Manda’s head snapped up after splashing her coffee with cream. “Did I wake you? Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I honestly forget that there are people in my age group who sleep late because they can.” Her eyes took in a sweep of the apartment and landed on my work-rainbow on the living room floor. “You were not sleeping. You were working.”
“True. I can’t sleep. I start at Thrill the day after tomorrow.” I walked back to the heap of papers. “There are so many decisions to make. Like this, for example.” I brandished an updated printout of my spreadsheet and pointed to the column I had labeled SUMMER: FILLED DESSERT/BERRIES/INDIGENOUS PRODUCE. “A Linzer torte would present nicely, and the nutty crumb of the pastry would be a perfect pairing with Washington strawberry preserves, but lemon crêpes with a blackberry sauce seems to just scream ‘summer,’ don’t you think? I’m very particular about berries, though, and I worry that I couldn’t get enough that were organic and local, as well as precisely ripe—definitely not under-ripe, so disgusting—each evening.”
Manda was not often quiet, which was why I noticed.
She stared at me a moment and said. “Step away from the spreadsheet. We’re going to breakfast.”
I groaned. “No, no, no, we are not. I have so much work to do, and I don’t feel like it, and I haven’t showered for two days, and no.”
“We’re going to a diner, not the Four Seasons.” She sipped her coffee and watched for my reaction.
“Absolutely not.” I shook my head so fast I felt a twinge in a still-sleepy neck muscle. “Diner food is almost always disappointing … and greasy and sad and flavorless.”
“At least you’re not an elitist.”
I ignored that. “I already have steel-cut oats in my Japanese rice and porridge cooker. And I bought a local thick-sliced bacon I’ve been waiting to try.” My voice had taken on a bit of a whimper.
“Diners have bacon. And you can heat up your precious fancy oatmeal later.” Manda raised one eyebrow and gave me the same look that caused her children to wilt. “Charlie, you have to rest every now and then, even when you’re working under a deadline. I used to have a job that paid me money, remember? I used to read books about life-work balance.” She tossed me my new apple green rain parka that had hung on a silver hook by the door. “Hurry. I left Jack alone with the kids in the car. He hasn’t had his coffee, so we need to pray for their safety.”
I gave her my best withering glare.
She didn’t even blink.
“Nice coat,” she said. “A girl needs some color when living in a soaked-out city.” The elevator began a wail of protest as Manda continued to hold the door ajar for too long.
“I’m getting concealer and lip gloss, and you can’t stop me!” I called as I jogged to the bathroom.
“Meet you downstairs in two. Not joking, Char!” Manda called as the elevator door began to close. “This is not prom ’99. It’s only breakfast!”
By the time we pulled up to Howie’s Diner, I had some kind of organic Oreo sludge stuck in my hair. Polly and I had shared the middle row of seats in the Henrick minivan, and I had made an absolute fool of myself blowing raspberries on her plump cheeks to keep her entertained. I didn’t remember her eating anything during the car ride, but somehow I had dark brown, slimy crumbs woven into the right side of my hair when Zara rescued me and showed me how to open the sliding door.
I gagged and tried to think of nonslimy things as I pulled out as much as possible. “What is this stuff, anyway?” I grumbled, still peeved at getting kidnapped against my will. I sniffed my finger and recoiled. “Carob? Carob, Manda? You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Manda adjusted Polly on her hip and placed a hand on Dane’s head. “Dane, honey, will you please hold Aunt Charlie’s hand? She’s very cranky, and she’s only going to get crankier when she realizes I have someone for her to meet.”
I stopped in the middle of the street, ignoring Dane’s pull on my arm.
“You did not.”
Jack scooped Dane into his arms and nudged me toward the sidewalk. “Argue safely, please. Cars drive down streets.”
I stared at Manda. “You are setting me up over breakfast at a diner? Surely you have not stooped to this level.”
“There is no stooping.” She circled an arm around my shoulders and shepherded me toward the door to the restaurant. “He might not even be here. And he doesn’t know we’re coming, so it’s not like we’ll share a table or anything.”
I blew out a frustrated sigh. “Manda, we’ve talked about this. I can’t date anyone right now. Men are difficult and moody and needy, and they don’t understand my life.”
Manda shushed me. I hated getting shushed. “Trust me,” she said. “This one is at least worth a glance over maple syrup.”