She glanced toward the kitchen, then lowered her voice.
“It’s what happens when they ask for the check.”
She led me to a corner booth.
“Your father always sits here. Same table. Same chair.”
Then she pointed at the wall behind it.
The wall was covered with photographs from opening night in 1987. Dozens of smiling people stood beneath strings of lights.
Years later, Dad had added one of his own. In it, three young people stood together.
Dad was near the back. So was Mom.
But beside them stood another young woman whose face had been scratched almost completely away.
My stomach tightened.
“Who is she?”
The waitress didn’t answer.
Instead, she reached beneath the booth and pulled out a small envelope taped underneath.
My name was written across the front.
“Rachel.”
I froze. “How long has that been there?”
“Your father puts a new one here before every date.”
