The Speed of Mercy by Christy Conlin (good books for high schoolers txt) 📕

and his eyes flit away to her father’s. “You don’t have the local accent. Are you sure you know your way?”

“Of course I know the way. Do you want me to write out the instructions?”

“No, just double-checking. We’re on a bus tour. We have an hour to wander. It’s my wife and her sisters who want these tours.” He holds his hand up to shade his eyes as he gazes to the west.

A woman in fuchsia sunglasses looks west as well. “That’s right, it’s always the wife’s fault.” The other two women laugh. “If the man says it’s west, it’s west.” Their voices trail behind as they head to the marsh.

Her father chuckles and rolls his eyes at Stella. Stella knows he thinks they are in on a joke together.

They walk through the glass door into the diner and the brass bell at the top rings. There is a jukebox in the corner, and an old-fashioned Please wait to be seated sign with faded lettering. A waitress comes over. “Well, look what the dog dragged in. Frank said you were coming home. Now, you must be Stella. Frankie told us that Billy had a girl with those magic eyes. I have a booth reserved back here, the best one in the house.”

Stella and her father follow the short, plump woman to a booth. “I’ll be right back, folks.”

Stella looks at the framed pictures on the walls, most in black and white and some in colour, of boating on the river, apple orchards covered in blossoms, horse-and-wagons loaded with barrels, like in the ice cream parlour. A wooden-framed poster hangs on the wall by the pictures of the old days. May you never forget what is worth remembering nor ever remember what is best forgotten. Keep it sweet.

The waitress comes back with menus. “This here diner’s been in my family for four generations. Did your father tell you that?” She smiles at Stella. She pronounces father with an r, far-ther. It’s almost a southern accent. The local accent the tourist mentioned.

“No, he didn’t . . .”

Stella sees her far-ther has no idea who this is, from how he keeps nodding, the neutral look he had in Ohio when his students would come up to him in public. Hi, Dr. Sprague. How are you? Off exploring the lunatic asylum, the abandoned buildings? He would always smile, pleased they recognized him. He looks at her name tag. “Stella, this is Cheryl.”

Cheryl laughs. “Pity about Frankie’s mother, living all alone out there at Cedar Grove. My cousin’s girlfriend was cleaning house there and cooking, but Frank fired her, out of the blue. She worked there for over ten years. She’s all afraid of him now. Frank’s just like his father, people say. He let the landscaping company go too. That lawn’s a mess. I guess we all turn out to be our parents. Sorry to hear about the car accident and all. What a sin. Frank told me when he made the reservation.”

Stella sees her father’s face go pale.

Stella thinks about this maid or cleaner/housekeeper, whoever she was. Cynthia said she had up and quit. Why would she lie about that? Maybe Cheryl was mixed up, got it wrong . . . or maybe Cynthia didn’t know. Cheryl now goes on about the special, fresh fried Digby scallops, which came in on the fish truck early this morning, so fresh they don’t even know they’re dead but you can’t go wrong with the clubhouse because we bake our own bread, nothing out of a bag, no sir. The bell jingles again and a stream of people flow in. To Stella’s great relief, Cheryl rushes away, leaving menus on the table. Her father studies the menu as though it’s a missing historical document he’s found in the archives. It’s always awkward now, when he’s alone with Stella, his stiff efforts to make small talk. Stella knows that she reminds him not of her mother or his sister, the first Stella — she reminds him only that they are dead.

The bell jingles once more and Frank fills up the doorway. Stella watches him look around the diner, smiling at people. She sees Cynthia behind him, looking bored. Frank proceeds down the aisle, shaking hands, patting people on the back, scanning the room at the same time, smiling when he locates Stella’s father, winking at Stella. He seems to know she has been observing him. She blushes.

“As I live and breathe. Billy, my dear old friend, I still can’t believe you’re back.”

Stella’s father stands up and Frank clasps his hand, pumping his arm as he squeezes his shoulder.

Stella and her father move over to make room for them. Stella’s hip burns where the skin is raw, the makeshift bandage rubbing on it.

“Mr. Sprague, how are you finding your old home?” Cynthia asks, sitting down beside Stella. “Are you coming to the barbeque tomorrow?”

Stella’s father can’t hide his delight at seeing Cynthia. It doesn’t occur to him to hide it. “Well, it’s much the same as it was when I was a boy, Cynthia. You’ll have to come over and visit again. Right, Stella?”

Stella clutches the menu and fans herself. Her father reaches out and stops her, embarrassed, that Stella’s a psycho with strange behaviours, and he’s the normal one, in his rumpled, stained shirt, with his scruffy face the colour of dirty dishwater.

Cheryl comes back and takes their order. She double-checks and then points her pencil at Frank. “You hardly ever come into the diner anymore. You’re a summer visitor yourself, Mister. Look, I’m sorry to hear about Sally. And how is Granny Scotia? It must be hard with her getting on in years now. My sister-in-law works at the nursing home and it’s a nice place —”

Cynthia interrupts. “Granny Scotia is just fine on her own.”

A bell from the grill dings and Cheryl sways away. Stella isn’t hungry after having her cheese and tomato sandwich, but she doesn’t want to be rude — or worse, have