Heather'd worked in a coffee shop before, so there wasn't much Icould tell her that she didn't already know. She wasn't as fastas the boys, but that doesn't mean she was slow. Just moremethodical, detail-oriented. When "slack" best described many ofmy past employees, it was a relief working with somebody who knewtheir stuff.
Her mother was a few minutes late to pick her up, so we chatted alittle outside the shop after we'd locked up.
"Mr. Ciccarelli..."
"Heather, dearest," I said. "Mr. Ciccarelli was my father. He's dead. I'm Hugo. None of that 'Mr.' stuff."
"Okay, Mr. Ciccarelli," she said, dryly.
Smart asses, you gotta love 'em.
"Can I offer you some advice?" she asked.
First day on the job and she's offering me advice, already?
"Is it about the shop?"
"Kind of."
"Is it going to cost me money, Heather?"
"A little. It's about your clothes."
"My clothes?"
"Yes. Those silk jackets you wear. The ugly ones."
I suddenly felt very self-conscious.
"I happen to like these jackets, young lady."
"Well, they suck," said Heather. "My advice is: Wear black. Ithides the fat better and doesn't make you look like such a swish."
When I got to my house, I took all of the silk jackets out of mycloset, folded them neatly and crammed them into an old departmentstore bag.
I'd take them to a thrift shop tomorrow and donate them as a taxwrite-off.
I don't mind being swishy, because I yam what I yam, as Popeyewould say, but that fat comment got to me.
I pitched Greg's letter into the circular file a couple of daysback, figuring there was nothing that he had to say that I caredabout.
Every time I walked past the trash can, though, I saw it.
Curiosity finally got the better of me.
I slit open the envelope with Charley's old letter opener andpeeked inside.
It looked like a folded-up xerox.
I slipped it out of the envelope and smoothed it out on the desk.
It was a picture of the cheerleading squad from my old highschool.
How did Greg get a hold of this old relic?
And why did he send it to me?
