Hotter than Helen (The "Bobby's Diner" Series) by Susan Wingate Page B

remained quiet while she went on her little tirade. “That’s all. I’m done.” She walked to the sink and ran the hot water, pumped some soap into her hands and washed them. “You know what I mean? I’m just done. I’m tired and need to give myself a break.” She pulled off two sheets of paper towel and dried her hands, then shoved the damp wad into her sleeve again for use on her nose later.
    “I understand, Georgie. Believe me, I do, but I just don’t see how running away is going to solve your problems here.”
    “Well, if I sell everything then I won’t have any more problems here.”
    “What about,” she crossed her arms and stood tall, “What about me, George? What about us?”
    “Roberta. You’re a grown woman. You have a husband. You don’t need me.”
    “But I love you.”
    “I love you too, honey, but I have to do this for myself. I just have to.” She sat with one foot up on the rung of the stool. “I just have to.”
    Roberta didn’t need to stand there and beg. She needed a little space herself, so she turned away, shaking her head and pressed through the wooden swinging doors of the diner, walking out of the kitchen.
    When the door swung back again, this time it brought Cammy through with it.
    “Order.” She held up a ticket in her hand and slipped it in the hanging round stainless steel order rack.
    “Yep.”
    Cammy smiled. “I need a smoke.”
    “Take five. No more. Hurry up.”
    The waitress left through the back door of the diner. The sun was just about setting and the sky looked like a baby’s room with a light yellow hazy blue sky and pink cotton-candy clouds. They looked to be building heavier in the distance.
    “Hey, Cammy.”
    The girl caught the door before it closed. “Yeah?”
    “Will you prop the door open? It’s too pretty outside.” A knot lodged between her ears like she’d swallowed a rock. Her eyes burned.
    “Sure.” She squeezed the cigarette in between her lips and held the door with both hands, heaving it fully open and cranking down the industrial-grade door stopper with her toe. “How’s that work for ya?” When she spoke, the cigarette bounced with each syllable.
    “Perfect. I can see perfectly now. Thanks, Cammy.”
    Georgette closed her eyes when she felt a cool breeze caress the inside of the kitchen and she let out a deep sigh.
     
    16
    “So, have you talked to her yet?”
    “Not since that day.”
    The Sunday paper still covered the couch where Georgette had been sitting, right before Roberta stopped by. A pair of neon pink fluffy slippers with slots for each toe lay, one on top of the other, on the floor next to the sofa. She hadn’t yet changed out of her sweats nor had she brushed her teeth, combed her hair, eaten breakfast or cleaned up the sink from last night’s can of tomato soup. A half-eaten sleeve of crackers from a box of Ritz lay open on the speckled green granite counter top.
    “I must look awful.” Georgette flipped the remote over to turn off the TV. The screen flickered before zapping out.
    “It’s me. No worries.” Roberta looked at her watch. It was ten-twenty.
    Looking into her own mug at a shallow pool of caramel-colored liquid and a few stray coffee grounds, Georgette asked Roberta, “Want some coffee?”
    A tick, tick, ticking of Georgette’s clock sounded behind them. “Sure.”
    Georgette pushed up off the couch turning to the sound and noticed Gangster at the door. His fur lifted from a wind that had kicked up that morning. She shuffled, clad in thick cotton socks to the U-shaped kitchen. Tying closed the sash of her cotton robe as she moved, she shuffled back, carrying the entire pot of coffee and set it down onto a bright yellow tile trivet decorated with one single rooster in its center.
    “Hold on, Gangster.”
    Holding her cup shoulder-high, Roberta let Georgette fill it.
    The morning sunlight danced on the wall as it shone through the French door that led off to the patio. Gangster patted with both