Before I could touch it, someone behind me said, “Please don’t open that.”
I turned.
The woman standing beside the bar looked to be in her mid-60s. Silver hair, blue coat, both hands wrapped around a handbag.
I looked from her to the photograph.
Same narrow jaw. Same deep-set eyes.
Even beneath the scratches, I knew it was her.
“You were here last night,” I said.
She nodded.
“You are the woman who canceled on Dad.”
“I was the woman he met. It wasn’t a date.”
The waitress quietly walked away.
I looked at her.
“Then who are you?”
The woman glanced at the photograph. “My name is Helen.”
“How do you know my father?”
“Longer than you’ve been alive.”
“So you were together.”
Helen’s expression barely changed. “No. We never were.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
“You were standing beside him in 1987. Your face is scratched out. He’s been bringing women here for 18 months, and suddenly you’re sitting across from him.”
