Accepting Fate - (Slums to Riches, Book one)

Chapter 7

Droplets of water followed Mr. MacFarlane to the storage room at the back of the restaurant, where Mrs. Garcia store the boxes of clothes she collected for the homeless shelters.

Instead of calling for help as Angelique requested, Mrs. Garcia chucked a pitcher of icy water at his face and said, "Unless you want it to happen again, I suggest you don't ask him about that."

Angelique never mentioned their conversation or its nature. Clearly, the woman knew more than she ever said to Angelique.

As soon as they entered the diner, she chased everyone out. Though they grumbled, the customers each nodded to Angelique and Jamie before leaving a tip in the jar on the counter.

Now, they all sat in silence in the dining hall, drinking coffee; Jamie opposite Mr. MacFarlane in the first booth, and Mrs. Garcia across from her at the adjacent table.

Each time Mrs. Garcia started saying something, Angelique's tightly pressed lips and accusing stare silenced her. The sandwiches she made, while waiting for Mr. MacFarlane to change into a pair of jeans and a faded black t-shirt, sat untouched on the tray in front of her, so she dished two for each of them.

The sharp tang of the pickles, combined with the salty pressed beef, the crisp crunch of lettuce and the sweet tomatoes, rejuvenated her tired body. Even though Mrs. Garcia paid for their breakfast, Angelique could not eat more than a scone with strawberry jam and cream.

The sneaky old woman waited for her to eat and then quickly said, "Your mother forbade us from saying anything to you, but we tried. You weren't ready to listen then."

Angelique held the last piece of her sandwich in front of her mouth. "And what makes you think I'm ready to listen now?"

"I saw it in your eyes on Sunday, before you left."

Angelique wiped her mouth on the course serviette and leaned back in her seat with a humorless laugh. "You saw it in my eyes? Really? If you were so sure I would listen, why didn't you say something on Sunday? Why wait three days?"

Jamie's plate clattered loudly, and the contents of her sandwich spilled onto the table. Her hand flapped like a fish out of water in front of Angelique's face. "Your eyes."

Angelique's heart beat in rhythm with Jamie's flapping hand as she grabbed her coffee-stained teaspoon—the only reflective surface on hand.

"What's wrong with my eyes?"

"They are green," Mr. MacFarlane said, before extracting a photograph from his pocket. "Not completely emerald green as before, but with the drugs wearing off, they will return to their original color again."

"I do not take drugs! Not even headache tablets, unless it is so severe, I can't think straight."

He snapped the pictured onto the table. Her younger self, in the arms of a dark-haired man, beside a woman with hair as white as her own and eyes equally green, stared intensely at the photographer. Angelique unraveled her hand from the braid twisted around her wrist when she noticed the thick curls wrapped around the young girl's hand.

"This is Jameline before she arrived at The Harlows," he said, adding a second photograph of a younger Jamie, dressed in a pink leotard, holding up a gold medal. "I don't need to tell you who these young boys are."

A younger, skinnier version of her Jamaican brother, Tyrone, with his braided hair cascading around his face, like a fountain, dressed in a floral print shirt and his usual baggy pants and sandals, stared up at her. The other was her Native American brother, Andrew, wearing a white karate suit, holding his yellow belt in front of him, proudly. He now taught as a Sensei at the local Dojo on his days off from work at the garage.