The Fortunes of Indigo Skye Read Online Free PDF

Nick Harrison likes Rosso Verona,
and Funny likes Calacatta Fantasia, and Joe sits at the counter, which is all
Carrera No. 2.
    Within moments, I'm flying around, and so is
Jane, and we're zipping past each other like experienced dance partners,
and
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    Luigi is belting out something he must have
heard on the radio on the way over "Why buy a mattress anywhere else!" and
there's the sound of frying and plates and conversation and silverware clinking
against glass plates and the smell of butter and coffee and sizzling bacon, the
melded recipe of morning. Funny Coyote comes in and talks to Trina, and the two
new ladies surprise me and order full stacks (when I took them for the fruit-cup
type) and Joe shows Jane and me pictures he just got of his new baby
granddaughter. Nick Harrison arrives and sets a section of folded newspaper down
beside him, and Leroy must be sleeping late, and a couple with a toddler wants a
table and I have to fetch a booster seat.
    So, who needs a gym, right? First off, I've
never been the show-your-body-off-in-
stretchy-fabrics type, even if I've
got an okay one. (My ass is maybe a little wobbly, but big deal.) I went to one
of those places once, and there were just too many guys in tight tank tops
strutting around and looking at themselves in mirrors. Great big old narcissist
party, minus the booze and cocktail wieners on frilly toothpicks. But man, I get
plenty of exercise waitressing. It's hard work. Lifting, bending, constant
motion. I give Nick his oatmeal, coo-chie-coo the toddler, take the parents'
order, go back to find a pen that works, refill Joe's coffee cup. The full
stacks are up and I have my back turned when I hear Nick Harrison say, too
loudly, "Vespa alert. Curbside."
    I'm registering what this means when in a
flash, the bells on the door jangle. When I turn, there's the guy again, in tan
slacks and a white shirt, a sleek leather jacket over one arm. He's everything
new and clean and crispy--shopping bags, clothes with just-ironed creases,
things wrapped in tissue paper. Trina's chin pops up, her head swivels, and you
can practically see the circles
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    of her radarscope following the movement of his
body. Code red. She sets her fork down. She's only one bite into her pie, since
Funny came in to hear her blab about Roger in Rio. Trina's a backward pie eater.
She starts at the corner, leaves the point of the pie, the tastiest bite, she
says, for last. This probably says something about her, only I don't know
what.
    People are creatures of habit, and you learn
this quickly if you work in a restaurant. Maybe we have just so much change that
we can take, so much that's out of our control, that we need to keep the same
what we're able to keep the same. If someone sits at a table once, there's about
an 85 percent chance they'll sit there again if they can, and this man is no
different. He slides into the window-side chair again at Nero Belgio, a marble
that is almost pure black. It's all shiny elegance, and it's a good match for
him. There's also about a 75 percent chance that a person will order the very
same thing as he did before, but I'd just have to see.
    "Morning," I say.
    "Good morning." He smiles his closed-mouth
smile. I set a menu at the table, wait.
    "Just coffee," the man says again. My inner
crowd cheers. It's the gleeful rise of I-knew-it, mixed with the gladness of a
continuing mystery. Eggs and sausage would have meant no more questions. A
regular guy finds a new place to eat, big deal. But no, he's still here with Just coffee.
    I pour, then set his cup down in front of him.
He doesn't have a newspaper, anything. He just sits and stares out the window.
Joe wipes his fingers free of bacon grease on his napkin before he puts the
photos back away in their envelope. "Sad," he whispers to me, flicking his head
back toward the Vespa guy.
    "Maybe," I say.
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    Nick's taking it all in. He's filtered out the
ladies talking, the toddler