking for you all his life, only he doesn’t know it until now. He sees your good heart, and he loves you for the best that you are. He helps you find the happiness you deserve.” Marcela lifted her chin at Rick. “Now that’s a wish.”

  Rick was smiling too. “I stand corrected.”

  “You go stand in the corner, is what.” To Sylvie, “Girl, the candle is gonna melt away, you don’t blow.”

  Sylvie did so, tasted a tiny sliver of the icing, then set down the cake and asked, “What do you think of our new waiter?”

  “I like him,” Marcela said. “Connor doesn’t talk about himself, which is nice for a change. But the boy’s got a past, I weaseled that much out of him.”

  Sylvie noticed her headwaiter had lost his smile. “Rick?”

  Rick replied carefully, “Connor did not put a foot wrong all night.”

  “So you like him?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Marcela flashed genuine ire. “What could you possibly have against the guy? He took on everything the kitchen gave him. He stayed polite, and he handled old Phil with a smile. What, Connor spent too much on the wine?”

  “Wait,” Sylvie said. “He bought wine?”

  “For a table,” Marcela said. “To thank the chief.”

  “Connor bought a bottle of wine for Porter? What was it?”

  “Lynch-Bages, 2005,” Rick said.

  Marcela told their headwaiter, “There is no reason on earth for you not to like him.”

  Rick’s only response was to walk away.

  Marcela asked, “What is that all about?”

  “Maybe he’s got a hunch or something,” Sylvie replied. “But why wouldn’t he tell us?”

  Marcela shrugged. “You figure out what makes any guy tick, you be sure and let me know.”

  * * *

  The restaurant was surprisingly busy for a Wednesday, but it all remained at a distance for Sylvie. A group from one of the Moonstone Beach hotels filled the long table. Locals chose that night to come in for a meal. A business group decided there was nothing they would like more than a good night out to round off their successful meeting. By eight o’clock, every table was full and Sylvie had turned away three late arrivals. Connor handled his six tables fairly well. He was rushed and he made mistakes, but he apologized sincerely and explained that this was his second night after years away from the trade.

  Sylvie mostly sat on her leather-clad stool by the host station. She made just one round of the restaurant, and visited the kitchen only twice. She drifted through the hours. The migraine drug always gave her a sense of being disconnected from reality.

  Around nine, she began a mental conversation with her new waiter. The handsome man of mystery. Connor Smith. As she watched him, she wondered what it was that troubled Rick so.

  The answer was almost audible, certainly clearer than anything she heard from the outside world. Rick is afraid you’re going to fall in love with me, Connor mentally replied. And I’m no good.

  Sylvie walked to the waiters’ station and made herself a cup of coffee as she silently observed, You certainly look like bad news.

  I am. Very bad.

  Sylvie remained by the coffeemaker, staring out at the night beyond the window. The imaginary Connor asked her, And what would you like for your birthday?

  Sylvie did not need to think that one over. The same three wishes as every year. To own this restaurant free and clear. To know the love of an honest man. And to spend another happy hour with my father.

  As she returned to her station, she saw Connor smile at a table, brightening the lady’s night. And right then, Sylvie realized what Rick had seen.

  Connor was just going through the motions.

  She could easily have put it down to Connor’s newness or her own addled state, but Sylvie felt as though her medicinal distance actually clarified things for once. Connor Smith was not really engaged.

  He worked the job and he talked the good talk. However, there was a special quality to a good waiter. They might be aloof; they could be utterly cold in their manner. Still, they conveyed a unique passion about their work. They treated it as a profession. They saw themselves as a vital component of the evening. And that was what an outstanding restaurant was all about. It did not merely prepare good food. It created an experience.

  Sylvie kept watching, and became fairly certain two of Connor’s tables felt the same. They might not be able to say why, but they were not taken with Connor’s act.

  And that was exactly what it was.

  Rick chose that moment to walk over. “You holding up okay?”

  “Marginally.” Sylvie gave a fractional jerk of her chin in Connor’s direction. “I see what you mean about him. He’s . . .”

  “Disconnected,” Rick finished, and patted her on the shoulder. “Leave this with me.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Connor spent much of the shift thinking back over his conversation with Estelle. He was rushed off his feet, and needed desperately to focus. However, even as the restaurant filled up, he could not get the woman out of his head.

  Their time together in the diner had lasted all of ten minutes, maybe even less. Connor had tried to explain that Sylvie had not been feeling well, and as a result they’d only sp
oken a few words. Estelle would not be put off, though. “You had to have said something. She doesn’t just offer a job to any fool who wanders in off the street.”

  “Thanks so much for the compliment,” Connor said. “A wandering fool. That’s a new one.”

  “I’ve got a lifetime’s experience of saying the wrong things.” She leaned in closer still. “Please.”

  He wished he had not asked her to take off her sunglasses. Estelle Rainier’s eyes were a stormy gray, one shade darker than her daughter’s. Her gaze held a desperation that was borderline frantic. Connor had no choice but to reply to her. “Sylvie is gentle and beautiful in a fractured sort of way.”

  “‘Fractured’?” she said.

  “I don’t know exactly how to describe it. But I had the impression that she didn’t just get a crippling headache out of the blue. It came on because she’s carrying some awful burden.”

  “What is it, do you think?”

  “I have no idea. What I can tell you is, the people here care for her.”

  “What people?”

  “Everybody.” He related his conversation with the stylist. And the way the two front staff almost cradled her when the pain struck. “Miramar’s chief of police came in with his wife. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t there just for the meal. He came to check me out.”

  “For Sylvie.”

  “Right. Everybody around here thinks the world of your daughter. And something more.”

  “What?” Her soft plea held a desperate edge.

  Connor struggled to put it into words. “She’s made a home here.”

  Estelle’s tension and the strength slipped away. Her shoulders slumped. Her features ran like wax. She turned to the window and worked hard not to cry.

  Connor did not know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

  Her fingers trembled as she pushed the sunglasses back over her eyes. She fumbled her way from the booth. As she left, she said, “Don’t tell Sylvie I’m here.”

  “Estelle, maybe—”

  She pointed an unsteady finger at his head. “Don’t.”