That had been two hours ago. And now Lizbeth was at school, and they’d said goodbye to Mrs. Meyers, and there was aFor Leasesign in the window and the shop was bare. Rory had no more time left. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t ready; this part of his life was over, moving on without him like a train leaving him behind on the platform.
“But this is not goodbye forus,” Mrs. Brodigan said firmly, straightening. “There are more mysterious forces in the world than even your magic, dear. I’m certain we’re meant to see each other again. We’re family.”
About halfway down the street was Mr. McIntyre’s car. Mrs. Brodigan’s husband-to-be was waiting patiently behind the wheel, and Rory thought he could see a smiling young woman in the passenger seat.
He nodded. “Family. Yeah,” he managed to say.
Mrs. Brodigan hugged Rory then, and he hugged her back.
She pulled back a moment later, her eyes still too shiny. “And what kind of aunt would forget your birthday?”
She’d remembered? “I figured, with everything going on—”
She held out an envelope. “I’ve split it down the middle, the money I saved for you and the money we made on sales. It’s not as much as you deserve, but that means you’ll take it.”
Rory shook his head. “No, you keep—”
“Young man, this is your birthday present.” She pressed the envelope into his hand. “Not another word.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, his manners taking over automatically. He’d minded his mom for thirteen years; he could tell a man to go to hell forever, but women were another story.
“Can we take you to lunch?” she said. “Patrick and Maggie would love to get to know you.”
“Nah,” he said quickly. “You get going to Boston.”
She frowned. “We’ve always done dinner together on your birthday—”
“I got plans,” he lied.
She smiled and patted his arm. “Write to me,” she said, “while I’m off on my next adventure and you’re off on your adventures with Arthur.”
Before he could protest that he hadn’t been invited on any adventures, she was gone, walking down the street to Mr. McIntyre’s car. The young woman got out of the passenger seat, so pregnant she couldn’t button up her coat. She was beaming for Mrs. Brodigan, who was smiling too, and the two women embraced as Mr. McIntyre scooted into the middle of the front bench seat, making room for Mrs. Brodigan to drive.
Rory smiled wistfully. He stepped close to the building, next to the faded letters that still spelled outBrodigan’s Appraisals,and watched her drive away.
He made it to the hotel restaurant just before it opened for lunch. Next to the kitchen was an office for the restaurant manager and a short row of lockers. Rory always brought the lock from the inside of his boarding house door, and he quickly stopped by the lockers to secure the one thing he was wearing that he cared about, his newsboy cap from Arthur, along with the envelope of cash Mrs. Brodigan had just given him.
“You’re late,” snapped Mr. Baker, the manager, as Rory made it out on the floor.
Rory wasn’t. But he bit his retort back, because waiters were easy to find in New York and he needed this job.
It was a hugely busy Friday, every table full for lunch, and even the afternoon brought in business. Mr. Baker was too cheap to pay for enough staff, so Rory had to practically sprint around to take care of everyone, because patrons wouldn’t care he was overworked, they’d assume he was slow because he was lazy and leave even smaller tips. He took orders, refilled drinks, and carried trays of oyster cocktail and pea soups, sole gratiné and lamb with mint jelly.
The lunch crowd bled into late afternoon. His feet hurt in the too-big dress shoes before dinner even started, and after four hours of dealing with the dinner crowd, he was aching to crash on even his lumpy boarding house bed. All he wanted for his birthday was to get out of here.
But as he was hanging up his apron, Mr. Baker poked his head out of the office. “You’re on dishes.”
“What?” Rory snapped, before he could stop himself.
“Mind your tone,” Mr. Baker warned, and pointed at the kitchen. “Get in there. Dishwasher quit.”
Of course the dishwasher’d finally quit; she’d been paid even less than the waiters for twelve-hour days in a hot, stuffy kitchen. “It’s nine thirty.” Rory gritted his teeth. “And I’ve been here since lunch.”
“And you still want to be here tomorrow, right?” Mr. Baker said icily.
Washing the dishes would take hours; long past ten, when his boarding would be locked, and now he no longer had the shop to sleep in. If he kept working, where was he gonna spend the night? The street?
He had the money from Mrs. Brodigan, enough to cover a couple months’ rent. He could quit right now, go home, and look for a better job.
