The Journey Home by Michael Baron Page B

didn’t score big?”
    Warren gave her a quick bow with his head. “Fair enough.”
    Antoinette’s plate came at that point and she tasted her eggs. At least she thought she tasted them. She couldn’t be certain because they didn’t seem to have any flavor.
    â€œHoney, could you pass me the pepper? You’d better give me the salt, too.”
    He handed both shakers across the table. “That yummy, huh?”
    â€œJust like home.” She grinned. “At least, just like Paul Feinberg’s home.”
    Warren laughed like Antoinette had just told the funniest joke in the world. She liked that she could get that kind of reaction from him. Maybe letting him get out with her wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
    Warren seemed to like his potpie a little more than he liked his soup, and Antoinette seasoned her eggs further in an attempt to coax some flavor out of them. You had to try to make eggs taste this bland. Since she wasn’t particularly hungry anyway, though, she gave up after a few bites. When Warren finished his lunch,
they ordered coffee and chatted. Antoinette asked her son about his wife and his job, which seemed to fluster him for some reason. She wondered what was going on. It wasn’t like him to be so closemouthed. Warren had always been very willing to talk to her about what was going on in his life. Her friends had often marveled at how candid Warren was with her. It seemed that once their children became teenagers, they wouldn’t tell their mothers much of anything. Maybe her son had just figured out that he was supposed to act this way as well.
    In all, in spite of Warren taking her to a strange place with bad food, it had turned out to be a very pleasant way to spend the time. At least it was until they got ready to leave.
    â€œLet me handle the tip,” Antoinette said when Warren reached into his pocket for some money to pay the check.
    â€œNo, I’ve got it.”
    Antoinette reached for her purse. “Don’t be silly. You don’t need to pay for everything.”
    That was when she discovered that her purse wasn’t there. She looked on the floor to see if she’d accidentally knocked it over, but it wasn’t there, either. Her blood boiled instantly.
    â€œShe took it.”
    Warren removed his napkin from his lap and was sliding to get out of the booth. “Who took what?”
    Antoinette nodded toward the waitress. “That woman took my purse.”

    â€œNo, she didn’t, Mom.”
    Antoinette stood, checked her seat again, and then pointed toward the waitress. “That woman stole my purse,” she said loudly enough to draw the attention of people across the dining room.
    The waitress was delivering a plate to another customer when she looked up to see that Antoinette was pointing directly at her. She pretended to be confused.
    â€œYou!” Antoinette said. “I know it was you!”
    The woman stood stock-still, obviously horrified that Antoinette had caught her. Warren came over to take her by the arm.
    â€œMom, you’re being a little loud.”
    â€œYou don’t think I should be loud about this?”
    â€œMom, the woman didn’t take your purse.”
    â€œThen who did? It had to be her.”
    Warren tried to move her out of the restaurant, but Antoinette wouldn’t budge.
    â€œMom, no one took your purse.”
    Antoinette turned her fury on her son. She couldn’t believe he was going to let them get away with this. “MY PURSE IS GONE!”
    Warren used a little more strength and pushed her toward the door. “Mom, quiet down. Everyone is looking at us.”
    â€œThey shouldn’t be looking at us – they should be looking for their purses. This restaurant is a den of thieves.”
    The hostess came toward them as Warren continued to manhandle her out of the place. “Is there a problem, sir?”

    â€œThere’s no problem,”