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“So you’re just going to pay for her pantywaist, beta bitch son forever?” Jessica snorted.
“Ouch, but fair,” Celia responded.
“No, I’m going to cover this first month, and then Beck will see how hard I worked, and he’s… he’s going to get it. He’s going to understand, and I bet he’ll take some initiative,” I said, keeping my voice hopeful.
I knew my friends probably thought it sounded like hopeful horseshit, but as much as I knew Beck had his faults, he was really great at times. And I really, really thought we could make a life together if he just pulled his head out of his ass. I mean, that was most men, wasn’t it? Isn’t that what our moms and sitcoms and movies have always told us?
Celia and Jessica shared another look—I was getting a little tired of their looks—and I could tell my speech hadn’t convinced them.
Luckily, Carl’s order was up, so I had a reason to leave the kitchen.
The topic was dropped for an hour or so as more diners came in, and we got a little busy. I got a few more odd looks from the locals, but I kept my head down. If I caught anyone’s eye, I plastered a cheerful smile on and went about my day like the world’s best waitressing robot.
Of course, Jessica and Celia couldn’t help but bring it up once more as soon as there was a lull between the breakfast and lunch rushes.
“I love you, you know,” Jess said as she wrapped some freshly cleaned silverware.
“I know, and I get it,” I muttered as I expo-ed a few plates, setting cups of ranch and packets of condiments along the sides of the warm dish. “But it’s not exactly like Delaney has a lot of eligible bachelors around here.”
“Yeah.” She sighed. “Don’t I know it. Look, I… I admire what you’re trying to do. I just don’t want to see you get hurt or taken advantage of, okay? Promise me if Beck doesn’t shape up, you’ll get rid of his ass? Oh, and if any ghosts show up in your new house… my couch is always open.”
“Thanks,” I said, reaching over and giving her hand a quick squeeze.
“Okay, I’m grabbing a smoke,” she announced, drumming her long nails on the counter. “Just run those plates for me?”
I snapped her off a little salute, then did as she asked, dropping off two lukewarm BLTs for Harold and Margarete Kirschner at table seven.
“Marnie,” Celia said gently as I popped back into the kitchen. “I’m sorry, too. I hate to be nosy or a busybody, but I'm just worried, is all. That house ain’t right.”
“It’s like a game of telephone, though, right?” I said. “I mean, I’ve heard the legends since I was in preschool, but people exaggerate, don’t they?”
Celia suddenly grew grave. “Not about that house, they don’t.”
“Why?” I said, narrowing my gaze as goosebumps prickled over my skin.
This wasn’t a joke to Celia, and I realized that now with a sudden chilly rush. She wasn’t old by any means, but certainly older than me. Maybe she knew something I didn’t.
“I—I don’t wanna… just maybe look it up when you get home. The real case… Look up Randall. Look up his son,” she said as she chewed on her lip.
Jessica popped her head in the kitchen’s back door, a cigarette dangling from her glossed lips. The sudden metal screech of the hinge made both Celia and me jump.
“Jesus, Jess!” I said, my heart beating fast. I felt oddly thrown off by Celia’s words.
Jess cringed apologetically. “Sorry, babe. Got a ten-top of hunters coming in. Looks like they might be grabby. I can smell the booze from here.”
Celia winced. “Sorry, Marn… You’re up.”
I groaned and gently bonked my head against the steel bit of kitchen equipment in front of me. “Peachy.”
4
GABRIEL
“Peachy,” I muttered as I stared up at the wrought-iron gate.
It was an archway but made to look like two skeletal hands reaching toward the sky. Below my feet was a cobblestone path. Stones throughout were intermittently carved with a spiderweb pattern, a detail that reminded me of my boss, Lysandra. She was the reason I was feeling so peachy that morning. My boss was, as usual, not the first… or last person I wanted to see in a day. Come to think of it, I’d be a lot happier if I never saw Lysandra again, but that wasn’t the terms of my deal.
A lifetime of servitude for a lifetime of secrets, I guess. It had seemed fitting when I’d made it, but the remorseful, self-hating act was wearing thin. Not that I didn’t still hate myself, it would just be easier to hate myself on a sandy beach somewhere, sucking back a sloe gin fizz.
