Catch a Falling Star (17 page)

“A shelter that caters to transitioning families.” I picked up a

stray sandwich wrapper that had blown our direction, wadding it

up as we walked.

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“You mean homeless?” His eyes settled on a little girl in a red

sundress at the nearest table.

“For now. But the Welcome House has successfully placed

over two dozen families this year in affordable housing. Give up

that trailer of yours and it could be one more.”

Parker suddenly materialized out of the shadow of a nearby grove

of slender maples, giving Adam a little nod. Adam’s face darkened.

Parker was with a woman who screamed journalist with her

notebook and crisp white sundress and sandals. The cameraman

tailing her like a puppy also gave her away.

Adam tensed beside me, whispering, “That’s Robin Hamilton

from
Watch!
magazine. She’s doing a story on me while I’m here.

She seems sweet, but don’t get sucked in — she’s ruthless. Don’t

say too much to her.”

“Okay.”

As people started noticing Adam, the energy shifted. A woman

in a Giants T-shirt grinned up at me from where she sat at a nearby

picnic table. “Whoa, you’re here with Adam Jakes? That’s wild.”

“It
is
wild,” I agreed as Parker sauntered up, his hands stuffed

into the pockets of his expensive linen pants.

He nodded at the group in front of us as if he were surveying a

set. “We should get some lovely shots here.”

A woman in a blue flowered dress joined us, nervously fiddling

with the fabric of her skirt. I nodded to her. “Adam, this is Julie

Meyers,” I told him. “She’s the director of the Welcome House.”

Adam flashed his smile. “Hi, Julie.” Julie turned pink and

managed a breathy hello. “This is really great work,” he told her.

She thanked him, glancing at me. I smiled encouragingly,

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knowing how tongue-tied people got in front of Adam. “What can

we do to help?”

“Good idea,” Adam said, moving toward the table where Dad

passed out sandwiches. “Can I help you with that?” He signed an

autograph for a woman and her tween daughter, who stared up at

Adam with a stunned sort of grin.

“I never turn down help.” Dad motioned toward an ice-filled

cooler. “Each person gets a sandwich, some chips, a cookie, and

one of those sodas.”

I joined them at the table, handing a sandwich to a man I’d

seen last week. “How’d your job interview go, Bob?”

He smiled, accepting the sandwich and choosing a pack of

Cheetos. “They’re going to let me know by next week.”

I patted his arm. “Fingers crossed.”

Robin Hamilton sidled up to the table. “I didn’t know that

homelessness was one of your causes, Adam.” Her voice dripped

with a sugary sort of falseness, a candy corn voice.

Adam gave her his floodlit smile, the kind I’d noticed he could

conjure up on cue. “I’m here with Carter and her family to support

the work they do with Julie at the Welcome House.” He held up his

hands. “Just a pair of extra hands today.”

Parker jumped in. “But Adam has a fabulous announcement.

He’s going to donate ten thousand dollars to the Welcome House

fund so that Julie and the Moons have the money they need to keep

Sandwich Saturdays going well past our departure from Little.” He

whipped out one of those dorky checks, the oversized ones that

people held up at ribbon cuttings and lottery announcements.

He’d clearly had it stashed and ready for this moment.

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Adam did a good job hiding what was obviously news to him.

“Right. These families all need our support.” He posed as the cam-

eraman grabbed a shot of him with the giant check.

Not as skilled at hiding sudden news, Dad cleared his throat,

stunned. “Oh, Adam — that’s, well, that’s terrific. I know the

Welcome House thanks you, too.” Julie nodded enthusiasti-

cally, her face going pink again. “Thank you,” Dad repeated. “It’s

too much.”

“Nonsense!” Parker leaned in as the cameraman also shot a

picture of him with Adam and the giant check. “It’s the least we

can do for such a great cause.”

Robin pinched her lips together. “Did you know about this

before today, Mr. Moon? Ms. Meyers?”

They both shook their heads. Dad said, “We didn’t. But we’re

very grateful.” Dad’s discomfort rolled from him, shimmery sheets

of unease. Julie stood by silently, gaping at the check.

More pictures. Adam with Julie, Dad and the check, Adam

with the check and several families, including the starry-eyed

tween who’d already gotten his autograph, Adam with Parker,

Julie and the check. The check got its own mini–photo shoot by

the spread of food. Parker wandered over to me as Adam signed

autographs for a family with two small boys and nudged me, his

face smug. “Well, they’ve just had the best day of their lives.”

I tried to keep a smile fixed to my face. “I’m sure they had a

good time.” What I wanted to mention, but didn’t, was that the

best day of their lives happened two days ago, when they’d been

green-lighted for community-supported housing.

I set about helping Dad and Julie clean up the garden.

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Mik pulled the Range Rover in front of my house. My hand paused

on the door handle. “I hope you liked your tour — I had a few

more things planned, but . . . well, you said you had to get back to

work since we spent the afternoon at Sandwich Saturday.”

Adam leaned toward me a bit and said quietly, “I’ll tell you

what . . . it beat those Hollywood tours by a mile.” His eyes, dark

and drawn, drifted over my shoulder. “We’ll finish it, I promise.

Can I keep this?” He held up the map.

“Of course.” I hesitated. “About the check . . . that was really

generous of you.”

“I wish Parker hadn’t sprung that on you guys.” He watched

the same kids who’d been clutching Super Soakers that morning as

they squealed through a spinning sprinkler, their faces pink with

too much sun. Turning back to me, he said, “I feel bad that it

turned into a circus back there.”

“It was fine.” My voice betrayed my discomfort.

There was his hand again, just above my knee. “I could tell it

bothered you.”

