The Leaving Part 15

Haven't I, too?

Am I a tough cookie???

Do people like tough cookies?

The table was round and too big for them and Scarlett wished some of the others were here with her, wondered what they were all doing for dinner on this, their first day back.

Were there big family gatherings, full of hugs and happy tears?

Were Lucas and his brother surrounded by shocked, grieving relatives and ca.s.seroles?

And what about Max's family? Were they sitting at their table, hoping for the doorbell to ring, for it all to change to happy just like that?

She didn't belong here with these two people.

The view, at least, was lovely.

A long pier.

The water blue like ripe berries.

White clouds like chalk.

A burst of rainbow colors-someone parasailing by.

Just outside the restaurant, by a more casual outdoor seating area, a group of six girls and boys-close friends or cousins?-were laughing and running around in the sand.

Climbing up onto a big rock and then jumping off it.

Over and over again.

C l i m b. Jump. C l i m b. Jump. C l i m b. Jump.

"Do I have cousins?" she said.

Her mother looked at her like she'd just said something inappropriate. "No, your uncle Tom never married."

Scarlett nodded.

Another loss.

Then she said, "So you met at a bar?"

"Yes. A bartender who doesn't drink." He leaned over and kissed Tamara. "Speaking of which"-drinks were being delivered to the table by a waiter carrying a small, round black tray-"I ordered your old favorite. I figured she's back. We can celebrate. Right?"

Her mother raised her gla.s.s. "What a great idea!"

"Are you sure about that?" Scarlett asked.

"It's just one little treat," Steve said. "Right, Tammy? You know, after so many years."

Tammy.

Scarlett's skin felt p.r.i.c.kly.

Was it a big deal?

Did it really matter?

She was becoming increasingly convinced, as the day wore on, that she wasn't going to be sticking around that long anyway. This just didn't feel like . . . home? Probably she'd spend a year in high school there, apply to college, then . . . leave.

Leave.

Leaving.

Would that word ever be normal again?

She pictured herself someplace cooler, someplace with autumn, and a proper winter, in an Adirondack chair, maybe staring at a lake.

Just . . .

. . . staring.

She said, "Well, I guess you've earned it."

She ordered a ginger ale. Then she turned her attention to the menu, not entirely sure what foods she even liked. Steve said, several times, that money was no object, that dinner was his treat, so that was good, at least. At the phone store, Tammy had done a lot of complaining about how expensive it was. Scarlett ordered shrimp c.o.c.ktail and then a blackened grouper entree and crossed her fingers that she wasn't harboring some fatal sh.e.l.lfish allergy.

Too quickly, her mother ordered another drink and said, "Steve here thinks you and me need to make some smart moves right about now."

"Yeah?" Scarlett slurped the last of her ginger ale loudly.

You and I, Tammy.

You and I.

"I see dollar signs." He sat back in his seat, folded his napkin, and put it on the table in front of him.

Now Scarlett saw them, too. They lit up behind her eyelids when she blinked.

She held her eyes closed for a moment and saw spinning, like slot machines.

"Where are these dollars coming from?" she asked.

"Everyone wants to know your story." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "You can't see it, but there's not a table in here that hasn't talked about you. Pointed us out."

"Do you think I should go on TV?" They'd seen Sarah and Adam on one show briefly during their quick stop at the house. On the small screen, they had good clothes and haircuts and looked like strangers.

"Maybe, maybe not. If that's not your thing, there are other ways."

"Such as?"

"There are book deals, for starters."

The chatter in the room had become newly distracting, now that she knew some of it might be about her. She said, "I don't think I actually like to write."

"That's even better." He flagged a waiter over. "You sell your life rights and they'll hire someone to write the book for you, and then you just sit back and let the royalties roll in."

"Sorry," she said.

Life rights?

Right to life?