The Lost Daughter. Diane Chamberlain

It wasn’t until she lifted his empty plate that she discovered he’d left her one after all: two ten-dollar bills.

       Chapter Three

       You’re probably thinking about college now, CeeCee. You’ll need a scholarship, so I hope you’ve been a good student. I’m sorry I couldn’t provide better for you. College is so important. Fight to get there, okay? I always planned to go even if it meant I wouldn’t graduate ‘til I was fifty and now I’ll never have the chance. If you’re anything like me at your age, though, you’ll be more interested in boys than school. That’s okay. You don’t need to go right away. Just remember that college men are FAR more interesting than any boys you knew in high school.

       If it turns out that you don’t go to college, remember you can still get an education from the people you meet. Every single person who comes into your life, from a doctor to a trash collector, can teach you something if you let them.

      “IT’S RAINING.” TIM RAISED HIS PALM IN THE AIR AS THEY left the movie theater.

      CeeCee felt a cool, fine mist on her face. “I like it,” she said, as she piled her hair on top of her head and covered it with her floppy black felt hat. She liked the rain; her hair did not.

      “Now you look like Annie Hall.” Tim grinned at her as they started walking through the throng of students toward the diner two blocks away. They’d just seen Annie Hall, a perfect first-date movie. “You’re not goofy like she is, though.”

      “She’s goofy in a cute way.”

      “Yeah,” he said, “and you’re serious in a cute way.”

      “Ugh.” The thought was deflating. “I don’t want to be serious. I want to be fun and …” What was the word she wanted? She raised her arms to the sky and twirled in a circle. “Madcap.”

      “Madcap?” He laughed, grabbing her arm to prevent her from bumping into a group of students. “I actually like that you’re serious,” he said, letting go of her all too quickly. “You don’t take life for granted.”

      He was right, but how did he know that about her? “You don’t really know me yet.”

      “I’m observant,” he said. “Insightful.”

      “And modest.”

      “That, too.” He stopped briefly to light a cigarette. “So, how come you sound like a Yankee?” he asked as they continued walking.

      “Do I? I thought I sounded pretty Southern by now. I was raised in New Jersey until I was eleven.”

      “What brought you down here?”

      She wasn’t ready to answer that question. He already thought she was serious enough.

      “Family stuff,” she said with a shrug.

      He didn’t press her, but the sudden silence that followed her answer felt awkward. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He seemed older than he did in the mornings, a true grownup. She wondered if he felt the age gap between them tonight, especially with her spinning on the sidewalk like a ten-year-old. Maybe he wondered what the heck he’d been thinking when he asked her out. He even looked different than he did in the coffee shop. Better, if that was possible. She’d never noticed how tall he was. Sitting next to him in the theater, she’d been painfully aware of his long, lean, denim-covered thigh brushing against hers every time he shifted in his seat. Hold my hand, she’d thought over and over again. Put your arm around me. He did neither, much to her frustration.

      “It’s unusual for a guy to be a social work major, isn’t it?” she asked to break the silence.

      “You’d be surprised,” he said, letting out a puff of smoke. “There are quite a few in my program. I’m actually more interested in the policy aspect of social work than in working directly with people. I want to be able to influence policy.”

      “Like what kind of policies?” She saw their reflection in a storefront window as they walked past. She looked like a little munchkin in a big floppy hat.

      “Policies that empower people at risk,” he said. “Like that couple you waited on today. They’re old. One of them is obviously disabled. And they’re black. Three strikes against them right there. So, who advocates for people like that? Who makes sure they’re taken care of?”

      Oh, God. He was so smart and so well educated and he was stuck with a ten-year-old munchkin for the evening.

      “That’s what you want to do?” she asked. “Advocate for people?”

      A group of preppies passed by, and Tim acknowledged one of the guys with a nod. “Yes,” he said, “but the policies I care about most involve prison reform.”

      “Why?”

      “I think we need better prisons,” he said. “I don’t mean prisoners should be living lives of luxury. That’s not what I’m talking about. I think we should rehabilitate prisoners, not just incarcerate them. And I think the death penalty is wrong and should be unconstitutional.”

      “I thought it was unconstitutional.”

      “For a brief period of time, it was. Just this past June, though, it became legal again in North Carolina.”

      She didn’t think that was so terrible. “Well, if someone kills a little kid, for example, I think he—or she—should have to pay the same price.”

      He stared ahead of him as they walked. She could tell he didn’t like her response, but she wasn’t going to sell out her own principles just to please him. He turned toward her, a look on his face she hadn’t seen before. Was it anger? Disappointment?

      “An eye for an eye, huh?” he asked.

      “Why not?”

      “Well, where do I start?” Tim dropped his cigarette butt to the sidewalk and stepped on it, then dug his hands deep into the pockets of his blue windbreaker. “I believe that some of the people getting executed are actually innocent. Maybe they didn’t have a good enough defense because they were too poor to get a decent lawyer. And even if they are guilty, I think it’s wrong to take a life. Even the life of someone who murdered someone else. Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

      “So, I guess you think abortion is wrong, too?” Ronnie’d had an abortion two months ago in August. CeeCee went with her to the clinic, and she cried while her friend underwent the procedure, not because she thought it was wrong but because she thought it was sad. Ronnie didn’t understand her tears.

      “It was only ten weeks old, CeeCee,” she said. “Besides. It was going to be an Aquarius. You know I don’t get along with Aquarians.”

      “Sometimes abortion’s a necessary evil.” Tim looked at her. “Why? Have you had one?”

      “Me? I haven’t even had sex yet.” She cringed. Why had she told him that? What an idiot. But Tim laughed and reached for her hand, holding it at his side as they walked.

      “You’re the coolest girl,” he said. “You just tell it like it is.”

      The diner was packed with students and the whole building seemed to vibrate with their chatter. She and Tim pushed through the crowd toward a booth in the back, Tim stopping to greet people he knew. He had an acquaintance at nearly every table. It didn’t matter whether the students were jocks or stoners or preps or the heavy-lidded artsy types. He knew them all. The one thing all his friends had in common was that they were significantly older than she was. He introduced her to a few of them. The guys barely seemed to notice her. The girls smiled at her, but she sensed there was something underlying their cordiality. She hoped it was envy and not disdain.

      “I love this atmosphere,” she said, once they were seated. This was the world she wanted to be part of. “All the students. It’s