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The next evening, when she had to
go to work, because she was expected and needed, and because she herself needed
the money, she dragged herself into Don Vittorio’s and put on a face. From time to time, her co-worker and the
owner would look at her, quizzically, but neither openly asked her what the
problem was. And then, as she’d dreaded, towards the end of the evening Keith
came in, a small smile on his lips as he said hullo, his eyes twinkling with
affection and friendship.
She couldn’t help herself—she
smiled back. And yet she also wanted to
weep.
Keith knew at once something was
wrong.
“You OK?”
“Yeah.” Esmé was ashamed of her feelings. Love? Foolishness.
Hope was dangerous. Just accept
what was.
“Yeah, roight.
I knaow somethin’s wrong, Ezzaloona.
Tell mai.”
Esmé started to cry quietly.
“Oh, Ezz.” Keith got up from his side of the table and
knelt in front of her. “Is it your
dad?”
Esmé shook her head unable to
speak, but it might as well have been.
Because she would never be right, not after what had been done to
her. Holding tightly to Keith’s hands,
she said over her sobs, “I saw. The
other night. You and …him.”
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