Ava started to protest, but Mercy beat her to it.
“No, ma’am. She’s fine. And yeah. Something to eat would be good.”
Maggie folded her arms, closing her long sweater over her yoga gear. Ava had never seen her mother completely without makeup; even first thing, Maggie had a layer of lip gloss, touch of eyeliner. Her wavy blonde hair was tied back and secured at the crown with a red cotton headband. Her gaze was trained on Mercy, that sharp, miss-nothing hazel stare that had sent many a club member running for the door.
“You’re from Louisiana, right? The new kid?”
A big as he was, Mercy somehow looked small as he reached for his boots on the floor and stepped into them. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Leave those off, please.” Maggie gestured to the boots. “Last time I let Ghost in the house with his, he tracked motor oil all over my carpet. Had to rent one of those Rug Doctors to get it out.”
“Oh.” Mercy’s cheeks colored. He set the boots aside. “Sorry.”
Maggie nodded. “So. Louisiana. You eat anything besides crawfish?”
His cheeks actually began to turn pink. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Come get a plate, then. Ava, let’s go. If you don’t eat better, you’re gonna dry up and blow away.”
**
It was the first of what would become dozens of breakfasts Mercy ate with the two of them. Because two weeks after that morning, the Carpathians struck again, even closer to home this time.
Ava, well into her adult years, would always remember the morning she and Maggie had gone to Stella’s Café for a special just-because ladies’ breakfast. Aidan had his driver’s license and wanted no part of anything parental at mealtimes. He was already off, out in the city somewhere glorying in his new Dyna and the simple joy of being let loose from the apron strings. Maggie had been in the living room when Ava woke, the kitchen cold and odorless, Maggie’s smile bright, her makeup perfect, her outfit of loose sweater and ripped jeans a giveaway that an errand was on the books. “How about breakfast out? Just you and me, no reason.”
Maggie helped her pick out black leggings, Converse sneakers, and her favorite unicorn sweatshirt, then braided her hair in two long plaits that slapped against her back as she jogged for the door, Maggie laughing in her wake.
Stella’s was owned by a pair of snowbirds, a Yankee couple who’d fled the bitter cold of upstate New York some ten odd years before. Julian and Stella, dark-haired and exotic, with their Italian complexions and harsh New York accents, had drawn their fair share of skepticism when they opened their café on Market Square. But then the doors had swung wide and the scents of homemade Italian food had flooded the sidewalk, and the customers had been drawn in against their will, pulled along by the scents hooked hard in their noses. Then, once butts were in seats and plates were clattering down on tables, Julian and Stella hadn’t needed to do a thing to ingratiate themselves with this Southern city; the food had done that for them.
Of the pair, Stella did most of the cooking, while Julian played manager, sous chef, and head waiter. His round-faced, perspiring exuberance for each day, and each customer, was set off smartly by his wife’s militaristic detail to order in the kitchen. The café, originally an end unit of a beige-on-beige retail strip, had been transformed on the inside with loving care. The walls were a rich gold fresco, buttery in the sunlight, almost ochre in the flickering of evening candles. Julian had installed the ceiling beams himself; they served no supportive purpose, but the dark timbers beneath the white plaster ceiling lent an Old World coziness to the restaurant. He’d then commissioned a massive stone fireplace that dominated the outer wall, and Stella had draped the mantle with garlic ropes, heaped it with jars of fire-roasted tomatoes, every variety of olives, hot and sweet peppers packed in rich Italian olive oil. The kitchen sat behind a bakery counter, and from it came Stella’s no-nonsense directives to her staff. The tables were small, round, inlaid with painted tiles, and afforded small pockets of privacy from one another thanks to a jungle of potted ferns and palms.
Out on the patio, Julian had ripped up the concrete, and laid heavy orange 14x14 tiles. Iron café tables surrounded a splashing three-tiered fountain, where children pitched pennies and made wishes during the warm months. It was the patio that Maggie and Ava preferred on their mornings out, and that was where they settled on the morning that would change the course of Ava’s life.
“My favorite beautiful ladies,” Julian greeted as he walked out onto the patio with black coffee for Maggie and cranberry juice for Ava. He hadn’t bothered with menus, and hadn’t needed to ask for a drink order.
An elderly couple at the neighboring table glanced over, curious about these two
Maggie, in her big sunglasses and the shade of lipstick Ava sometimes asked to wear just a little of, waved and pursed her lips in a self-deprecating smile. “The problem is all ladies are your favorite,” she said. “And you think we all fall for the flattery.”
Julian pressed a hand to his chest, feigning wounded. “That hurts, Mrs. T. I’m a faithful husband.”
“I know you are.” Her smile turned sweet. “And Stella’s got a meat cleaver with your name on it if you ever start thinking differently.”
His brows jumped. “Ain’t that the truth.”
Maggie laughed; her laughter had a bell-like quality, rich and reverberant, deep like a heavy church bell. Ava watched her banter with the restaurant owner, mystified and delighted by the way her mother always seemed able to charm and disarm. There was something subtle and endearing about Maggie’s confidence, a deft handling of humans that balanced her more direct bursts of authority. She was the most beautiful, enchanting woman Ava had ever seen in person. Her friends’ mothers always gave Maggie dark looks, and Ghost had explained to Ava, once, “They’re jealous, baby. Don’t worry about what those bitches think.” Then he’d told her not to say “bitch” until she was at least thirty.
“How are you this morning, Miss Ava?” Julian asked, and Ava’s cheeks warmed with pleasure to be spoken to as an adult. “I’m fine.”
“Driving the boys crazy, I bet.”
“She’s eight, Julian,” Maggie said. “Let’s not hope for that just yet.”
“Right. Well.” He clapped his hands together. “Let me bring you something special, okay? Stella’s just pulling fresh bread out of the oven.”
“That’d be great,” Maggie said.
When Julian had left them to the chattering of birds and other patrons, Maggie sipped her coffee and said, “Are you excited about starting school again?”
