Jacob's Ladder by Z. A. Maxfield Read Free Book Online Page A

meant no disrespect.”
    “Yeah. No. That"s not what"s important here. Nobody wants to be seen as a victim. And if we all had to go in there and tell everyone what big fools we were and how we"d been bullied and abused, well…I don"t suppose that some of us would ever go.”
    “I don"t suppose so.”
    “My name is Mary Catherine.” She held out her hand.
    I took it. I murmured, “Yasha,” while we shook hands, but I don"t know why I said that name. Probably because I"d been introduced that way by Alice.
    “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
    “I don"t have a car, and I don"t live here. Someone brought me to the meeting.” I looked around at the school parking lot, suddenly as tired as if I"d run a marathon.
    “I don"t know what I"m doing.”
    “That"s all right,” Mary Catherine told me gently, taking me by the arm. “I live here, I have a car, and I know exactly what to do.”

    * * *
    I dropped two sugars and two creams into my coffee and gave it a stir. No matter what I did, it would still taste like Denny"s coffee, so I wasn"t in a hurry to drink it.
    “Are you all right?” asked Mary Catherine.
    “Yes.” I refused to fidget under her probing gaze. “I"m used to better coffee.”
    “How"d you end up in St. Nacho"s?”
    I laughed, and it probably sounded every bit as bitter as it felt. “I got thrown off the bus.”
    “What?” Mary Catherine had dimples when she laughed, and it held a light silvery sound, as though she were crystal and laughter made her ring. “That"s got to be a personal low, huh?”
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    “I wish it were.” I didn"t meet her eyes. “I had a bad cold. I think they were paranoid about this new flu that"s going around.”
    “I see.”
    “Anyway, they stopped by the SeaView and just told me to get off.”
    “My son stayed at the SeaView when he first came to town.” I stirred my coffee. There didn"t seem to be too much to say to that. Mary Catherine sipped her coffee in silence. I worried that she was just waiting me out.
    As if I would crack and my entire story would come pouring forth like so much word vomit. And maybe if she waited long enough that"s exactly what would happen. If I didn"t say something soon, we"d both start looking anywhere but at each other, and things would go from bad to worse.
    When she removed her cardigan, I realized that the name of the pie shop was part of a larger image, probably inspired by those World War II posters of women rolling up their sleeves to do a man"s job for the war effort.
    “So. Is there a real Miss Independence Pies? Or is that just like one of those fruit-crate-label things—vintage sign on a shirt.”
    “It"s my company. I"m Miss Independence Pies. My son thought of the name.”
    “Cool.” It made me warm to her. It was probably the connection to pie, which seemed a homely and generic sort of thing. Done right, it showed off a baker"s skill, and done wrong, it was barely palatable. My mother had been a fine pie baker.
    She"d always let me roll out the trimmings and sprinkle them with sugar and cinnamon to bake along with the pie as a treat.
    Mary Catherine grinned. “I caught you.”
    I didn"t understand. “What?”
    “There"s a certain look that some people get when you mention pie.”
    “Really? Like what?” I took a sip of coffee.
    “I don"t know. But you had it. Do you have fond memories of pie?” I put my cup down, surprised. “Are you part of the Psychic Pie Bakers Network?”
    She gave a ladylike snort. “Yeah, sure.”
    “My mom used to give me the trimmings to make pseudocookies.”
    “That"s just what I"m talking about.” She dimpled at me. “Some people have pie memories.”
    “Me more than most, probably,” I told her. “Since I"m a pastry chef.” Her eyes widened. “For real?”
    “Yes.” For some reason I had trouble meeting her eyes. She reminded me very much of my own mother, from whom it had been impossible to hide anything. I don"t know what, specifically, I thought she"d