Golf carts zipped along the road and Jake pressed on the brake to slow down as he drew closer to a blue one driving in the middle of the road.

“We should have taken the cart,” he said.

“It would have taken forever to get here.”

“It goes twenty miles an hour. We would've gotten to town eventually.”

“But I'm hungry now.”

He waited until we crested a small hill, then gunned the engine so we could pass the golf cart. Five minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot for The Landing. It was a large rectangular brown building on a hill that looked back toward the golf course and the lake. It had advertised lake views, but as I got out of the car, I was pretty sure the only way you could see the water was if you climbed up on the roof and stood on your tiptoes.

We walked inside and were greeted with a blast of cool air. A very bored teenage hostess tried to smile at us before leading us to a booth. The table was still damp and she told us she'd send someone over to wipe it down. She dropped the menus in front of us and disappeared back toward her hostess station.

I grabbed the menu and looked around. The booths were worn, most of them with cracked leather seats attached to tables that didn't look terribly sturdy. The carpet was thin and, while not exactly dirty, could've benefited from a good cleaning. Several of the booths were occupied with other sunburnt tourists but for the most part, the restaurant was empty.

Jake scanned the menu. “Let's hope the pizza is better than the rest of the place.”

“It's just...old.”

He snorted. “I'm old. This place is one bad week away from closure.” He smiled at me over the menu. “But I just want a big beer and some mediocre pizza and I'll be fine.”

“I'll bet we can get both of those here,” I said, winking at him.

Ten minutes later, the hostess showed back up, a pad of paper in her hand. “I guess I'm gonna be your server. You want something to drink?”

We both ordered beers and before we could tell her that we were also ready to order our food, she vanished again.

“Over-under on how long the beers take?” Jake asked, leaning back in the booth.

“I'm going to be optimistic,” I said. “I'll say four minutes.”

“Wow. That's half my guess.”

He won.

Our hostess/server set them on the edge of the table nine minutes later, then looked at us. “You know what you want?”

“Your pizza's good?” Jake asked. The menu had other options listed, too—burgers and chicken and fish—but he knew I had my heart set on pizza.

She shrugged. “It's pizza.”

“Excellent,” he said. “We were hoping for something that tasted like pizza.”

She looked at him like he was insane.

“Pepperoni and sausage,” I said. “The biggest you have.”

She left without saying a word.

We both downed half our beers. And then we finished them.

And then we sat there.

And sat there.

And sat there.

I tried to make conversation but all I could think about was the fact that my stomach walls were touching. And that our server was nowhere to be found. In fact, there didn't seem to be a single employee working. I glanced at the other tables; one family was finishing up their pizza and two other tables were in the same boat we were, waiting for their food to be delivered.

Jake's good humor was gone at forty five minutes. “You wanna go?”

“Yes, because I'm going to eat my hand,” I said.

“I'm not paying for the beers,” he said.

“You have to.”

He raised his eyebrows. “She won't even know we've left.”

On cue, the hostess/waitress showed up with a pizza. I stared at the steaming pie in her hands. It wasn't very big. And I didn't see a single slice of pepperoni on it.

She set it on the table. “Here you go.”

“This is the largest you have?” I asked. “We ordered a large.”

She looked at it, then shrugged. “Yeah. I guess.”

“And there's no pepperoni,” Jake noted. “Are you sure this is ours and not someone else's order?”

She studied the pizza for a moment. “It's probably under the cheese. Yeah.”

I looked at the pizza again. A meager amount of sausage dotted the surface and the cheese didn't look lumpy enough to be hiding pepperoni slices.

The waitress yawned. “Need anything else?”

“Yes,” Jake said calmly. A muscle in his temple throbbed. “The manager. Now.”

She looked like he'd tried to pee on her leg, then sighed and disappeared.

“I'm eating this,” I said, ripping a piece off the tray. I bit into it. “I don't care what's on it and I don't care that we don't have plates. I'm so hungry and I have to eat.”

Jake folded his arms across his chest, refusing to give in.

I wolfed down another bite. “It's actually not bad. For a small, non-pepperoni pizza, I mean,” I said. I licked my lips and glanced at my empty glass. Something to drink would have been nice but I was too happy to finally have food to complain.

A woman in her fifties meandered through the dining room toward us. Her dark, graying hair was bundled on top of her head and she had a pen tucked behind her ear. Her red polo had the restaurant logo printed over her right breast and her khaki pants were dotted with grease stains. She moved slowly and I wondered if it was because she was tired or because she knew what was coming.

“Good evening, folks,” she said, forcing a smile. “Amy said that you asked for me.”

Jake launched into all of the issues since we'd arrived. The woman nodded, looked concerned, then nodded some more.

“I do apologize,” she said when he'd finished. “I'm sorry for the experience. How can I make it better?”

“I'm not really sure at this point,” Jake said. “This isn't the pizza we ordered, but since we've been here over an hour, waiting, we decided to eat it, anyway. But it's not what we ordered and it took forty-five minutes to get it and I'm really not exactly sure as to why.”

“I'm not either,” she said, wincing. She glanced at our empty beer glasses. “How about if I comp the beers?”

Jake frowned. “I was kind of thinking you might comp the entire meal.”

She winced again, then nodded slowly. “Yes. I suppose you're right. I'll comp the entire thing. Can I get you anything else?”

Jake didn't look entirely satisfied but he nodded. “Plates, maybe? And something else to wash down the pizza we didn't order?”

Her eyes flitted across the table and she sighed. “I'll be right back.”

“I love it when you're all calm and tough,” I said, shoving another piece of pizza into my mouth.

“No way I'm leaving a cent in this place,” he told me. “How is the pizza?”

I smiled. “I seriously don't care how it is.”

“Clearly.”

The woman returned with the plates and two glasses of ice water. I smothered a giggle, noting that she didn't want to comp us another penny by bringing more beer or soda to the table. She set them down with a flourish. “I'll take care of your ticket,” she said. “If you need anything else, my name is Kat.”

I froze in mid-bite and looked at her. She did, indeed, have a name badge pinned to her chest. And it said Kat.

“Your name is Kat?” I asked.

Her face expressed both puzzlement and annoyance. So did Jake's.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “Have we met?”

I set the slice of pizza down and wiped my mouth with the paper napkin. “Um, no. I'm sorry, we haven't. But...are you Kat Fremont?”

She was still puzzled, but then she nodded. “Yes.”

I glanced at Jake, then back at her. “You're Harvey's mother.”

Something flashed through her eyes. She stood up a little straighter and swallowed hard.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I am.”

SIXTEEN

“We're staying at Windy Vista,” I said. “I was the one...that found him.” It sounded lame and terrible but I didn't know how else to introduce myself.

Kat Fremont set her hands on the table. Her knuckles were white. “I see.”