“Yoo-hoo, are you even listening? I’m giving you my best stuff here. You were in outer space the entire drive.”
“Sorry.” Maggie rubbed her face, trying to keep her emotions at bay. All she could think about was whether Anna was dead or alive, her real daughter. It was as if she were getting a second chance, all over again. A waiter appeared from the kitchen, and walked toward them with the weary smile, deflating her hopes. She doubted there was another waitperson here tonight, given the conditions.
“Hello, ladies,” the waiter said, crossing to their table with a smile. He looked about eighteen years old, with clear blue eyes and a short haircut. He was wearing a white polo shirt with jeans, with a name tag that readBOB. “Can I get you some water? Or a nice hot coffee?”
“Coffee would be great for me,” Maggie answered, putting the menu back. “I’ll have the pancakes and so will my son.”
Kathy put her menu back, too. “Same for me, thanks.”
Bob nodded. “We use maple syrup from Hurricane, Maine. Up near Québec. It’s the best. You folks from New York?”
“Pennsylvania,” Maggie answered. “Bob, I’m here because my daughter was friendly with a waitress here, named PG. Do you know her?”
“No.” Bob frowned. “But I’ve only been here three days. She might be on day shift.”
“Do you think anybody else would know her? Are there any other waiters or waitresses on tonight?”
“No, just me.”
“How about the chef, or anybody else? Would they know her?” Maggie gestured to the general store. “Or maybe in front?”
“I’ll ask the cook.”
“Great, thanks. Can you let me know what he says before you bring the food?”
“No problem. I’ll be right back.” Bob ambled back to the kitchen, but Maggie couldn’t wait. She rose, patting Caleb on the head.
“I’ll be right back, honey.”
“I figured.” Kathy smiled as Maggie got up, hustled back to the cash register, and waited for the clerk, an older man, to get off his cell phone. His eyes were hooded, and reddish capillaries covered his longish nose. He was bald with gray stubble, and his sunken cheeks were bracketed by deep lines. His frame was slight but wiry, and he had on an old black T-shirt and jeans.
“Miss, you need somethin’?” he asked, though he didn’t hang up the phone, but merely held it against his chest.
“Yes, I’m looking for a waitress named PG. Do you know her?”
“PG? Sure.”
“Terrific!” Maggie said, thrilled. “She’s a friend of my daughter’s, and I was trying to find her. I don’t even know her last name.”
“It’s Tenderly.”
“PG is a nickname, right?”
“Yes. Her real name is Patti.”
“I heard PG stands for Ponygirl.”
“Ha!” The man chuckled, which turned into a smoker’s cough. “You’re tellingmesomething now. I didn’t know that. I didn’t even know she liked horses.”
Maggie didn’t bother to explain. “I know she’s not here, but do you know where she lives?”
“Sure, right down the road. Broom Lane, it’s called. Go straight, take the second left. What’d you want to go see her for?”
“My daughter was a friend of hers, and we can’t find her. I’m hoping PG will know where she is.”
“Sorry about your daughter.” The mantsk-tsked. “Mark my words. She’ll come back.”
“I hope so.”
