Free Invisible by Ginny L. Yttrup

clenches.
    That’s it. That’s the question I want to ask.
    Why? Why do you want to buy me a cup of coffee?
    What possible reason could you have for wanting to buy me coffee?
    Why?
    His answers come back, rapid-fire.
    Because I just discovered this great pyramid scheme.
    Because Rosa paid me to ask you out.
    Because Nerissa’s not enough woman for me.
    Ha! Yeah right.
    Or . . .
    Because while I was your doctor I forgot to tell you that you’re fat!
    What is it with men? They always make me feel like I’m in trouble.
    I feel a tap on my back, and I turn and see a gray-haired woman motioning me to sit. Besides Pastor Cleveland, I’m the only one still standing in the sanctuary. Oh.
    I sit down and slide the hymnal in its place on the back of the pew in front of me. Then I reach for the bulletin I’d tucked into my Bible. I want to at least look like I’m paying attention.
    Because I find you irresistible.
    â€œGood one, Earl.”
    â€œShhh!”
    The church lady pokes me in the back again.
    Oops.
    Well, at least now I know what I want to say when, or if, he calls.
    Why? Why do you want to buy me coffee?
    Hey, at least I got it settled before the sermon. And that’s what I’d like to say to the biddy behind me.
    Laughter fills the kitchen, as it always does on Sunday afternoons as the staff and their families gather for our weekly Meal and Meet. No one works on Sunday mornings—that’s my policy, but because we serve dinner on Sunday nights, early Sunday afternoon is the perfect time for the family to gather.
    It’s also the time I get to mother them—cook for them, try out new recipes, and spoil them with a scrumptious dessert. Rosa fills us in on new policies or practices, and everyone is free to make suggestions—whether for the menu, the dining room, or kitchen.
    Paco’s little ones have grown up at the rustic rectangular table in the back of the kitchen. And when Rosa’s daughter, Pia, turned sixteen a couple of years ago, she asked to celebrate it at the table in the kitchen. With the family gathered.
    The only thing we allow to disrupt our time is the ringing of the phone. Whoever is closest to it, answers. This is the time of day requests for reservations come in.
    But today, I’m more observer than participant. I serve the food and try to listen and join in, but each time the phone rings, it’s as though a starting pistol goes off and my heart takes off. After about the fourth call, I swear I’ll have a heart attack before the day is over.
    And then it happens.
    â€œAuntie Ellyn, it’s for you.”
    Rosa is training Pia, who is now eighteen, as a hostess, so she’s answering most of the calls today. She looks at me, her hand over the mouthpiece.
    â€œTake a message, Pia.”
    She gets the phone as far as her ear again before Rosa rips it out of her hand. Rosa then covers the mouthpiece and hisses, “You expecting a call today—you take it. Now!”
    â€œYou know I can fire you, right? You know I have that power. You do remember who I am, don’t you?” But even as I’m hissing right back at her, I head for the phone. Otherwise, she’ll make a scene. I shake my finger in her face, though, as I take the receiver from her hand.
    I clear my throat. “Hello, this is Ellyn.”
    â€œHello, Ellyn, this is Sabina Jackson. We met last night.”
    I sigh, my shoulders relax, and I drop onto the stool near the phone. Rosa, who is still standing next to me, shakes her head and walks away.
    I’m not sure which of us is more disappointed.
    I focus on the phone call. “Sabina, yes, hello.”
    â€œI wondered if I could buy you a cup of coffee sometime this week.”
    I hesitate. “Do I look caffeine deficient?”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œNothing. I’m sorry. Yes, I’d love to have coffee with you, but you don’t need to buy. Why don’t you just