Those Who Favor Fire by Lauren Wolk (easy readers .TXT) 📕

itself … well, that was an impulse that he had always known could be corrected. Groceries were hardly optional. But why had he handed over much of the money in his wallet for a coffeepot, towels, a broom and dustpan? A skillet, for God’s sake. (True, he had bought bacon, but was it actually necessary to own a skillet?) Thank God he’d put the toaster back. Things were already too far out of control. Why hadn’t he thought so last night when Spalding had been here? It still surprised him that he’d invited the man in. It surprised him even more that Ian had asked no questions, voiced no suspicions about the reasons for his sudden arrival in Belle Haven.

So. Two hundred and twenty dollars. Enough … if he drove little, ate little, expected little. He could do it for a while. And in a week or so he’d call his father—perhaps from Randall, to be on the safe side.

He realized how difficult going home might be. There was every chance he’d have to act the chameleon, suffer his predatory father, until he was back at school and eventually twenty-one, wealthy in his own right. It would be a temporary sort of hypocrisy, the pragmatic choice, the only alternative to penury. But he could do it if he had to. And, once again, with deliberate enthusiasm, Joe imagined the possibility that his father might surprise him with a desire to make amends.

This settled, he felt so much better that he decided to take the Schooner into town for a really good breakfast.

“Angela’s Kitchen,” Ian had told him the night before, “is where you want to go for breakfast. Near Maple and Sierra. Better watch out for the trees on Sierra. Need trimming.”

Joe had no intention, however, of taking his Schooner anywhere near Sierra and its overgrown trees. It was only 7:00 A.M., so there would be little traffic and plenty of places to park. As soon as he was within walking distance, he’d leave the Schooner and find his way to Angela’s Kitchen on foot.

“Two hundred and twenty dollars,” he figured as he drove carefully down the bumpy lane, through the trees, and onto the pale gray hardtop that led into town. “I probably shouldn’t spend more than three bucks a meal.” He had never had to price his food before. The effort made him hungry.

Chapter 10

        “I’ll have two eggs over easy, home fries, and toast. And cranberry juice—”

“We got any cranberry juice?” the waitress called over her shoulder.

“If it’s not on the menu, it’s not in the kitchen,” the cook said mildly as she hauled a crate of grapefruits from the walk-in.

“No cranberry juice. Sorry,” the waitress said. “But we do have orange, apple, tomato—”

“Make it orange, then,” Joe decided, “and on second thought I’ll have a cinnamon roll instead of the toast.”

“Good choice. They’re the best in town.”

“I’ll bet they are.” Joe took a long look at the girl, at the way she was wrapped in her apron like a gift, and did not lower his eyes until she turned abruptly away and retreated toward the kitchen.

He opened his newspaper and skipped through the front pages, pausing at headlines. The world seemed to be going on without him. When he got to the bits and pieces of small news in the later pages he read more carefully but found nothing about a missing Christopher Barrows. Not that he had expected anything. But eventually, if he was reported missing, he might find a grainy likeness of himself on page 12 or thereabouts. God, he was hungry. Where the hell were his eggs?

Moments later, when the waitress carried Joe’s plate over to the counter, he was immersed in his newspaper, which he had spread out in front of him, leaving no room for his food.

“Here you go,” she said, holding his breakfast high in her hand. He raised his head, looked at her intently for a moment, and smiled. She was really something.

“Looks delicious,” he murmured.

The waitress smiled back, her eyes narrowing. “You haven’t seen it yet.”

His smile stiffened. “I meant it smells delicious,” he said.

She thought this over, her head cocked, one eye shut, mouth pursed. “No,” she finally said. “I don’t think so.”

It startled Joe to see her slide his breakfast into the warming oven and pour out a large glass of milk.

“Here you go,” she said, putting the milk down in front of him.

“What’s this?”

“This,” she said, raising her eyebrows, “is milk.”

“Milk?”

“You were staring,” she said. “At my”—she swirled her hands in front of her chest as if she meant to pull a rabbit out of a hat—“hooters. Knockers. Headlights. Coconuts. Lungs, as in, ‘set of.’ Ta-tas. Rack,” she said and crossed her arms as if latching cupboard doors.

Joe wasn’t sure what was going on. Everybody flirted. He’d watched his father treat a hundred girls the same way, and he’d picked up the habit much as he’d learned which fork was meant for his salad, which for his meat. But there was something in this girl’s hipshot stance that made him think he’d chosen his target unwisely.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he assured her. He had not even been conscious of his actions, which made him wonder what else he commonly did to cause offense.

“Oh, sure you did, although I’m not sure what.” She squinted at him as if he might just be one bug worth squashing, then turned to the oven for his plate. “I’ll tell you what. You apologize and I’ll give you your breakfast.”

Annoyed with both the girl and himself, Joe said an unsmiling “Sorry” and held out his hand for his eggs.

“Oh, come on,” the waitress scolded, shaking her head, holding the plate just beyond his reach. “Let’s try that again.”

Days earlier, Christopher Barrows would have done one of several things, depending on his mood: he would have walked out (without paying for his coffee); called for the manager; done his best to appease the girl. (The cook who stood several feet beyond the waitress,