Darlene lowered her fork and smiled. “We met at McGarvey’s. My son, Darryl, works there.”
“Oh? Doing what?” Ruth leaned forward, her hands neatly folded on the tablecloth in front of her.
“He’s a waiter.”
I thought about all the times I’d eaten at McGarvey’s Saloon and tried to match my recollections of the wait staff there with the face of the woman sitting directly across from me. I couldn’t do it. I closed my eyes. If Daddy’s romance stayed on course, one of those waiters might soon be my stepbrother.
I killed some time helping Sean grate parmesan on his pasta while I thought about it. So, Darlene had a son. Yet she wore no wedding band, just an ornate turquoise-and-silver ring on the pinky of her right hand and a plain, gold school ring of some kind on the other. Paul must have bee
