Late Lunch
By Ann Kammerer
[this is the fourth in the four part series–
read Once a Good Girl from the beginning]
Late Lunch
Mr. Lindell was at lunch when his daughter got to the office. He called and asked me
to keep Debbie busy, to tell her he hadn’t forgotten, to let her know he’d be there soon, that he had run late in court.
“Yeah sure,” she said. “I’ve heard that before.” Debbie triangled an elbow on the counter. Her purse slipped off her bare shoulder, so she put it on the counter, too. She grabbed a Brach’s peppermint from a dusty candy dish and popped it in her mouth, sliding the candy in and out between her glossy pink lips.
“I knew he wouldn’t show,” she said. “He likes long lunches.” Debbie walked to the window, lifting her hair and sighing, her white heels catching in the worn carpet. She sat down
in the waiting area and crossed her legs, her blue skirt hiking over her tan thighs. Her blonde hair cascaded down her back as she looked up and pulled on the ends of her paisley scarf.
“Christ,” she wailed. “Where is he?”
I glanced at the clock, remembering how Mr. Lindell had said she’d be in around 2, that he’d be a tad late, but not by much.
“You know how it goes,” he had said. “That Jensen. He gets to talking.”
I had told him not to worry, that I’d be here, both of us knowing he’d be at Fitzpatrick’s
drinking tonic and gin. I thought about how my dad had done the same, saying he’d be home
but not showing, pulling in late, his tires crunching, his car door creaking, his feet scraping as he mumbled his way to the front door.
“Got any coffee?” Debbie uncrossed her legs. She tapped her feet.
“I can make some,” I said.
She twirled a sparkly bracelet and asked if she could smoke. I said that was fine and pulled a green glass ashtray from my desk.
“My dad,” she said. “He’s such a loser.”
I poured water into the Mr. Coffee, half-listening as she went on about how her dad was always late, that he never did what he said he would, that he’d get mad if she did the same.
“I don’t know,” I said. “He just sounds like a lot of dads.”
Debbie came to the counter. She dug deep into her purse.
“Here you go.” She gave me a Virginia Slim then struck the flint of a silver lighter engraved with her initials. We leaned in, lighting our smokes, our heads nearly touching, the smell of her Charlie perfume mingling with the butane of the gold-blue flame.
“Does he call you his girl?” she asked.
I nodded. Her eyes fluttered.
“I don’t know how you stand it,” she said. “I suppose he’s cute, in that old man way, but come on. Working here from some two-bit lawyer is pretty boring don’t you think?”
–END–
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