father.”
Oh, God. Regina’s stomach flipped. Like this day didn’t suck enough already. Her mother couldn’t be content with control of the restaurant, she wanted to run Regina’s life as well.
“That doesn’t always work out, Ma.”
Antonia glared. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Margred had abandoned wiping tables to listen.
“You married Dad,” Regina said. “How many years did he stick around? Two? Three?”
“At least you got your father’s name.”
“And that’s all I got. You did everything. Paid for everything. He never even sent child support.”
“Oh, and you did so much better with the Greedy Gourmet.”
Frustration closed Regina’s throat. She had never been able to talk with her mother. They were like oil and vinegar, too different to ever really understand one another.
Or maybe they were too much alike.
“I wasn’t—” She worried the crucifix around her neck, running it back and forth along the chain. “I’m trying to tell you I appreciate—”
“He loved us. Your father. Not everybody is suited for island life, you know.”
38
“I know. Jesus.” Did they have to exhume every skeleton in the family closet just because Jane Ivey liked Regina’s crab cakes better than her mother’s lasagna? “I’d leave myself if I could.”
The words hung on the air, thick as the grease smell from the fryer.
The hurt on Antonia’s face registered like a slap.
Regina bit her tongue. Crap.
“I am not pregnant,” Margred said.
Antonia rounded on her. “What?”
“You wanted to know. I would like a baby. But I am not pregnant yet.”
“You want a baby?” Regina repeated. Remembering her own pregnancy with Nick, when she was sick all the time and tired and alone.
“You just got married.”
Antonia snorted. “Married, hell. They only met six weeks ago.”
Margred arched her eyebrows. “I was not aware of a time requirement. How long must you know someone before you can get pregnant?”
Memory swamped Regina: Dylan, plunging thick and hot inside her, filling her, stretching her. Her own voice panting, “I could get pregnant!”
Her stomach dived. Oh, God. She couldn’t be pregnant. Nobody could be that unlucky twice.
The bell jangled as a scarecrow figure pushed through the door: thin face, thin beard, dingy fatigue jacket over layers of sweatshirts.
Not a camper, Regina thought, despite the backpack. The patina of wear, the dirt embedded in the creases of his knuckles and his boots, went deeper than a week in the wild. Homeless, maybe.
“Can I help you?” Antonia asked in a voice that meant something else. Get out. Go away.
39
Regina understood her hostility. World’s End barely had the social services to support its own population. The ferry and the local businesses catered to residents and tourists, not the homeless.
The man eased the pack from his broad, bony shoulders to thump on the floor. “I’m looking for work.”
“What’s your name?” Regina asked.
“Jericho.”
“Last name?”
“Jones.”
At least he had a last name. It was more than Margred had offered when she first came to work for them.
“Do you have any restaurant experience, Mr. Jones?”
His gaze slid to meet hers, and her breath caught in her throat.
Alain used to say the eyes were windows to the soul. Regina figured it was mostly a line to get her into bed, but she knew what he meant. You could tell when nobody was home. But this guy . . . His eyes were crowded, haunted, like he had too many people living in his head, jockeying for position at the windows.
Schizophrenia? Or substance abuse?
She didn’t care so much if he was using. Half the staff at Perfetto’s had been addicted to something, booze or drugs or the adrenaline rush of a perfectly performed dinner service. But she wasn’t hiring a crazy to work in
Oh, God. Regina’s stomach flipped. Like this day didn’t suck enough already. Her mother couldn’t be content with control of the restaurant, she wanted to run Regina’s life as well.
“That doesn’t always work out, Ma.”
Antonia glared. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Margred had abandoned wiping tables to listen.
“You married Dad,” Regina said. “How many years did he stick around? Two? Three?”
“At least you got your father’s name.”
“And that’s all I got. You did everything. Paid for everything. He never even sent child support.”
“Oh, and you did so much better with the Greedy Gourmet.”
Frustration closed Regina’s throat. She had never been able to talk with her mother. They were like oil and vinegar, too different to ever really understand one another.
Or maybe they were too much alike.
“I wasn’t—” She worried the crucifix around her neck, running it back and forth along the chain. “I’m trying to tell you I appreciate—”
“He loved us. Your father. Not everybody is suited for island life, you know.”
38
“I know. Jesus.” Did they have to exhume every skeleton in the family closet just because Jane Ivey liked Regina’s crab cakes better than her mother’s lasagna? “I’d leave myself if I could.”
The words hung on the air, thick as the grease smell from the fryer.
The hurt on Antonia’s face registered like a slap.
Regina bit her tongue. Crap.
“I am not pregnant,” Margred said.
Antonia rounded on her. “What?”
“You wanted to know. I would like a baby. But I am not pregnant yet.”
“You want a baby?” Regina repeated. Remembering her own pregnancy with Nick, when she was sick all the time and tired and alone.
“You just got married.”
Antonia snorted. “Married, hell. They only met six weeks ago.”
Margred arched her eyebrows. “I was not aware of a time requirement. How long must you know someone before you can get pregnant?”
Memory swamped Regina: Dylan, plunging thick and hot inside her, filling her, stretching her. Her own voice panting, “I could get pregnant!”
Her stomach dived. Oh, God. She couldn’t be pregnant. Nobody could be that unlucky twice.
The bell jangled as a scarecrow figure pushed through the door: thin face, thin beard, dingy fatigue jacket over layers of sweatshirts.
Not a camper, Regina thought, despite the backpack. The patina of wear, the dirt embedded in the creases of his knuckles and his boots, went deeper than a week in the wild. Homeless, maybe.
“Can I help you?” Antonia asked in a voice that meant something else. Get out. Go away.
39
Regina understood her hostility. World’s End barely had the social services to support its own population. The ferry and the local businesses catered to residents and tourists, not the homeless.
The man eased the pack from his broad, bony shoulders to thump on the floor. “I’m looking for work.”
“What’s your name?” Regina asked.
“Jericho.”
“Last name?”
“Jones.”
At least he had a last name. It was more than Margred had offered when she first came to work for them.
“Do you have any restaurant experience, Mr. Jones?”
His gaze slid to meet hers, and her breath caught in her throat.
Alain used to say the eyes were windows to the soul. Regina figured it was mostly a line to get her into bed, but she knew what he meant. You could tell when nobody was home. But this guy . . . His eyes were crowded, haunted, like he had too many people living in his head, jockeying for position at the windows.
Schizophrenia? Or substance abuse?
She didn’t care so much if he was using. Half the staff at Perfetto’s had been addicted to something, booze or drugs or the adrenaline rush of a perfectly performed dinner service. But she wasn’t hiring a crazy to work in
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