Cherishing You

Chapter 1-2

JonahI smiled up at the cute waitress pouring the refill on my coffee. One of her honey-blonde curls had slipped from the ponytail pulled back taut above the nape of her neck.

Shannon.

That’s what her name tag said. At one time, she’d been a stunner. I frowned. That didn’t sound right. She was still a beauty, but she looked tired—the sort of tired that doesn’t evaporate with a good night’s sleep.

Her ready smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, which feathered lightly at the corners. Working on your feet slinging lunch plates and coffee probably did that to a woman. Did she feel forced to smile at me? I hoped not.

I was staring. Examining her face had become a daily hobby, and seeing her, a kind of ritual.

“Is something wrong?” When she asked the question, her nose turned up toward the crinkle between her brow.

“No. The roast beef is great, as always.”

She looked relieved and turned to walk away. I cleared my throat.

“Shannon?”

Her ponytail bobbed as she turned back around. “You need something else?”

“No. I wanted to say thank you.”

The furrow of her brow deepened.

“Huh?”

“Thank you. For the coffee.”

“Oh.” Her blue eyes widened, and the left corner of her mouth lifted into a crooked half-smile. “You’re welcome.”

I grinned at her and winked reflexively. I thought a tinge of pink washed over her cheeks, but I didn’t have the opportunity to look closer.

She walked briskly to another table where a perturbed patron snapped his fingers. All I could see was the side of her face and half of a forced, broad smile. She was apologizing. For what, I didn’t know.

The restaurant sat along my daily route between my house and the office. Sometimes, I stopped in for breakfast, and she’d be here. Then, maybe when I picked up dinner, she’d be here again, working a second shift. What did she do when she wasn’t on her feet in this place?

I had never worked that hard. I could admit that to myself. My father’s investment firm, Moran Financial, had been my employer for nearly two decades. We financed companies and bought and sold them.

The work had more tedium than difficulty, and I hated it most days however lucrative it was.

My sister, Vivienne, pestered me to quit and find something more meaningful to do with my life. The problem was, I had no idea what that would be. Vivienne was in the mode for everyone to “live their bliss” as she kept saying.

Ever since coming out as a lesbian, she felt compelled to have everyone make bold declarations and step away from convention. But she was the artistic one. The free spirit. Or she was as free a spirit as any child could be growing up as we did.

Our primary job as children had been to walk a straight line. Get good grades. Don’t cause trouble at school. Be mannered and congenial at every turn. Never do anything that would put a wrinkle in our parents’ plans.

We had a series of nannies and a mother, Sheila, who seemed in constant need of rest and spa vacations, despite having a complete household staff and no job. Our father worked and travelled constantly. A born wheeler dealer, Thomas Moran once missed Christmas traveling to Japan to close a business deal.

“The world doesn’t stop because we want to eat honey ham and sing Jingle Bells.” The elder Moran had then slung on his coat and motioned for his driver to take his suitcase.

I had been nine.

I shook my head, knowing I had no reason to complain. My parents had loved me and given me every advantage, including a greased path to my current vice president position in a company with the family name on the door.

Shannon the waitress kept bouncing from table to table. What she did was work. I shifted in my seat, discomfited by the unimaginable chore of dealing with rotten customers and sore feet every day.

What dreams might Shannon have had? No one dreams of being a waitress.