I tried not to think about how all the energy in the world

seemed concentrated in that warm space between his hand and my

thigh. “We really appreciate your contribution, seriously. I hope I

didn’t seem ungrateful. I’ve just gotten to know these families,

and I’m not too comfortable with them being, well —”

“Used?” He gave me a sad sort of smile, his hand slipping to the

leather seat. “Look, Parker means well, he does. I’m sure he

thought it was a win-win for everyone, you know?”

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“I know.” I fiddled with the door handle. “It’s just hard for

them, and I hate seeing it used as a publicity stunt. At their

expense.”

He gave me the sort of melty eyes I’d seen in some of his mov-

ies. “I’m sorry. He could have handled that better. I’ll talk to him.”

I shook my head. “No, don’t.”

“At least it’s a publicity stunt that helps out at the end of the

day, right?”

I opened the door slightly. “True. That money’s going to help

so much. We’re really grateful.”

His eyes softened. “You mentioned that.” His phone buzzed.

Frowning, he ignored it and sighed. “Look, next time we’ll just

hang out. Not as a job, but just as, you know, friends.”

“Right, friends.”

His phone buzzed again. Rolling his eyes, he snatched at it.

“I’d better take this before Parker has an aneurism.” He clicked

it on. “Hold on a minute,” he said into it sharply. To me, his voice

softer, he said, “I have to shoot tonight and tomorrow until, like,

four but maybe we can hang out tomorrow afternoon? Maybe have

a coffee or something?”

“I’d like that.” And, as I said it, I realized it was true.

I slipped out of the car, giving him a little wave before closing

the door. In seconds, the car disappeared down the street.

Across from me on the opposite sidewalk, a man in baggy

jeans and a black Metallica shirt stood taking pictures of us.

I turned and fled into the house.

134

eleven

the next afternoon, Adam decided to wait in the kitchen until I

was done with my shift. The café was crowded, and I could tell he

didn’t want to be mobbed. He was having the opposite problem in

the kitchen. When I left him, he’d been trying to convince Jones

he was at least worthy of a glance in his general direction, saying

something like, “So, you’ve got some interesting tattoos.” Poor

Adam. I didn’t tell him Jones was a lost cause. It took him six

months to acknowledge Chloe when she started working here.

And she made him cookies.

Out front, I retied my apron and started to clear some dishes

when the entrance jingled. It was a bit after the rush, so we didn’t

have a line. A woman closed the door behind her. Tall and slim,

she wore an expensive plum-and-black yoga ensemble and had

wound her thick blond hair into a severe knot at her neck.

Sunglasses the size of coasters perched on her head, and she let her

violet eyes graze our café, barely hiding her disgust.

Arching a blond eyebrow, she surveyed our chalkboard menu

hanging on the wall behind me with a look that suggested we had

dead bodies on display. “An iced tea. Herbal if you have it. And” —

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her eyes strayed over the pastries on the counter, the quiche and

salads in the cold case — “ugh, that’s it.”

“For here?”

“I think not.” She checked her phone and tucked a stray lock of

hair behind her ear with a quick flick. If I were that lock of hair, I

wouldn’t try that move again.

“We have passion fruit or lemon tea.”

“Lemon.”

“Small or large?” My hands hovered over the stacks of cups.

“It doesn’t matter.” Her eyes didn’t leave her phone.

I filled a large to-go cup with ice and poured the tea. Clipping

some mint from a sprig, I started to dust the tea with some leaves.

“What are you doing?” I suddenly had her full attention.

I hesitated with the lid. “Um, getting your drink.”

“Um,”
she exaggerated, “I didn’t want . . . whatever that is.”

She motioned at the mint as if it were rat poison. “And for the

record, I don’t really want your germs
all over
my tea.”

Without missing a beat, I set the cup aside and filled another

cup. I handed her a mint-free tea and a napkin.

“A lid?”

I started to reach for the lid from her first cup, thought again,

and grabbed a new one. Careful not to put my germy hands
all over

it, I placed it gently next to her cup.

She sniffed. “Is this the large?”

“Yes.” I caught Mr. Michaels’s eye across the room, suppress-

ing a grin when he scrunched up his face at her.

The woman started to push a five across the counter, but her

eyes caught on something behind me. “Oh!”

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At some point, unnoticed, Adam had come through the door

and was standing behind me. He’d seen the whole interchange

between us. “Wow, Leila, you can be a real witch when you’re not

kissing my butt.”

The woman’s face went from pale to a flash of red. “Adam!

What’re you doing here?”

“Hanging with Carter.” He crossed to me and put his arm

around my shoulders. “My
girlfriend
.”

The ice queen melted. She proceeded to bumble, explain, and

apologize all at once, flashing me a toothpaste-commercial smile,

a trained look that said,
I didn’t know
.

“You can go, Leila,” Adam interrupted, and she hurried from

the café, leaving her tea on the counter.

My body hummed, either from the exchange with Leila or

from Adam calling me his girlfriend. Probably both. “Who was

that?” I dumped the tea in the sink, my hand shaking.

“That was my trainer. Who just arrived today and who will

now also be leaving today.” He waved in the direction of her exit.

It was sweet how offended he looked. “Please accept my apology

on behalf of my
ex
-trainer.”

“Oh, she was nothing.” I pulled out a new creamer for the self-

serve counter and gave it a little shake before heading to the

stainless server.

He followed me out from behind the counter, causing only a

minor stir. Our regulars had already learned to ignore us. “She

was a she-devil. Why didn’t you say something to her?”

After refilling the creamer, I organized the little bowl full of

sugar and Equal packets. “Because it’s not about me. She’s not mad

137

at
me
. Dad says to just stare at them when they act like that and say,

‘Okay,’ and not take it personally.”

Adam shook his head, following me back behind the counter

again. “No way. You should’ve refused to serve her.”

I didn’t mention the dozens of people who couldn’t refuse to