The Lost Family by Jenna Blum

Author:Jenna Blum
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2018-06-04T16:00:00+00:00

He squeezed June’s corresponding body part and she whacked him on the shoulder. “Hey!” she said.

Gregg grinned. “I didn’t write the lyrics, Mrs. R.”

“Excuse me,” said a man next to them—a portly gentleman in a tuxedo, dancing with a lady who had an impressive gray beehive. “Pardon me, young fellow. Care to settle a bet for my wife and me?”

“Sure, if I can,” Gregg said.

The man winked at June. “Are you two honeymooners?”

“We are, as a matter of fact,” Gregg said, just as June opened her mouth to say no.

The man turned to his wife, who was rolling her eyes. “You owe me a dollar, Jeanette,” he said. “I told you—it’s easy to spot the ones in love. You can always tell.”

* * *

The next morning they got up early, not wanting to squander their rapidly dwindling time. Gregg suggested room service, but June said, “C’mon, I want to take you to one of my favorite places,” and after they dressed, she led him out onto the Nicollet Mall. The sun was bright, the bricks shining, the shopkeepers just rolling the grates up the windows. At Burt’s Shoes, Gregg chose a hideous pair of green platform clogs for June, the toes curled as if elves had made them; at Brown’s Contemporary Clothing, June selected circus-striped pants for Gregg. “I think I’d rather wear a mini,” he said. In fact he was still in his banker’s suit, which was starting to look a little rumpled. It was the only thing he’d packed, he admitted sheepishly. He stood behind June and put his arms around her, turning her to face their reflection in the glass. “What d’you think, Mrs. R?” he said. “Pretty cute couple, huh?”

“You sure are, Mr. Rockefeller,” said a voice from a nearby bench, and up rose one of the hippies they’d seen last night—in a stovepipe hat and bell-bottoms, though sans shirt. “You take care of her,” he said, “take care of that angel.”

“I intend to,” said Gregg, “if she’ll let me.”

“That’s why we’re all on this earth, to take care of each other,” said the hippie, and he whipped off his hat. “You wouldn’t happen to have a quarter, would you?”

“For you,” said Gregg, “I’ve got a dollar,” and he dropped a bill in the hippie’s hat and bowed back to him, and they strolled on.

“That was generous of you,” said June as they reached where she’d wanted to go—Bridgeman’s lunch counter. “By the way, if you don’t mind my asking—how are you affording all this?” The Radisson wasn’t cheap.

Gregg drew back in mock offense. “You think I’m just some po’-ass tennis pro? I’m a vet, baby. Uncle Sam be payin’ for this trip. You got yo’self a real liiiive sugar daddy.”

“I’ve got myself a real jive turkey, is more like it,” said June. She stepped daintily over the threshold in her platform sandals as Gregg held the door.

“Groovy place,” he said, looking at the long lunch counter, the checkered green and gray floors, the row of red vinyl booths.

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