Any Minute by Meyer Joyce Bedford Deborah Page A

gnawed on him like a dog gnaws on a particularly knotty bone.
    Tom always got unreasonably upset when he didn’t get exactly what he wanted. He had imagined an afternoon stroll with Sarah telling him how grateful she was for all he had done for her. Instead, she was so busy entertaining her son that she could not even find the time to speak to him!
    She would have to answer to him for this, Tom decided. He wasn’t paying her to bond with her kid on company time.

     
    The line began beside the brilliantly lit case of croissants and cupcakes, stretched the length of the counter, and jutted past the shelves of mugs and CDs and fancy coffeemakers. Behind the counter, the girl released bursts of steam from spouts in a rhythm that, to Mitchell’s ears, sounded like something in a hip-hop song. Mitchell pressed his nose to the glass and surveyed the many rows of baked goods, the lemon-knot cookies, the chocolate-covered granola bars, the pumpkin muffins made in the shape of tiny Bundt cakes.
    “We don’t have all day, Mitchell,” said his mother. “I’ve got to get to the office. People behind us are waiting their turn.”
    The clerk stood with her finger over the cash register button, waiting for him to make a selection. Wouldn’t you know? There wasn’t anything with sprinkles and icing here. He glanced up at his mom and pointed toward the first thing on the tray. “I’ll have that one.”
    “Macadamia nut, cranberry, or white chocolate?” the clerk asked.
    He nodded without really caring. He’d had his heart set on Dunkin’ Donuts instead, and then they’d gotten here and there hadn’t been much to choose from. Add to that, his mom never gave him enough time to think. She was always in a hurry no matter what she was doing.
    Beside him, she dug into her purse, paid the bill, and loaded their to-go cups in the cardboard carrier. She was already headed for the door when the lady at the counter reminded her she hadn’t taken her bag.
    “Aren’t we going to eat here?” Mitchell adjusted the huge sleeves on the borrowed jacket he wore since he was going on the trading floor.
    “I told you. I have to get to the office.”
    “We’re eating cookies along the way?”
    “Yes. That’s what it looks like to me,” Sarah snapped. The last thing she wanted to do was be impatient with Mitchell. After all, she had brought him to work with her to show how much she cared for him, but he would have to keep pace with her if he ever wanted to do it again.
    He would have loved to sit at the table and nibble the cookie and watch everyone. He got tired of listening to people in his mom’s office because they all talked about the same thing. But wearing the jacket made things somewhat better; this jacket might be the greatest thing ever. “It swallows you,” his mom had said when he’d tried it on, which pleased him, the idea of something swallowing him. He liked the way it hung, wrinkly and large, green mesh with a smart white trim, and a plastic nametag on the collar. When he worried about borrowing it, his mom told him not to worry, that she had every intention of returning it to the closet after they’d finished. She said everyone had to wear a jacket like this when they visited the trading pit.
    They’d almost made it outside when a lady carrying a computer case pointed at his borrowed nametag and said, “You’re not Harry Tippin.”
    “I’m not,” he said. “I’m Mitchell Harper. I’m visiting.”
    “But you’re wearing Harry Tippin’s jacket.”
    Mitchell shrugged, feeling as if this wasn’t good, that somehow she’d caught him at something.
    “Hello, Sarah. Heard you’ve been singled out for the Cornish account.” The woman extended a hand to his mom. “Congratulations. I’m happy for you.”
    His mom didn’t return the gesture. “I’ll bet you are.”
    “Well,” said computer lady, looking insulted. “No need to say it like that. I’m trying to be a good sport.”
    Once they’d gotten out