“Bite me,” I said, reaching for a third fillet.
“Those are wicked expensive,” Christopher murmured. “Keep that in mind.”
I seemed to be making a scene. Cameras were out, waiting.
Shit. I put the fillet back in Christopher’s hand. “Enjoy your dinner.”
“You’re paying for these!” Brad snapped, putting the chunk of meat he’d caught on the counter. “They’re ruined now.” With great, pained dignity, he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. He carried a handkerchief now, of course. It was patterned in blue and red checks and I bet it cost a bundle.
Christopher retrieved the fallen fillet, came back behind the counter and rinsed it while Brad and I glared at each other.
“I feel sorry for you,” Brad whispered. “You’re alone and pathetic.”
“I feel sorry for you,” I said, not whispering. “You’re phony and materialistic. You’re a kept man. A gigolo, and not a very good one at that.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Christopher said, handing me a plastic-wrapped package. “Two filet mignons, on the house, Lillie. You were the best babysitter I ever had.” He grinned.
“Thanks, honey.” I washed my meaty hands, took my eighty dollars’ worth of meat and walked past Brad to the front of the store, head held high.
“How are you, Lillie?” asked Harlow Smith, who owned the bookstore. “You look wonderful.”
A few other people said hello, told me I looked good, nice to see me, as I stood in line, waiting to pay for my wine. There was Luna, holding the daughter I’d helped come into this world, and she waved the baby’s chubby hand at me. Because this was my town, and I’d earned my place here. My ex-husband was a mainland nobody as far as we townies were concerned. Carrie, a middle-aged woman who’d worked the checkout for as long as I could remember, put a chocolate bar in my bag with a wink.
“No charge,” she said. “Your husband’s an asshole.”
“Ex-husband,” I said, managing a smile.
It helped. But Brad knew where to hit, so to speak, and my heart was sore and angry just the same.
I walked across the street to the town hall parking lot. There, sitting at an empty picnic table in front of Hatch’s Fish Market, was Ophelia. Her face perked up when she saw me.
“Hi!” she said, then blushed.
“Hi, Ophelia. How are you?”
“Good, I guess. Waiting for what’s-his-name. He made me come with him. Hashtag girl-dad. Gross.”
“It is gross.” I sat down across from her. “How’s it going?”
She shrugged.
“Sucky, then?”
“Kind of. I don’t know. I miss my real . . . well, my other stepfather.”
“You were going to say dad, weren’t you?”
Tears filled her eyes. “He wasn’t actually my dad. But it felt that way.”
“I’m so sorry.” I set my bag on the table. “What was he like?”
“He was just . . . nice. He was so excited when I came to live with them. We’d go out sometimes without Melissa, and he’d buy me a hot dog from a cart. Street meat, he called it. He told me about his patients and the grossest injuries and stuff. It was cool. He didn’t care if my manners weren’t perfect or if I didn’t make my bed.” She wiped her eyes.
“He sounds like a great guy,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Then again, you seem like a great kid, so it makes sense that you’d get along.”
“How do you know I’m a great kid?” she asked, adolescent sulk creeping into her voice.
“Well, you’re your own person. That’s obvious.”
“How do you know?”
“Your hair, your clothes. You have style.” She was wearing a pair of overalls over a black T-shirt, her nails were painted blue, and her hair was in two clumped ponytails, the curls making them look like shower scrunchies. “You have opinions, you’re clearly smart and you’re well-spoken. You have a lot going for you.”
“Melissa just likes to tell me what I do wrong. And that jerk in there . . . he talks at me and never even listens when I try to say something, you know what I mean?”
“I absolutely do.” I paused, sad for this kid, so at the mercy of the whims of her self-centered aunt. “When I was a kid, my parents got a divorce, and my sister went to live with my mother. I stayed with my dad. It was hard, not being able to have the family I wanted.”