Page 11 of Whispers and Wildfire
I slowed and took a right, heading to my parents’ restaurant. Eight or nine years ago, they’d become the proud owners of Home Slice Pizza. They’d bought it from Freddie Haven, one of Luke’s uncles, and called it their preretirement project.
Yes, the part-Italian family owned a small-town pizza place. It was so cliché, it was adorable.
A squirrel ran out in front of me, and I slammed on the brakes to avoid squishing it. It darted across the road, oblivious to its brush with death.
“Vile creature,” I said, using my Queen Ione voice again. “You’re lucky I didn’t crush you into oblivion.”
The squirrel disappeared into the brush on the other side of the street, so I kept going. At least I hadn’t hit it. No Luke necessary to prevent that little incident, thank you very much. My reflexes were just fine.
That thought made me roll my eyes. “Get out of my head, Luke.”
Home Slice Pizza was downtown, in a quaint building with a pitched green roof and a big sign above the front door with the Home Slice logo. It was a little faded, but they’d kept the original, well-loved logo when they bought it. I parked outside and went in.
The aromas of oregano, tomato sauce, and browned cheese greeted me. A small lobby area at the front had a few chairs and a counter for customers to place and pick up to-goorders. A swinging door behind the counter led to the kitchen, and tables with white paper tablecloths that kids could color on took up the rest of the space. A short hallway at the back was lined with old arcade games and led to a banquet room that could be reserved for parties.
“I’ll be right out,” my mom called from the kitchen.
“Just me,” I called back.
A man came in, dressed in a bright orange shirt and jeans. I stepped aside and gestured for him to go ahead. He was probably there to pick up an order, and I hated having people stand behind me.
My mom came out dressed in a black blouse and slacks. I loved that she dressed like her restaurant was a fine dining establishment and not a small-town pizza joint. It was so her. If her shoulder-length brown hair had even a single strand of gray, it was a secret known only to her hairdresser, and her magenta lipstick was as bold as her personality.
“Can I help you?” she asked the man. Her eyes flicked to me, and she winked.
I waited while she retrieved his to-go order, a stack of four pizzas plus breadsticks and dipping sauce. As he was leaving, I held the door for him. He said a muffled thank you from behind his stack of pizza.
Letting the door shut behind him, I went back to the counter.
“How’s everything?” Mom asked. “Getting settled?”
“Yes and no. I have a place to sleep and a semi-functional kitchen. It’s a start.”
“A good start. Have I told you lately that I’m proud of you?” She reached across the counter and booped my nose.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Where’s your father?” She turned toward the kitchen and raised her voice. “Anton! What are you doing back there? Melanie is here!”
Dad’s muffled reply came a second later. “In a minute.”
“It’s fine. He can take his time.”
Tristan, one of their teenage employees, came out from the kitchen carrying several large pizza boxes. He slid them into the warmer.
“Anton!” she called again in a robust but semi-singsong voice.
Tristan didn’t seem fazed. He just clipped the order receipt into the top of the warmer and went back to the kitchen.
“Mom, I’m early. Let him finish what he’s doing.”
“An—”
He interrupted her by stepping through the swinging door. “Krista.”
“There you are. What have you been doing back there?”
“Pizza.” His voice was soft, without a hint of irritation at my mom’s impatience. “We have orders to fill.”
