but that didn't mean he wasn't the type that could hide it when it suited him. Maybe the little girl would pay for her disobedience when she got home. Morgan was so focused on the tableau, silently urging the girl to acknowledge her dad, that she almost jumped out of her skin when the waitress set her food in front of her.
"Sorry, hon," the woman apologized cheerfully, putting Morgan's check down beside her plate. "Didn't mean to scare 'ya."
Morgan smiled wanly back, trying to control her racing heart as the waitress sashayed away to where the young guy sat slopping up eggs and country fried steak as happily as a pig at a trough. When she looked back at the father and daughter, she was relieved to see that the little girl was picking at her breakfast, and the dad was focused on his own meal.
Morgan set her book aside and forked up a bite of biscuits and gravy, looking out the window. Life was so much easier at the farm. She didn't have to deal with people or the problems that always came along with them there. Taking care of her animals was way less complicated.
A few minutes later, the bells over the door chimed again and she watched the man and his daughter walk out to the white Prius. She was a solemn, serious little thing, but when her dad reached in to help her buckle, he smiled gently at her.
She felt better, somehow, after seeing that smile. It was the blessedly normal look a loving dad might give his kid. Morgan finished her coffee and dropped a tip on the table. While she was waiting for the cashier at the counter, she glanced over at the table where the man and his little girl had sat. It hadn't been cleared yet, and the child's placemat was still where she'd left it.
She suddenly wondered what kind of drawing the girl had been working on so intently. She stepped over to their table and moved an almost-untouched plate of blueberry waffles, picking up the drawing.
"Can I help you, ma'am?"
The cashier was at the counter looking at her curiously.
Flushing with embarrassment, Morgan stuffed the placemat in her bag and pulled out her wallet. "A dozen of those cinnamon rolls, please. They're homemade, right?"
He raised an eyebrow and nodded as he tallied up her bill, but didn't comment.
Once Morgan was back in her truck, she pulled the crumpled paper out to study it. Instead the typical rainbows or flowers a young girl might scribble, harsh slashes of waxy red and black crayon formed a disturbing miasma that swirled across the page.
* * *
"Sorry, hon," the woman apologized cheerfully, putting Morgan's check down beside her plate. "Didn't mean to scare 'ya."
Morgan smiled wanly back, trying to control her racing heart as the waitress sashayed away to where the young guy sat slopping up eggs and country fried steak as happily as a pig at a trough. When she looked back at the father and daughter, she was relieved to see that the little girl was picking at her breakfast, and the dad was focused on his own meal.
Morgan set her book aside and forked up a bite of biscuits and gravy, looking out the window. Life was so much easier at the farm. She didn't have to deal with people or the problems that always came along with them there. Taking care of her animals was way less complicated.
A few minutes later, the bells over the door chimed again and she watched the man and his daughter walk out to the white Prius. She was a solemn, serious little thing, but when her dad reached in to help her buckle, he smiled gently at her.
She felt better, somehow, after seeing that smile. It was the blessedly normal look a loving dad might give his kid. Morgan finished her coffee and dropped a tip on the table. While she was waiting for the cashier at the counter, she glanced over at the table where the man and his little girl had sat. It hadn't been cleared yet, and the child's placemat was still where she'd left it.
She suddenly wondered what kind of drawing the girl had been working on so intently. She stepped over to their table and moved an almost-untouched plate of blueberry waffles, picking up the drawing.
"Can I help you, ma'am?"
The cashier was at the counter looking at her curiously.
Flushing with embarrassment, Morgan stuffed the placemat in her bag and pulled out her wallet. "A dozen of those cinnamon rolls, please. They're homemade, right?"
He raised an eyebrow and nodded as he tallied up her bill, but didn't comment.
Once Morgan was back in her truck, she pulled the crumpled paper out to study it. Instead the typical rainbows or flowers a young girl might scribble, harsh slashes of waxy red and black crayon formed a disturbing miasma that swirled across the page.
* * *
