*
Her alarm went off the next morning again at 4:45. Evelyn got up and walked to work with stiff legs and blisters, this time wearing a dark shirt and flats. Mia promoted her to writing out receipts and stacking them on a spike a few hours in, and the café was so mercifully busy on Saturday that Evelyn didn’t have time to think about New York or the Marina Air. She was too busy shuttling muffins back and forth and handing out change and carrying over coffee orders. By Sunday, the job was fun in parts—since Mia didn’t like talking to customers, Evelyn picked it up in her place. There was a dog walker whose charge, Hootenanny, a terrier with a wise gray beard, had developed a gimpy leg, but her owners were in Hong Kong for two weeks, and the dog walker wasn’t sure whether he ought to take her to the vet. Another guy wore glasses that were literally rose colored and looked plucked from the Goodwill women’s department. He did some job for Maryland Upper Shore Transit that required him to stand at the bus stop on the corner of Bay and Main and write something in a pad every time the bus passed, then cross the street to the bus headed in the other direction and write something else there. He liked his coffee with three Sweet’N Lows and extra hot (which meant, Mia said, she should microwave it for fifteen seconds but not let the customer see that was the trick).
At the end of her first full week, Rick gave her an envelope with a paycheck and a stack of bills that was her portion of tips in it. She tucked it at the bottom of her purse, checking that it was still there whenever she walked by the purse at work. On her way home, she deposited the check in her checking account. The ATM screen read “Current Balance: $315.19.” It was the first time she had been to an ATM since Lake James, and seeing that she had shifted the balance up that far with her week of work made Evelyn give the blue screen a tiny smile.
She was reading a Sheffield-era copy of The Magnificent Ambersons, her old notes scribbled in the margins, when she heard the sound of the door, and her mother walked in, holding a McDonald’s bag. (Having never tried fast food when she lived in Sag Neck, Barbara had discovered that she had a taste for Filet-O-Fish.)
“You’re home,” Barbara said; she was wearing a floor-length black kimono with little teahouses on it. Evelyn hoped she had used the drive-through. “You can set the table.”
Babs was going to eat something made in a deep fryer, packaged in cardboard, and handed to her through a bulletproof window, but she would not deign to use a paper napkin, which made Evelyn smile a little. She got up and laid out the linen napkins and silverware and plates.
“Haven’t you wondered where I’ve been for the last week?” Evelyn said.
“I don’t know. All sorts of things are going on that I don’t know about, I suppose.” Barbara was listless and sat down and arranged her napkin in her lap, then pushed a lukewarm hamburger toward Evelyn.
“I’ve been working. I got a job. At the Caffeiteria. Out on the wharf, the cute little coffee shop. With the good lemonade?”
Barbara picked up her knife and fork, and cut a neat slice of fishburger. She chewed and swallowed so slowly Evelyn could practically see the fish descending down her throat.
“So,” Evelyn tried again. “I’m saving some money, actually.”
“Your hamburger’s getting cold,” Barbara replied.
The landline phone rang, startling them both, as no one besides telemarketers in search of uncomfortable conversations called anymore.
“Well? It could be important,” Barbara said, dabbing tartar sauce from her mouth.
Evelyn picked up, but before she could say “Hello?” the voice on the other end began chattering. “Hello! I’m looking for Evelyn Beegan, and I hope I have the right number.”
“This is a new number,” Evelyn said.
“Is this Evelyn? Evelyn, it’s Becky Breen, formerly Becky Aquino, from Sheffield. It’s been ages.”
Evelyn couldn’t remember Becky’s face but recalled she had been president of the Demosthenes Society, the classical-Greek group, and had given an endless oration at assembly their upper year in said classical Greek. “And an unlisted number,” Evelyn said.
“Well, Sheffield doesn’t maintain the highest giving rate among prep schools by just letting people fade away, fortunately or unfortunately. Now, listen, I want to talk to you about major gifts. As you know, our class is in the middle of a fund-raising drive, and we’re so close to beating the class of ’eighty-seven—”
“Seriously, though, no one knows I’m at this number. Do you guys have the Mafia on your side?”
Becky laughed. “It’s a prep-school development office. We’re better than the Mafia. Remember Panupong Pradchaphet from Thailand? Came upper year, left after a term? We just tracked him down in the UAE.”
“Did you get a major gift from him?”
“Recurring.”
“Nice.” Evelyn nodded. “So what’s in your book on me?”