The Path To Love. Jane Myers Perrine

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      “Sixteen is not almost grown up. Sixteen just thinks it’s almost grown up. So does twenty-one.”

      “I’ve been on my own for nearly four years and will be going to med school in the fall. If that isn’t grown up, I don’t know what is.”

      She smiled at him again just because he had matured into such a terrific young man.

      “Now, don’t get all teary-eyed,” Mike warned.

      “I wouldn’t think about it, Mike. Anyway, I know you’re still wet behind the ears, whether you believe it or not.”

      He shook his head as he finished off the last bite of hamburger. “My girlfriend—”

      “Does she have a name?”

      “Here’s Cynthia’s address.” He handed her a small piece of paper. “She lives just north of the mall, in a pink house in the middle of the block.”

      That would be easy. Buses went to the mall all the time.

      Mike stood. “I’ve got to run. Don’t want to be late for work.” He turned toward Manny and Julie to say, “Thanks for lunch.” Then he dropped a kiss on Francie’s cheek and whispered, “I love you,” before he ran out of the diner.

      “Nice kid,” Julie watched him as he walked out of the diner.

      “Yeah, he is, isn’t he?” Francie agreed. “I hope I can get him to come to church with me someday.”

      Chapter Three

      “Would you look at the hunk that just came in?” Julie said to Francie as they served the lunch crowd the next week. “I’d trade Manny for him any day.”

      “In case you didn’t realize it, you don’t have Manny to trade,” the cook shouted.

      “Manny has to have the best ears in the world,” Julie whispered. “Funny, when we were engaged, he never heard a word I said.”

      Francie grinned at Julie before turning to look at the man Julie had noticed. She promptly dropped the pitcher of iced tea she held. “Oh, my gosh. That’s Mr. Fairchild.”

      “You know him? Who is he?” Julie grabbed a mop and started to clean up the puddle and broken glass.

      “My parole officer.” Francie knelt and began to pick up glass and ice cubes.

      “Whoo-hoo! No wonder you called him a hunk! The man is gorgeous. And would you look at the suit? Handsome and tailored. My, my, my.” She waved Francie away. “You go ahead and wait on him. I’ll finish this. You want to show him how well you do your job.”

      “Oh, sure. Dropping that pitcher had to really impress him.” She washed her hands and wiped them on her apron as she moved toward the booth where he sat. “May I take your order, Mr. Fairchild?”

      “Do you have a menu?”

      He looked completely out of place here. As Julie had said, his suit was beautiful. And yet he wore it casually, tossing the jacket over the back of the booth. He’d also unbuttoned the top of his shirt and loosened his tie.

      Francie didn’t think she’d ever seen a suit in here except the time Manny had worn one after his father’s funeral, but Manny’s suit was nothing like the one that covered Mr. Fairchild’s broad shoulders.

      Now, stop it, she lectured herself. A parolee should not be noticing how broad her parole officer’s shoulders were, and, for goodness sake, she should not be drooling over someone so far out of her reach.

      “A menu, please, Miss Calhoun?” he repeated.

      “Oh, sure. Just a minute.” She went to the cashier’s booth, grabbed one and took it back to him. “Today’s special is tuna salad sandwich with soup.”

      “That sounds nice. What’s the soup?”

      She went blank for a second. Why was she so nervous? She’d been a waitress for months, and remembering the specials didn’t tax her intelligence all that often.

      “Vegetable beef and chicken noodle,” Julie shouted.

      “And they aren’t canned,” Francie added. “Our cook makes them fresh every day.”

      “All right.” He put down the menu. “I’ll have a tuna sandwich with vegetable soup and a glass of tea.”

      Now if she could just bring him his food without dropping anything, most especially not Manny’s hot vegetable soup on Mr. Fairchild’s beautiful tan slacks.

      When the order was up, she almost asked Julie to take it but reminded herself she could do this. She’d been waiting tables for almost six months, and he’d come to see her on the job.

      With the bowl and plate in one hand and the glass of tea in the other and walking really slowly, she reached the booth, placed the food there, and didn’t even spill a drop.

      Standing back proudly, she said, “Will there be anything more?”

      Brandon watched her from the moment he came in. She seemed nervous—dropping the pitcher was a sure sign—but he was used to his clients being anxious when he visited their work sites.

      No, what he noticed was the fresh yellow uniform and ruffled white apron she wore, still with her old athletic shoes. She looked neat and bright and fresh, but it was her presence and smile that brought a little sunshine into the place, a bit of radiance that had nothing to do with the color of her uniform or the brilliance of the apron.

      The customers liked her. She went from table to table, refilling glasses and taking orders, joking with some and listening to others. One of the men had tried to grab her. Quickly and unreasonably angry, Brandon had started out of the booth, but she had the situation in hand. She slipped away from the man with what looked like a practiced move and exchanged her smile for a glare—for just a second—to warn him. Very nicely done.

      Why had he felt it was necessary to intervene when that man had tried to touch her? Well, she was his client and he should protect her, but he knew that wasn’t the only reason. In fact, he refused to examine the thought any further and started to eat.

      The food was surprisingly good; the soup hot, savory and full of meat and potatoes. The apple pie he ordered for dessert was delicious, juicy and sweet with a light, flaky crust. One of the best lunches he’d had in a long time.

      He’d just taken his last bite of pie when the other waitress put two cups of coffee on the table and slid onto the bench opposite him.

      “No, thank you, I don’t need coffee,” he started before she interrupted him.

      “I’m Julie Sullivan. I own this place.” She reached her hand out and shook his with a firm grip.

      “Brandon Fairchild.” He tried to stand in the narrow space but Julie put her hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down on the СКАЧАТЬ