The Lost Daughter. Diane Chamberlain

deserve to be one of these students,” he said.

      “Someday, I will be.”

      “Is it just the money?” he asked. “I mean, were your grades good enough? Your SAT scores okay?”

      She nodded. “I was this close to getting a scholarship.” She held her thumb and forefinger a quarter of an inch apart.

      “I’m sorry.” He wore a small frown. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

      “It’s okay. Really.” She looked down at the menu, uncomfortable with his sympathy.

      “When do you think you’ll have enough money to go to school?” he asked.

      “Another year, if Ronnie will continue to live with me and split our expenses. We just share a room, and I know she really wants us to get an apartment, but she doesn’t care about saving money. I’ll have to get a better job. In a few months, I should have enough experience to work at a good restaurant and then I’ll get better tips.”

      “I like your ambition,” he said.

      “Thanks,” she said. “So, where do you live? You must live near the coffee shop, since you’re there every morning.”

      “Just a few blocks off Franklin,” he said. “I share a house with my brother, Marty. My father owns it, but he lives in California, so he lets us use it.”

      “Just your father? Are your parents divorced?” She hoped that wasn’t too personal a question.

      The waitress, a blonde with stick-straight, shoulder-length hair, pouty pink lips and blood-red fingernails set glasses of water in front of them.

      “Hi, Tim,” she said, but her eyes were on CeeCee. “How’re y’all doin’ tonight?”

      “Good,” Tim said. “Bets, this is CeeCee. CeeCee, Bets.”

      “You watch out for him, CeeCee,” Bets said with a wink. “He’s a dangerous man.”

      “Thanks for the warning.” CeeCee laughed.

      “Y’all ready?” Bets pulled two straws from her apron pocket and laid them on the table.

      Tim raised his eyebrows at CeeCee. “Do you know what you’d like?”

      She wasn’t ready to eat in front of him; she was bound to spill or get something caught in her teeth. “Key lime pie,” she said. That seemed safe. Tim ordered a barbecue sandwich.

      “What did she mean about you being a dangerous man?” CeeCee asked, once Bets had left their table.

      “She’s just yanking your chain,” Tim said. He took a drink from his water glass. “To get back to your question about my parents, they weren’t divorced. My mother died not too long ago.”

      “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, but it was a half-truth. They now had something in common: they were both motherless. She wondered if his mother had also died of cancer, but didn’t ask. She didn’t like it when people asked personal questions about her own mother. “Is your brother in school, too?” she asked.

      “No, no. Marty’s not school material.” Tim drummed his fingers on the table as if he could hear music she could not. “He was in Vietnam,” he said. “He went there a nice kid of eighteen and came back a bitter old man.”

      “So, he doesn’t work?” She unwrapped her straw and dropped it into her water glass.

      “Yeah, he does. He’s in construction. Someone was crazy enough to put a hammer and a nail gun in his hands.” He laughed.

      “What do you mean?”

      “Nothing.” He shook his head as if clearing it of the topic, then leaned forward, folding his arms on the table. “So back to you, my mysterious CeeCee. You said you’re only sixteen. Did you start school early or what?”

      “I started early and then skipped fifth grade,” she said. “I moved to a new school. Went from a good school to a crummy one and I was way ahead of what the kids were doing, so they skipped me.”

      “I knew you were smart,” he said. “Where’s your family?”

      She wondered how much to say. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, okay?” she said.

      “Sure, okay.”

      She played with the wrapper from her straw. “My mother is dead, too,” she began.

      “Oh, no,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

      “She had breast cancer, even though she was only in her twenties, and we moved down here from New Jersey so she could be in a study at Duke. She died when I was twelve, and then I got kind of shuffled around.”

      Tim reached across the table and rested his hand on hers. “In her twenties.” He shook his head. “I didn’t think that happened.”

      His eyelashes were as pale as his hair and very long. She studied them to keep from doing something stupid, like turning her hand over to grasp his. “Neither did she,” she said, “so she never looked for a lump or anything.” She didn’t tell him that she would always have to be vigilant about her own health. She didn’t want him to start thinking of her as a woman who would lose both her breasts, the way her mother had.

      “What do you mean, you got shuffled around?”

      He hadn’t moved his hand from hers. As a matter of fact, he tightened it around her fingers, running his thumb over the skin above her knuckles. Her pulse thrummed beneath his fingertips.

      “Well,” she said, “they put me in this place … I was never sure what it was, exactly … I called it juvenile hall because it was full of kids who were screwed up.”

      “A residential facility.”

      She smiled. “Right, Mr. Social Worker.”

      “Go on.”

      “I stayed there while they tried to find my father. My parents weren’t married and I’d never met him. It turned out he was in prison for molesting kids, so I guess it’s just as well that I never did.”

      “I’d say so.” Tim nodded. “It must have been a huge disappoint—”

      Bets picked that moment to show up with their orders, and Tim had no choice but to let go of CeeCee’s hand while she put his food in front of him.

      “Here you go, hon,” Bets said to CeeCee as she set down the key lime pie. “You want some extra sauce, Timmy?” she asked.

      Timmy? CeeCee squirmed. How well did Bets know him?

      “We’re good,” Tim said.

      “Okay,” Bets moved on to another table, calling over her shoulder, “Y’all enjoy, now.”

      Tim pushed his plate an inch or so toward her. “You want a bite?” he asked.

      She shook her head. “Looks good, though.” She played with her straw wrapper again as he bit into his sandwich.

      “So,” he said, once he’d swallowed, “after they found your father, then what happened?”

      “They put me in foster care.”

      “Ah,” he said. “You’ve had some experience with social workers.”

      “Plenty.” She drew the tines of her fork across the smooth, pale surface of her pie. “I was in six different foster homes. It wasn’t because I was a problem,” she added. “Just crazy circumstances.”

      He nodded. He understood.

      “The last one was the best. It was a single woman with some young kids who were really sweet. As soon as I graduated, though, I was on my own.”

      “You’ve been through a lot,” he said, taking a sip of water.