Sisters in the Wind(2)

I almost channel Tara’s snark. Special project indeed.

Nancy approaches with a coffeepot to refill the guy’s mug. She does a double take when I motion for coffee. She knows I prefer tea.

“Thank you,” the attorney says to Nancy. He is polite. Not just his words, but because he makes eye contact with her while saying it.

She takes an exaggeratedly long time to fill my coffee mug. Nancy would make a bad spy. Mr. Jameson waits for her reluctant departure to speak again.

“Do you have any questions for me?” he asks after a sip of black coffee. His elegant wristwatch is silver, or more likely platinum, with two faces set to different time zones.

I stare back in sullen, tough-girl mode.

He reacts with an apostrophe of a smile that I’m not expecting.

I glance at a Greyhound bus zooming north on the business spur before heaving a sigh and meeting his eyes.

“Just get on with it. I’ve got better things to do today.”

“Well, I don’t. You’re the highlight of my day,” he says without sarcasm.

His expression matches the sincerity of his tone. Alert brown eyes, lighter than my own. Nice smile—no feral grin or anything sketchy. The morning light shines on the left half of his face. It’s not in his eyes, but I pull down the filtered shade anyway. No wrinkles or frown lines. If he really is an attorney, then he’s a bit older than I thought. His thick, dark brown hair, no gray, is pulled away from his face and gathered into a braid. I noticed his hair yesterday—the shiny braid that ends halfway down his back.

He waits for me to finish my inspection. There is nothing fidgety about him.

I’ve encountered attorneys before. Mostly court-ordered ones who were supposed to look out for my best interests. They were usually fresh out of law school, but already jaded about juvenile delinquents. The experienced lawyers—the well-dressed ones—always worked for the other side.

Mr. Jameson carries himself like a seasoned attorney—minus the cockiness. I can’t quite figure him out. Nothing screams hit man, creeper, scammer, or dangerous and yet …

I’ve been wrong before. Which is why my iPhone is recording our conversation and Nancy keeps me in her periphery.

“What. Do you. Want.” I leave unsaid:… and please speak clearly for the record.

“I’m an attorney who helps current and former foster kids who might be Native American find out whether they are indeed tribal and, if so, see if they would like to reconnect with their family and community. Is that something you’d like to pursue?”

The coffee mug slips in my hand. Hot liquid zings the spot directly above my heart. My hand is still shaking when I set the mug down.

I wouldn’t make a good spy today.

Attempting nonchalance, I scoff. “Never heard of anyone doing that.”

“Me neither,” he admits.

“Sounds expensive. And I don’t have money for that.” I focus on the coffee stain.

“I don’t charge anything. My work is funded by grants and donations.”

“Yeah, right,” I say, blotting the dark spot with a paper napkin.

There’s a spot-remover pen in my work apron. Glancing around, I catch Nancy’s eye and point to the stain on my shirt. We provide our own red tops at the diner. Thrift stores are hit or miss, and I’d rather not spring for a new shirt.

My plan was to keep him talking. Get as much information as possible and find out what he wanted from me. But my gut roils; I’ll need a bathroom soon. So I let him have it.

“Your jeans and turtleneck might be off the rack, Mr. Grant-Funded Do-Gooder, but your black cashmere coat is tailored like a second skin and those black lace-up boots look like Doc Martens but have a Prada triangle.” Rising, I motion for him to stay put. “I don’t know what game you’re playing…”

I grab my iPhone, stop recording, and lean over to snap a picture. I focus the shot to capture every follicle on his copper-colored face. It’s only then I notice an odd line down the right side of his cheek. A scar. I snap the picture before removing the phone between us, so we are practically nose to nose.

“I know you’ve been following me since New Year’s Eve. It. Ends. Now.”

He flinches as if slapped.

“I’ve only been in town for two days, Lily.” Something catches in his voice.

“It’s Lucy. Not Lily.” I snap my fingers in front of his face. “Pay attention.”

I bolt. Instead of looking back at the guy, I focus on Nancy taking an order from the booth nearest the alcove. She hands me a single wipe packet of stain remover as we cross paths.

“Do you need me to call for help?” Nancy doesn’t bother whispering.

“No. He’s leaving.”

I bypass the restrooms and push through the third door, which swings into the kitchen. It has a window the size of a picture frame to see anyone approaching from the other side. I use it to spy on Mr. Jameson.

He shakes his head, and a faint, sort of amused smile crosses his face just for a moment. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales before rising. He leaves something at the table before retrieving his coat. His back is to me while he puts on the expensive coat and leaves.

After I salvage my work shirt—thanks to Nancy’s stain-remover wipe—I return to the booth. Clearing the table, I notice one mug is missing. In its place Mr. Jameson left a twenty-dollar bill for Nancy and a business card for me.