“Actually, we want to place an order to go. Do you have a menu?”
“Of course.” She hands me and Jay a menu and I glance over at him. “Same as usual?”
“Yes, but I want some of that cheesy bread they have on the menu here, too.”
“The pizza is cheesy bread,” I argue.
The woman laughs. “It’s different. I promise. I’m Marisol, and my husband and I own this place. I can assure you that the cheesy bread is a top seller since the day we opened in 1976. And it comes with my special ranch dip.”
“Sold,” Jay says. “Double sold.”
“All right then,” I say. “A large pepperoni pizza, cheesy bread, a coke, and a diet whatever you have.”
“Good choice,” she says. “Better to use those calories on the pizza.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Why do people not get that? And I’m getting married in four weeks. I was going to get a salad, but it smells so good in here.”
“Married. Oh my. Here in Boston?”
“Yes, actually and we’re looking for a weekend getaway here or in Maine.”
“Oh my. Let me put your order in and then I want to hear about it.”
“They have PAC-MAN,” Jay says. “Like the old-school PAC-MAN. Do not leave this lobby without me, Lilah. I have to go play.”
He disappears into the game room. Marisol laughs. “I can’t tell you how many generations have played that machine. And they all love it. Be right back.”
I look to my left and there is a huge wall of photos, some faded, some new, all of people eating here at the restaurant. I walk to the wall and start searching, looking for Marilyn. I’m still looking when Marisol returns. “That’s our wall of fortune. We call it that because it’s our fortune to have every guest who visits.”
“That’s amazing,” I say. “I’m glad I stopped in here.”
“Tell me about your wedding. I know your fiancée likes PAC-MAN.”
“Jay? No, he’s not my fiancée. He works with me. My fiancée is flying in tonight.” I tell her all about the hotel and the island in Maine.
“You look familiar,” she says, and bless her and my mother, I’m going to use her fame. And with good reason, I hope.
“Well, my mother is, was, Laura Love.”
She covers her mouth. “Oh my. Honey. Her story was heartbreaking. It was like Diana dying. She was our sweetheart. She played Marilyn Monroe and yet she became our generation’s Marilyn Monroe.”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, she was.”
“You know I have a customer that has come in since she was a young girl. Her name is Marilyn. I remember she first visited right about the time your mother had just played Marilyn Monroe and made such a splash. That stood out to me.”
Bingo times one thousand. “You don’t hear of many Marilyn’s. Is she blonde?”
“Yes, actually. And very pretty.” She walks to the wall and starts hunting for a photo and then taps one. “Here she is.”
I step forward and eye the photo and sure enough, it’s Marilyn. There are two photos, one of her as a young girl with a young boy. Then her as an adult with an adult man.
“She’s pretty. Is that her brother?”
“Might as well be,” she says. “That’s Desmond Morrison. The two of them are great friends. They met here in the neighborhood. He’s a bright young man but had some struggles. He has some illness. It led to him getting into some trouble, but he seems okay now.”
“Illness?”
“Oh, that thing Elon Musk has. It’s like autism?”
“Asperger’s syndrome? It’s a disorder, not an illness.”
“Yes, yes. Sorry. I misspoke. I’d never offend him. He communicates a bit uncomfortably, but he is sharp as a tack.”
“Then she found the love of her life?”
“Oh no. They are like siblings. And he won’t even talk on the phone. They meet here once a month. And believe it or not, they send each other letters. He’s a researcher of some type. I think he invents things. It’s great to see them so close.”
“And after all these years they still live in the neighborhood?”
“Oh no. She lives in New York City. He lives in New Hampshire for the tax credits. Drives in every day, I think.”
Adrenaline surges through me.
“Order up!” someone calls.
It’s all I can do to calmly walk to the counter and pay for the order, making small talk as I do. A new customer walks in and I have the opportunity to shoot a photo of the two pictures on the wall. I rush to the game room. “Come, Jay. Now.”
He glances over his shoulder, looks tormented, and then walks away from the game, with the sound of PAC-MAN being eaten filling the air.
We step outside and I hand him the food. “Call our men and tell them she’s not really alone at all. Be careful. And tell Enrique to meet up with them now. We’re on our way there, too.”