before the factories closed and the companies packed up and headed to warmer climates. The place is charming.”
“Are you looking at what I’m looking at?” Of course he was, and of course he wasn’t going to admit that he saw past the lacy facade to the tiredness beneath. And even if he was, I wasn’t going to stand there and listen. I walked through the lace-curtained doorway and into the restaurant.
Just like the night before, there were no lights on in there, but this morning with the sun streaming through the windows that looked out at the railroad tracks, Sophie’s Terminal at the Tracks was washed with golden light.
Sure, in a better, more perfect world (or maybe in a Hallmark Channel movie), the sunlight would have accented the Terminal’s hominess, softening the rough edges of the place and gilding everything from the yellowed lace over the windows to the grainy black-and-white photographs of trains and railroad workers that hung on the walls. It would have made the dust motes that floated in the air into sparkling fairy dust.
In reality, all the light did was accent the gouges in theold floorboards, the smudges on the old wooden tables, and the fact that the windows needed washing. Badly.
“I can hang around until George shows up.” Until he spoke up, I hadn’t realized Declan had come to stand right behind me. Which was a funny thing, really, because anytime he was anywhere within five feet of me, I could feel the air heat between us as if tiny sparks of electricity crossed from him to me on invisible wires. “George, he’s your cook,” he added when I didn’t respond to his offer. “Denice and Inez are—”
“The waitresses. I know.” I spun away from the window. Too bad. Had I stood there a moment longer, I might have seen the freight train coming.
It rolled by not twenty feet from where I stood, and, startled, I gasped.
“People love it.” Declan raised his voice to be heard over the rush of the train. “A lot of them come here just to see the trains.”
Through the wall of windows at the back of the Terminal, I watched car after car streak past, fast enough to send a buzz of vibration through the old floorboards and just slow enough for me to see the brightly colored gang tags that had been painted on the sides of one car after another.
“Denice and Inez usually get here . . .” Declan pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the time. “They’ll be here by seven. Denice is usually first through the door.”
I turned from the windows and the train smoothly streaking by and headed for the kitchen. “And you’re usually up and going this early, too?”
He scrubbed a hand across the dusting of whiskers on his chin. “Actually, I haven’t been home. Been dealing with the cops. And Owen, of course. Kid’s got a head as hard as a coconut.”
I pushed open the swinging door that led into the kitchen.“I can’t imagine there was anything for you to eat at the police station.”
“There’s a vending machine and, hey, I’m used to Fritos at three in the morning.”
I glanced over my shoulder at him. “Spend a lot of time in police stations, do you?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
The kitchen was small, but thankfully tidy, and there was a coffeemaker on the stainless steel counter between an oven and a deep fryer. First things first: I got the coffee going, then checked out the walk-in cooler at the far end of the room. “How do you like your eggs?” I called out to Declan.
“Over easy, if it isn’t too much trouble.”
I got the grill started and found a loaf of bread and popped a couple slices into the toaster.
“You’re not a vegan?” he asked, watching me crack the eggs. “Organics only? I expected more from a California girl than fried eggs and white toast.”
“I’m used to cooking whatever my employer wanted to eat.”
“So what do Hollywood stars eat?”
I grabbed a spatula and flipped the eggs. “Meghan’s taste in foods depended
“Are you looking at what I’m looking at?” Of course he was, and of course he wasn’t going to admit that he saw past the lacy facade to the tiredness beneath. And even if he was, I wasn’t going to stand there and listen. I walked through the lace-curtained doorway and into the restaurant.
Just like the night before, there were no lights on in there, but this morning with the sun streaming through the windows that looked out at the railroad tracks, Sophie’s Terminal at the Tracks was washed with golden light.
Sure, in a better, more perfect world (or maybe in a Hallmark Channel movie), the sunlight would have accented the Terminal’s hominess, softening the rough edges of the place and gilding everything from the yellowed lace over the windows to the grainy black-and-white photographs of trains and railroad workers that hung on the walls. It would have made the dust motes that floated in the air into sparkling fairy dust.
In reality, all the light did was accent the gouges in theold floorboards, the smudges on the old wooden tables, and the fact that the windows needed washing. Badly.
“I can hang around until George shows up.” Until he spoke up, I hadn’t realized Declan had come to stand right behind me. Which was a funny thing, really, because anytime he was anywhere within five feet of me, I could feel the air heat between us as if tiny sparks of electricity crossed from him to me on invisible wires. “George, he’s your cook,” he added when I didn’t respond to his offer. “Denice and Inez are—”
“The waitresses. I know.” I spun away from the window. Too bad. Had I stood there a moment longer, I might have seen the freight train coming.
It rolled by not twenty feet from where I stood, and, startled, I gasped.
“People love it.” Declan raised his voice to be heard over the rush of the train. “A lot of them come here just to see the trains.”
Through the wall of windows at the back of the Terminal, I watched car after car streak past, fast enough to send a buzz of vibration through the old floorboards and just slow enough for me to see the brightly colored gang tags that had been painted on the sides of one car after another.
“Denice and Inez usually get here . . .” Declan pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the time. “They’ll be here by seven. Denice is usually first through the door.”
I turned from the windows and the train smoothly streaking by and headed for the kitchen. “And you’re usually up and going this early, too?”
He scrubbed a hand across the dusting of whiskers on his chin. “Actually, I haven’t been home. Been dealing with the cops. And Owen, of course. Kid’s got a head as hard as a coconut.”
I pushed open the swinging door that led into the kitchen.“I can’t imagine there was anything for you to eat at the police station.”
“There’s a vending machine and, hey, I’m used to Fritos at three in the morning.”
I glanced over my shoulder at him. “Spend a lot of time in police stations, do you?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
The kitchen was small, but thankfully tidy, and there was a coffeemaker on the stainless steel counter between an oven and a deep fryer. First things first: I got the coffee going, then checked out the walk-in cooler at the far end of the room. “How do you like your eggs?” I called out to Declan.
“Over easy, if it isn’t too much trouble.”
I got the grill started and found a loaf of bread and popped a couple slices into the toaster.
“You’re not a vegan?” he asked, watching me crack the eggs. “Organics only? I expected more from a California girl than fried eggs and white toast.”
“I’m used to cooking whatever my employer wanted to eat.”
“So what do Hollywood stars eat?”
I grabbed a spatula and flipped the eggs. “Meghan’s taste in foods depended
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