The girl came back in a moment, set a cup in front of him, and put down a container of sugar and another with creamers. She filled the cup and he—ignoring the sugar and the creamers—took a sip.
His surprise at the quality of the coffee must have shown, in raised eyebrows or some change in expression, because the girl smiled at him. And, oh, she had dimples. He grinned back. She wasn't that much younger than him, really, and besides, he went out with girls her age every other week. But was she involved with Tom? Or how did she feel about Tom? He had to ask about Tom, but was it going to ruin everything?
"Excuse me?" he said, before she could turn away. "I don't suppose I could ask you a question?"
She tensed. He saw her tense, as she turned around, even if her face didn't show anything as she said, "Yes?"
"I'm sorry to bother you," he said. "But does Thomas Ormson work here?"
For a moment her face stayed absolutely frozen, and he thought she was going to tell him to go to hell or something. Instead, she put a hand on the table, and it trembled. Oh, no. What was going on here? Was she Tom's girlfriend.
"I thought you looked like him," she said. "But I thought . . ." She swallowed and didn't say what she thought.
"I'm his father," Edward said, low enough that the gorilla behind at the grill wouldn't hear him. "My name is Edward Ormson. Do you know where he is?"
She opened her mouth.
"Kyrie," the gorilla said. And she looked around, as if wakening. People had come in while they were talking, and there were five tables occupied. And she was alone. Also, his dinner was now sitting on the counter, ready. She went to get it.
"I get out at five," she told him. "It might be easier to talk then."
* * *
It was night from hell. Or at least night from next door to hell. Nothing bad happened. Kyrie even managed—despite her mounting exhaustion—to not drop any trays full of plates, and not to mix up any orders.
But Tom hadn't shown up. She was of two minds about this. Part of her wanted him to show up. She wanted to . . . Well, for one his father had been at the Athens, and his father was asking about him. That certainly didn't seem like the kind of father who had thrown his son out of the house at sixteen. Then again, she thought—who knew what Tom had done, and how much he could goad people beyond their natural limits?
His father had left after half an hour, and she hadn't given it much thought, until, as she was getting ready to leave, she saw him waiting by the door, looking very proper in his expensive-looking, if somewhat rumpled, business suit.
She nodded to him, and went toward the counter, to tell Frank she was leaving. He glared at her, which was not really a surprise, since he'd been glaring at her—and to be honest at everyone else—all night. Then he motioned with his head toward Tom's father. "Another one?"
She sighed. "I have no idea what you're talking about. He's just . . ." She stopped short of telling Frank this was Tom's father. She wasn't even sure why. Just she didn't want the jokes following on Tom being her boyfriend and his father supposedly visiting her. "He just wants to ask me something," she said.
And anyway, she thought, as she walked toward Mr. Ormson, if Frank couldn't see the resemblance between Tom and his father—same pale skin, same dark hair, same blue eyes—then he didn't want to see it.
They stepped outside the diner, and the morning was lovely, just warm enough to promise heat later at midday, but not warm enough to actually be uncomfortable. Kyrie took a deep breath of the air that seemed much cleaner than it would be later on in the day when Fairfax became clogged with bumper-to-bumper traffic. "I don't know where Tom is," she told his father, quickly. "I saw him last about twelve hours ago. He left with a friend. I don't know where he is. I can give you his address if you want."
"I have his address," his father said. "His landlady said that he worked at the Athens and that she thought his girlfriend worked there too. You wouldn't—"
Kyrie felt herself blush. "No. He doesn't have a girlfriend, that I know." There was no point explaining, and yet she could tell he was looking attentively at her, as though trying to read her expression. Or most probably wondering why she was blushing. Damn her blush, really. For a woman who could and did tan easily enough, she had the most inconvenient blushes. And it really didn't mean anything, except annoyance at Frank thinking she was Tom's girlfriend.
"Can we go somewhere and talk?" Mr. Ormson asked, leaning slightly forward, as if eager to have her answer.