Free Highway 61 by David Housewright Page B

kid.”
    “She’s not a kid anymore, that’s the thing. She’s grown up. She’s starting to make decisions that will affect the rest of her life. I’m not saying she can’t make smart decisions. She’s never done anything stupid; she’s never been in any real trouble. It’s just that she’s always pushing her luck. She rarely does anything until the last possible moment. She’s been working as a tutor for a couple of years and hasn’t saved a dime. She stays up too late, never picks up after herself, spends all her free time on her laptop or her cell phone, won’t eat unless you make her. She never dates the same guy more than twice. Well, I don’t mind that so much. I married at twenty-one. If I have my way, Rickie won’t marry until she’s thirty. It’s just—she drives too fast, if you know what I mean.”
    “Erica has a perfect four-point-oh grade point average,” I said. “She’s a champion fencer, does charitable work, looks you in the eye when she speaks, and always finds a way to get home before midnight.” I pointed at the trophy. “I was there when she gave you that. ‘Thank you, Mom,’ she said, and since she didn’t say exactly what she was thanking you for, I presume it was everything. Sounds to me like you must have done something right.”
    Nina stared thoughtfully at the trophy for a few moments. The metal plate at the bottom read CHAMPION WOMEN ’ S ÉPÉE .
    “Maybe,” she said. She slid her legs off the desktop and sat straight in her chair. “I presume you mean I did something right, not her father.”
    “Of course.”
    “You’re done with him, aren’t you?”
    “I certainly hope so.”
    “How much trouble was Jason in?”
    I thought about the girl in the motel room. I thought about the telephone next to the bed.
    “Without going into detail,” I said, “all he had to do was pick up a phone. If he had done that, all of his problems probably would have gone away. He didn’t. He was afraid. Everything escalated from there.”
    “He was never one for taking responsibility.”
    I would have agreed with her, except I didn’t get the chance. Nina’s chef, a temperamental young woman named Monica Meyer, who once worked for Wolfgang Puck, walked into the office without knocking, looked down at the carton of donuts, looked up at us eating the donuts, and said, “What are you two doing?”
    “I’ll give you three guesses,” I said.
    “I have beef tenderloin with truffle potato puree and red wine demi and you’re eating donuts?”
    I gestured up and down with my hands as if they were the business ends of a scale.
    “Your cooking—donuts; your cooking—donuts; your cooking—ahh, donuts win.”
    “Are you insane?”
    “Is that a rhetorical question?”
    “Stop it, McKenzie,” Nina said. “Monica’s cooking is superb. Profits have gone up nearly twenty-five percent since she took over the kitchen.”
    “Don’t tell her that. She’ll ask for a raise.”
    “Nina gave me a raise yesterday, smart guy,” Monica said. “Plus profit sharing.”
    “At least we both agree that I’m a smart guy.”
    “Sarcasm is wasted on you.”
    “Do I have to put up with this every time you two are in the same room?” Nina asked.
    Monica pointed at the white carton.
    “He brought donuts,” she said.
    “The world’s greatest donuts,” I said.
    “Puhleez.”
    “Try one.”
    “Not a chance.”
    “Seriously, try one.”
    Monica looked at Nina as if she were seeking help. Nina shrugged. Monica sighed deeply.
    “Fine,” she said.
    She reached for a glazed donut, took a small bite, and chewed carefully. Then she took a bigger bite. Then another.
    “Where did you get these?”
    “World’s Greatest Donuts,” I said.
    “Can’t you answer a simple question without trying to be funny?”
    “I’m not kidding. That’s the name of the bakery. The World’s Greatest Donuts. It’s in Grand Marais.”
    Monica looked at Nina. “Really?”
    Nina nodded.
    “Isn’t that