With a nod, Fran grabs my plate of food from the order window, sets it in front of me, then rushes to the back.
In a matter of minutes, Flo coaxes the women out the door and carries their plates still heaped with food to the back where Miguel has taken over the grill in her absence. I’d like to ask her what she knows about Fran, but I know better than to bother Aunt Flo when her mouth is screwed into a tight line like it is now.
I finish my breakfast long before Junie finishes hers, and after months of resisting, I give in to the temptation to google Frankie Forsythe. Generally, I prefer a direct approach when it comes to getting information about someone, rather than going to the internet, which is why I haven’t googled her before. Also, why I haven’t dragged the info out of anyone else, like Mom, who, when I tried, told me Fran deserves to tell her own story.
A lot of stories pop up, and I click on the most recent headline, “Where’s Frankie Now?” After wading through way too many pop-up ads and a lot of very basic info about Fran—like that she’s Australian—I laugh out oud when I reach the end. The writer’s guess, based on “very conclusive evidence” is Croatia.
“All done, Daddy!” Junie drops her fork on her plate with a loud clang, then climbs out of her seat.
I check the time on my phone. Eight twenty-nine. Junie’s going to be tardy. Miss Merry doesn’t mark kids tardy, but I’ll know Junie’s late, and it will bother me for the rest of the day.
But as I follow Junie out the door, Fran still hasn’t reappeared, which is also going to bother me. I’ll spend the rest of the day worrying whether she’s okay. So, after walking Junie to Miss Merry’s Little Lambs and dropping her there, I pop back into the diner.
Fran isn’t in the dining room. I check my watch, debating what to do. I don’t have appointments this morning, but I like to be at the clinic in case anyone pops in with their pets. My specialty is large animals, but sometimes Dr. Gomez, the other vet in town, gets too many cat or dog walk-ins and sends them my way to be treated sooner.
And while Fran and I are friends, I might be crossing a line getting into her personal business. I’ve tested the waters with jokes about asking her out, but she’s never quite said yes. I don’t blame her. I’m not exactly a catch when I come with a kid. At least Junie’s cute. The mountains of vet school debt and loans I took out to buy the clinic come with me too. Those are flat-out ugly.
I turn to leave, then hear Aunt Flo yell, “Get back here, Cal!”
I do as she orders and walk in the kitchen where she and Miguel are working through orders like a well-oiled machine. “She’s in my office,” she says without looking up from the grill.
“Thanks.” That’s all the permission I need to tuck away my doubts and take a chance Fran will be happy to see me.
I go to the back of the kitchen and open the door to Flo’s office. Fran’s back is to me, and she’s twisting the handle on the antique gumball machine in the corner.
“Everything okay?”
She startles and turns at the same time a large gumball rolls down the shoot and clinks against the metal door. Her blonde wig is on the desk and red-brown curls tumble to her shoulders.
“Nah, yeah. I’m alright. Just a bit startled.” She forces a smile.
“By the lady taking pictures? Or by me?”
“Both.” A breathy laugh escapes and her mouth relaxes into a more natural grin.
“I didn’t realize your hair is red.”
Her hand flies to her head, like she’s forgotten then she huff-laughs again. “Auburn is the name for it.”
“I like it.”
“More than the beehive?” She waves her head toward the wig, her eyes shining like they do when she teases me. They’re not as bright as usual, but I’ll take it as a good sign there’s still some spark in them.
“I mean, can anything beat a beehive?”
Fran laughs and turns to take the gumball out of the shoot. “I should have believed you when you said Junie was a firecracker.”
“I don’t exaggerate when it comes to my kid.”
When she faces me again, she’s trying tolookmore relaxed, but a jittery energy rolls off her like a nervous colt.
“That holds true for her being…” She cocks her head and squints one eye closed. “The cutest, smartest, and most polite kid in the world. I think that’s how you put it.”
“Like I said, I don’t exaggerate.”
“No, Cal Holloway, I reckon you don’t.” Fran pops the orange gumball into her mouth then mashes it between her teeth with a slow, painful effort.
“That gum’s ancient.” I point to the machine. “I was with Flo when she found that at Larry’s antique store. I think those are the same gumballs that were in it then.”
