Letting Go (Triple Eight Ranch) - By Mary Beth Lee
Chapter One
Clarissa Dye sighed as she took in the reflection staring back at her. The hard-edged face, the lines around her eyes, the grey smudges reminding her of months and months of sleepless nights.
Behind her, the alarm started its daily squawk. She should just chuck the thing. Not like she needed it. At least not until she changed time zones.
She swallowed the hard ball of pain in her throat, the one that threatened tears—once a mainstay, now a memory—and stepped into the living room, smacked the clock to shut it up, then folded the bed back into the awful green couch and told herself to be thankful. But, man, it was hard sometimes.
Plodding into the kitchen, she made herself a cup of instant coffee. The cheap stuff that tasted like railroad ties and spit but still got the job done.
She added a piece of toast to her breakfast and told herself to buck up. Stearns, Oklahoma was her choice. Her chance. Her minimum three-month stint to save before moving on via Greyhound to the next chance dot on a map picked at random. One month down, two to go.
Slipping into her yellow Crocs, she tied her pink apron around her too thin waist and whispered a quick thanks to whichever Fates out there had led her to Pete’s Diner with the tiny efficiency apartment located above the garage behind the restaurant, all bills paid, discount if renters actually worked for gruffy, old Pete. Without it, her stay would likely be more around six months. Six months meant attachments. Clarissa didn’t do attachments.
“Mornin’ Pete,” she called as she entering the diner through the back door, even though she knew Pete’s only answer would be his signature glower. His bushy white eyebrows and matching hair gave emphasis to the look, but his sparkly blue eyes leaned a little closer to Santa than Scrooge.
“Mornin’ sunshine,” Bev, the only friend Clarissa had allowed herself to make on this stop, called as she twisted to maneuver around Clarissa with a french toast, sausage and eggs-over-easy loaded tray and headed to table fifteen and one of the town’s claims to fame, Norene Albright nèe Chisholm, once upon a time Miss Texas runner up. Ms. Norene ate breakfast at Pete’s every morning, laughing all the while that her days of watching her figure were long past.
“Table seven’s gonna to want more coffee in a jiff,” Bev said. “Think you can handle it?”
Clarissa grabbed the freshly brewed hot pot off the warmer and started toward the table smiling hello to Lester Pyle, the one customer in town who tipped based on smiles and service. Clarissa liked Lester just fine, so her smile was real. The waitresses at Pete’s knew just where they stood with the lonely old man who worked at the towing service on the other side of the town square and had since he’d dropped out of school in the tenth grade in 1975.
Kind of like she’d dropped out of school before a judge made her go back and finish or sit in jail. Lester got a kick out of that story.
“Mornin’, Lester,” she said, and then a whirlwind of pint-sized arms, legs and laughter barreled into her.
Luck, dexterity, and a strong hand on her shoulder kept Clarissa from dropping the pot, but even that didn’t keep a bit of the hot liquid from sloshing out onto her fingers.
“Here,” a deep voice said. “Let me help.” Liquid pain warred with awareness when the hand moved from her shoulder to the coffee pot as he set it on the table.
Stepping away, Clarissa wiped her burnt finger on her apron and told her shoulder nerves to simmer down, which would’ve been easier if Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome didn’t also have a booming voice.
“Mackenzie Renee Dillon, what have I told you about running inside?”
His deep voice was all disappointment and reprimand. The girl’s smile turned to trembling sadness. Clarissa’s heart tugged at the imp’s frown.
“I’m sorry, Miss....” The child on the floor sported off-center russet pigtails, purple and green Little Mermaid leggings and a blue shirt with a puppy appliqué stitched to the front. She looked so horribly mismatched, Clarissa couldn’t help but smile.
“Clarissa,” she said, then looked up at the father. “And really, it’s okay. Accidents and all that.”
““I’m sorry, Clarissa,” the little girl said, and her words whistled through the gap where two front teeth used to be as she spoke. Then she turned to her father. “I ‘pologized, Daddy. Will you not be mad now?”
“Go wash