“The diner.”
I jabbed my fork into my quiche. “What about the diner?”
The man I didn’t recognize got up from the Priestly table. He was tall and bald, with a high forehead and a thick black mustache that dominated his angular face. He grunted as he passed a waitress, and then disappeared through the restroom doors.
“I think you should quit. It’s too taxing on your energy and you barely have any free time.”
Now that I had heard it in its entirety, I was surprised by her suggestion. I set my fork down and swallowed the mouthful of quiche in one overzealous gulp. “But it’s Dad’s. I thought the whole plan was for me to run it until he gets back.” I didn’t know why I was fighting against her idea — the thought of running the diner when I turned eighteen had never excited me; I had always known it wasn’t my calling.
The bee whizzed past my face, missing my nose by an inch. My mother dropped her fork and released a small yelp.
“Sorry,” she explained sheepishly, regaining her composure. “They always give me such a fright.”
“I think bees are kind of cute,” I said, trying to put her at ease.
Across the restaurant, the bee was zigzagging toward the Priestly table. Probably returning to its “master,” I thought, registering the back of Felice’s silver head again.
“What’s going on with you today? You’re all over the place.” My mother grabbed my wrist, tugging at me.
“Sorry.” I shook my head in a futile attempt to settle my wandering attention, and pulled my hand back. “What were you saying?”
“Why not let your uncle continue to manage the diner after you graduate next year, until your father comes back. That way you can give college your undivided attention — and go to school in Chicago instead of staying here in the burbs. There’s a whole world out there, you know.”
I shoveled another forkful of quiche into my mouth. “I’m still saving for a car. I need the money,” I said ineptly, covering my mouth as I chewed.
I flicked my gaze again. The bald, mustached man had come back from the restroom and was rejoining the Priestly table, sitting down with an audible grunt.
“I can give you a little cash every week to put toward a car. You wouldn’t even miss the tips from the diner,” my mother was protesting.
“I don’t want to put that strain on you,” I said, my mouth still half-full. “I know we don’t have that kind of money anymore.”
My mother pushed a square of feta cheese around her plate with her fork. “Sophie, I’d really prefer it if you left.”
“Did Uncle Jack say something to you? Have you heard from him?” I was starting to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach again. My mother was acting strange, like just about everyone else in my life.
“No, but maybe we should put some distance between you two. He seems a little more unhinged than usual lately.”
“I think he’d take it pretty badly if I ditched him now. Especially after his friend just died.”
She shrugged and skewered a thin slice of red onion, popping it into her mouth. “Jack’s not even around anymore. And he can’t always get what he wants.”
My eyes slid across to the Priestly table again. Dom and Gino were arguing with the bald, mustached man. Felice — yes, it was definitely him, I could see now — was sitting perfectly still, his hands clasped on the table in front of him. He was quietly observing the bee that was now swirling perilously close to their table. As the others argued, their voices swelled and traveled through the restaurant.
“What is going on?” My mother swiveled around so she could catch a glimpse of the commotion, but it died down almost as quickly as it had begun and she lost interest.
“Mom?”
She looked at me expectantly.
“Is there something you’re not telling me about Dad and Uncle Jack? Or you and Uncle Jack? I get the feeling I’m missing something.”
She leaned onto her elbows and knitted her hands under her chin. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t know what I mean. That’s why I asked …”
There was an almighty clap! We jumped in our seats.
“Calvino!” A scream so high it sounded like a woman’s. But it hadn’t come from a woman, it had come from Felice, who had sprung to his feet and was clasping his hands to his face. Now everyone in the restaurant was looking at them. The bald man — Calvino — sat back in the booth, casually lifting his palm from the table and wiping it with a napkin, his face placid. He had killed the bee.
Felice’s chest was heaving. He said something in amplified Italian, but Calvino didn’t bat an eyelid. He tried to wave Felice back into his seat. The calmer he acted, the more incensed Felice became. He began to spit vitriol as he gestured futilely at what I assumed was the squished bee carcass.