AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Does your mother want to move to the U.S.? Are you proposing she live with you?”
I lift a shoulder. “She wants me to move back here, but my business is there. I mentioned it once, and she was reluctant. I’d like to broach it soon, but without causing a setback.”
“Bring it up but be prepared in case she reacts badly. You might have to back off and let her get used to the possibility.”
“Could she get upset enough to have a heart attack?”
Fitzroy gives a head shake. “I don’t think so. Just come at it as a suggestion and be prepared for her to take time to get used to the possibility.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “She knows she can’t live alone, so she may be more receptive than you think. Good luck. I’ll see you tomorrow when she’s discharged.”
ChapterTwenty-Five
Freedom is the oxygen of the soul.—Moshe Dayan
Micki
Who knowshow long JL will be in Vancouver. Time stretches out like taffy. Restlessness makes me want to be somewhere else. My conversation with Rebecca led me to resign. I informed Fred just before the announcement of Hayden’s promotion so he wouldn’t tell everyone I was staying on as senior associate, and he offered me a generous severance package if I agreed not to sue for unfair hiring practices. Salary and insurance benefits were the main things.
After a lot of thought, I declined. If I took the offer, I couldn’t pursue any legal action. Then I spent time with the firm’s HR director, filling out paperwork and applying for COBRA before clearing out the few personal things in my office.
Because I refused to initial the non-compete clause, Rebecca and Fred descended on my almost vacant office at the same time. He harangued me while Rebecca tried to make him shut up. In the end, she got him to agree to forego the clause.
I’m back at Max and Cress’ house. They convinced me not to stay alone. But right now, on day three, at 5:30 a.m., the Provençal Room is too familiar. The luxurious mansion is too comfortable. I want to go somewhere. By myself. No friends, no bodyguards. Just solitude away from the house that seems more like a prison. I slip on jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, socks, and walking shoes.
Deep carpeting in the hallway means my footsteps are noiseless. Max and Cress’ bedroom door is closed. I stand next to it, listening. Silence. Probably just sleep noises inside. Too soft to hear through the thick oak. With careful movements, I walk down the stairs, keeping to the runner. One step creaks and I stop, wait, but no one moves.
When I look out, a GSU car is at the curb, but I don’t see anyone inside. I slip on my jacket, grab my cross-body shoulder bag, make sure keys are inside, and slip out the front door. No movement from the car. I walk over and see Case sound asleep on the back seat. Then I walk to the corner and summon an Uber to take me to Lou Mitchell’s. Breakfast alone in a crowd seems just the ticket.
The Uber driver is friendly and talkative. Gray hair peeks out from under a Cubs cap. “You from around here?” he asks.
“Yes, But I grew up in Evanston.”
“Me too. Humboldt Park.”
Just an Uber ride, but a feeling of normality creeps over me. A regular car, with a regular guy driving it. I settle back in the late-model Toyota Corolla and watch the downtown streets whiz past. The sense of freedom gives me goosebumps of joy.
He pulls up on Jackson and I check the sidewalk, just to be on the safe side. A small knot of teens cluster around the Dunkin’ Donuts a few doors down, smoking. My driver looks at them. “You want me to walk you in?”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll be okay. It’s only a few steps.”
“You take care of yourself. And try a waffle. That’s what I have when I get the chance to eat here. They’re A number one. The homemade marmalade is superb, too.”
The donut group ignores me as I walk purposefully under the historic sign, reminding diners they do all the baking in-house. At six thirty, the place is already jumping. The smell of freshly baked donuts and frying bacon, accompanied by the chatter of happy diners, makes me feel at home. A short line ensures my wait is brief. I decline a chance to sit at the counter, and I’m led to one of the few open tables, clutching a small box of Milk Duds and a donut hole. Milk Duds, only doled out to women and children, is a tradition started by Lou himself, a friend of the candy maker. For the record, he said it was for the Greek tradition of greeting guests with something sweet. His family insisted he just liked the ladies. The donut holes started later, but never replaced the candy.
While I savor the seductive coffee aroma that wafts from my first cup of their special blend coffee with pure cream, I take my time over the menu. The history is amazing. They opened in 1923 before Route 66, which started practically on the spot in 1926. It’s known as the first stop on the Mother Road and has been listed on the National Register of Historic Sites since 2006. I only wish JL was here with me, so I take a picture and send him a text. With the two-hour time difference, I’ll be safely back with Max and Cress before he reads it.
ME: At Lou Mitchell’s diner. Not sure why we’ve never had breakfast here. It’s one of my favorites.
ME: The menu says: Enough fresh eggs have been cracked, made into omelets, cooked in skillets, and sold for breakfast at Lou Mitchell’s to go side by side more than a few times around the world.
ME:We’ve poured enough cups of our signature coffee to fill the Chicago River and our delicious pancakes could fill Wrigley Field. And to think, it all started with one man’s food dream in Illinois.
ME: YUM!!!!
I eat my donut hole, savoring each of the three bites I take for the tiny confection. Powdered sugar dots my T-shirt and brushing at it smears the sugar everywhere. I look around but I don’t see Sam in his designer overalls.
Eyes tight shut, I pretend to be invisible. Can’t see you so you can’t see me. When I open them into surveillance slits, a small fruit bowl with a prune and an orange segment has appeared above my knife and spoon.
After much debate, I order a mushroom special hobo skillet, which is an omelette with the potatoes mixed in. I ask them to add spinach to the eggs and bring a side of bacon. When I’m finished, the waitress brings the bill. “Get you anything else?” she asks.
