The Dollhouse Read Online Free PDF Page B

them. “It’ll pick up for dinner.”
    “I hope so.” I glanced up at her as I slid a filled bottle over. “Did you get your hair done?”
    “Sure did, sugar.” Miranda’s thin hair was teased up in a beehive, the same way she’d worn it since that style was actually in vogue. Yesterday it had been a pale yellow like buttercream frosting and she’d clearly been back to the salon, because today it was the color of pink cotton candy. She got it colored a different outrageous shade every month.
    “I like it, reminds me of spring.”
    “It sure makes me feel good.” She patted the side of her hair gently as if it wasn’t held firmly in place with a hundred pins and a gallon of super-hold hairspray. “You should find something to cheer yourself up, too. You’re too young and pretty for frown lines.”
    I laughed at that. “I’ll work on it.”
    “How’s your mom?”
    “Hanging in there.” I turned away to busy myself with lining up the ketchup bottles neatly on a shelf under the register. “We go back to see the oncologist at the end of the month.”
    Miranda patted me gently on the back. “Well, I hope its good news, sweetheart.”
    “Me, too. She has an appointment with the lady from the disability office next week. I’m hoping they’ll put her back on benefits because she hasn’t been able to work in weeks.”
    Miranda’s face was sympathetic. “It will all work out. You let me know if you need anything.”
    “Always.” I scanned behind the counter for any other side-work that needed to be done. Busying myself was the only way to keep agonizing thoughts of the future at bay.
    I bent down below the counter to tidy the stacks of menus that were heaped on top of each other in a precarious pile.
    The bell above the door dinged, announcing the arrival of another customer.
    “You take this one,” I heard Miranda say to me. “I’ll get the next.”
    “Thanks,” I said and hastily finished pushing the menus into place. I brushed my hands off on my apron as I stood, simultaneously pasting my patented customer service smile onto my face.
    And then I came face to face with the Procurer.
    I froze, mouth working uselessly as I tried to no avail to produce something coherent.
    “Table for one,” he said with an amused smile, obviously enjoying my discomfiture.
    I swallowed hard. “Right this way.”
    Grabbing a menu, I moved around the counter and led the way to a booth in the back of the diner, far away from the handful of other customers and outside of Miranda’s hearing.
    It was a struggle to maintain my composure, caught as I was at the epicenter of two colliding worlds. Who did the Procurer think he was, just showing up like this without warning? And at my job, of all places.
    I waited for the Procurer to seat himself, inwardly seething.
    He pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket of his suit jacket and wiped at the battered tabletop, a look of disdain twisting his aquiline features.
    “What a charming little place, my dear.”
    I slammed the menu down in front of him. “This is not okay.”
    “You’re looking well, my dear Dalea,” he said, obviously unfazed by my outburst. “I suppose it’s too much to ask for a glass of water that hasn’t come directly out of the river.”
    “Sorry, we just ran all out of Evian.”
    “Pity,” he said, ignoring the sarcasm — if he heard it all. “I believe I’d like a bowl of soup, sans flies please. And do you have any specials?”
    I glared at him. “You can’t be serious.”
    “No specials, then?”
    “The catfish is pretty special — if by that you mean it’s a day from turning and needs to be offloaded.”
    “I’ll pass, thank you.” He surveyed me quietly for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Might I suggest that you fetch me a cup of hot tea and take a moment to soothe your ruffled feathers? Then, perhaps, we can speak like civilized adults.”
    The warning in his voice was clear as a bell. As much I wanted to continue