The Valley and the Flood by Rebecca Mahoney (10 best books of all time TXT) 📗

I should try the Flood again. I haven’t seen them since I left the Mockingbird’s. But my vision is still swimming, and my tongue feels heavy in my mouth.

Eventually, my aching feet decide for me. So I find the quietest place I can to sit: the back steps of the Sweet as Pie Diner.

The back door stands open, straight into the kitchen. Faint sounds filter through: the clinking of forks, the sizzling on the stove, and the murmur of the TV on the counter. Maggie Williams’s inescapable voice.

The time is now, she says. Your civic duty is clear. Vote YES ton—

The auburn-haired waitress is by the counter, spacing out even pours of coffee. When I shift on the stairs, it gets her attention. She doesn’t seem startled, though. Her mouth thins into a thoughtful line.

And then she does something I don’t expect. She reaches over, turns the dial, and shuts the TV off.

“Adrienne—” someone starts to complain.

She cuts them off with a look. “You ain’t watching it,” she drawls.

And then leaving the mugs on the counter, she crosses the kitchen to the back steps.

“I’d bring you some of that coffee,” she says. “But something tells me you don’t need it.”

We look at each other for a long moment. Then she giggles. And surprisingly, I laugh, too.

“Rough day?” she says, grinning.

“Nah,” I say. “Living my best life.”

She throws her head back and flat-out cackles. “Can I let you in on a secret? Get the Home Away from Home. Cures all ills.”

“Oh . . .” I glance at the laminated menu on the back door. Sure enough, there it is: the home away from home special. please inform your waitress of any food allergies or unpleasant taste associations.

I have several follow-up questions. But what I end up saying is “Strawberries make my mouth itch?”

“Home Away from Home without strawberries, got it,” she says, already half turned away.

“But I—” I crane my neck after her. “I don’t have any money!”

Adrienne waves blithely as she sweeps back into the kitchen. “I’m putting it on the sheriff’s tab.”

She closes the door partway behind me, shielding me from the craned necks of the diner patrons. And the sound of clinking forks and sizzling oil goes quiet.

I look down at my phone, wincing. I was more distracted than I thought. My nerves have been so finely attuned to my buzzing phone this almost-year, it’s not like me to miss any texts.

From Christie: Just got back. Heard about Mockingbird’s. You okay?

From Alex: Felix is sorry. I don’t know if he’ll tell you that, but he is.

And more than a few from Cassie.

I’m so sorry I told you like that.

I really thought we’d talked about it already.

I know it doesn’t compare but we can skip my next few turns in the game? You can ask me anything you want.

I smile. Not the best way we could have discussed it, yes. But it’s nowhere near her fault.

For a second, I consider how easy it would be to tell her everything. The urge doesn’t quite fade even after I type, next question: five most overrated John Jonas prophecies?

Her responses come rapid fire:

omg

Buckle up

I’ve been waiting all my life for this

I laugh and set my phone aside. And I let that overpowering, momentary longing fade completely.

The door creaks open, and Adrienne backs through with the plate of food, a puzzled look on her face. “Gotta tell you, this is a new one. Where you from, anyway?”

Without thinking, I start to answer her, but when she places the plate on the step next to me, I forget the question completely.

Four fat pieces of hand-rolled sushi are lined up across the plate, perfectly spaced. They’re inexpertly done, uneven at the edges, not quite fully closed at the ends. Just how Gaby would have—

Mouth dry, I pick one up to get a better look. In the center of the rice, a single slice of avocado has been lined up against a slab of mango.

“Who made this?” My own voice sounds distant.

“You’re looking at her.” When I glance up, her smirk has settled into something softer. “It’s not like I look at someone and know right away. But when I walk back to the kitchen it just happens. The taste of home, or your money back. My manager’s guarantee, by the way, not mine. And sorry about the rice. Best I could do on short notice.”

I absorb about half of what she says, one of the rolls still pinched between my thumb and index finger. Distantly, I hear Flora’s voice: A meal has a protein, Gabrielle.

And Gaby, muffled, biting into a chunk of mango: I’m a rebel, Mom.

In my daze, I remember what she asked before. “My best friend, um—she took a class, with her stepfather,” I say quietly. “How to make sushi. And since then she was a monster. She wanted to roll everything ever made in sushi rice. She was going to open a fusion restaurant with maki made from dishes from around the world. This was her favorite, though. She called it the avomango. She would have lived off of these, if her parents would have l—”

Abruptly, I realize I’m rambling. Adrienne is still looking at me with that soft smile.

“I should let you try it,” she says. “But if it’s not right, let me know, okay? Anything I’ve made once, I can make again.”

She sweeps back toward the kitchen, and I raise one of the rolls halfway to my mouth. Gaby would kill me for not using chopsticks. But Gaby’s not exactly here to complain.

My eyes close as the flavor melts across my tongue. She’s right. The rice isn’t perfect. It doesn’t matter. It tastes like long nights in Jon and Flora’s basement, watching bad movies and sneaking drinks from the lower cabinet.

It tastes like home. Or at least how home used to taste.

DECEMBER 27, THREE NIGHTS AGO

NOTE TO SELF: Maurice can be wrong.

Well, no. That’s not fair. His exact words were If