Page 63 of The Daring Times of Fern Adair
Leaving Young Acres had been a choice, and Fern had to see it through.
A little bell chimed them in. Some truckers at the counter, seated on glossy blue and silver stools turned to catch a glimpse of the new arrivals. Though she avoided their eyes, she saw the jerky motion of shoulders as they stopped to do a double take. To see if they’d really seen what they thought they’d just seen. Backs straightened as Cal took the lead, guiding them down the narrow aisle between window booths and the row of stools at the counter. Chatter slowed, then picked up again.
The smell of toast, bacon and coffee, fried eggs, onions and potatoes, filled her nose. A radio was tuned to a brass band program, and an oscillating fan above the cashier’s till blew lazy streams of already-warm air.
Cal slid into a booth. Fern took the seat across from him, the blue plastic creaking as she settled. A waitress approached their table.
“Coffee,” he told her.
“Just water, please,” Fern said. The woman quicklylooked down at her notepad, scribbled their choice of beverage, then dashed away.
Fern grabbed a menu and concentrated on the sandwiches and fried chicken offered, though it wasn’t easy to ignore the way one of the truck drivers at the counter kept twisting around to stare at her. Finally, Cal sat back, threw an arm over the booth’s backing, and blatantly stared back at him. He wasn’t getting up to punch out the guy’s teeth, but it was an obvious demand for the man to turn around and keep his eyes on his food. The man grasped the silent order and faced forward.
Cal glanced out the window. Across the road from the diner, a field of corn stalks stretched and rolled for what seemed like miles to the east.
“I bet you hate the countryside,” Fern said.
He looked at her. “Why do you say that?”
“You just seem like someone who prefers city life. It’s faster, louder.” Fern shrugged. “I kept thinking about how much you’d hate Young Acres.”
Cal cocked his head. “You thought about me?”
Heat seared her neck and then quickly, her cheeks. She hadn’t meant to admit that, not to herself and most certainly, not to him.
Fern fiddled with the corner of the menu. “A little, I suppose. I wondered if you were okay, after what happened, of course.”
Concern for him made sense, didn’t it? The last time she’d seen him, he’d been bleeding. Dying. Muttering about a person named Bets.
“Who is Bets?” she asked abruptly.
She’d wondered who he was, and why he’d been on Cal’s mind as he was slipping into unconsciousness.
Cal went still. His eyes skated up from the menu and sliced into her. Instantly, Fern knew she’d said something wrong.
“Where’d you hear that name?”
She licked her lips, suddenly parched. “When you were in Dr. Levy’s office, you weren’t lucid, and …you were calling out for someone named Bets. Asking them not to leave. I just was curious…”
He closed the bifold menu. “I don’t want to talk about her.”
Fern’s stomach swooped low.Her.Oh. Bets was a woman. A woman who’d left him. She dropped her attention to the menu in front of her, fighting the draining sensation in her chest. It shouldn’t have been this much of a shock to realize that he’d been in love with a woman before. He was a man, a handsome one, and powerful. He was a gangster, and flappers would have certainly taken a shine to him.
It didn’t matter. None of that did. Fern closed the menu and pushed it away.
“What happened after you left Dr. Levy’s?” she asked, hoping to steer the conversation in a new direction. “The Jacky Boys intended to…to kill you?”
Doubt still lingered in her mind about her father’s role in instigating the drive-by shooting at Harris Looms. If he’d arranged for Cal to be taken out, and if Cal knew it, Fern didn’t understand how he could be sitting here with her so calmly. Why would he want to?
His expression stayed firmlyplacid, even as the waitress returned with the ceramic mug of steaming coffee and a glass of water. Cal ordered an egg salad sandwich, and Fern quickly picked something off the menu, a turkey club. She didn’t know if she’d be able to eat more than a few bites, though.
Another minute passed, and just when she thought he was going to ignore her question—maybe he was still angry about her bringing up Bets—he finally replied, “I’m not so easy to kill.”
It wasn’t boasting or pride. There was no arrogance attached to the statement. It was simply fact.
“Others have tried?”
He sipped his black coffee and nodded. Of course, they had. Cal ran with a dangerous crowd, doing illegal, dangerous things. She’d known that from the beginning. He made people angry, her brother and father included.
