“Did he call her his soul mate?” she asks.

“Who moves to Vegas and falls in love with a female Elvis impersonator? Hello, walking cliché.”

I know I should ask him to squash the oversharing, but honestly? Hearing about his special lady friends is better than the alternative. First few months in Vegas? Total radio silence. Now? Let the e-mails flow. Sometimes I wonder if it’s the women in his life pushing him to be a better father. “Your children need to be part of your life. Reach out to them.” Ick. Like I really want Dad to “reach out” over our respective love lives. And by respective, I mean serial (his) and nonexistent (mine).

“Maybe she’s all right,” Dani says. “You don’t—”

“Anyone who goes by Shelvis is clearly not all right.”

“I thought it was Sherylynn or something.”

“Sherylanne. Shelvis is her stage name. She’s on tour this month,” I say, making air quotes around “tour.” “So instead of visiting us, Dad’s using his vacation time to follow her all over the southwest.” That’s the part I didn’t recite last night. I kept hoping it was a joke.

Dani crinkles her nose. “Gross.”

“Seriously gross. It’s the fourth Shelvis-related e-mail this week.”

“Any pictures?” she asks. He sent pictures of the last one—Honey or Candy or something like that—and Dani and I spent the entire weekend on Photoshop, giving her a handlebar mustache and snakes for hair.

I slide the baking cups into the oven and wipe my hands on a dish towel. “I think we can use our imaginations.”

“What about video? Now that I’d pay to see.” Dani clears her throat and breaks into a frightening version of “Love Me Tender.”

See, some people politely encourage their tone-deaf friends to sing. Some people even convince them to go on live television and audition for national competitions. But me? I am not that friend. Especially since Dani’s parents are, like, jazz virtuosos—mom sings, dad plays trumpet. You’d think she’d pick up on the fact that her voice lacks that certain something … called … being in tune.

“I thought we already established that your parents’ genes totally skipped you,” I say.

“They didn’t skip me. Mom says I’m just underdeveloped. I’m pretty sure Whitney Houston was the same way before she vocally matured.”

“Gotcha. Have another cupcake, Whit.” I slide the plate of experiments across the counter and load my spent bowls into the giant dishwasher.

I’ve got enough cupcakes in the oven, so I stick the remaining experiments in the front bakery case and help Dani with her sidework: wiping the menus, rolling silverware into napkins, and setting out metal trays of cut veggies for Trick. In an effort to feel slightly less guilty about our sugar-sweet breakfast, we take five at the prep counter and dine on some fruit salad. Dani recites saucy passages from a novel with a half-naked pirate on the cover as I watch the snow swirl outside, and the entire restaurant fills with the warm, chocolaty scent of fresh-baked cupcakes.

“The calm before the storm,” Dani says, closing her book and glancing up at the clock. “Another hour, this place will be a hot mess.”

“Don’t act like you don’t love it. You’re a front-of-the-house whore and you know it.”

Dani wiggles her eyebrows. “You should try it. I could teach you all the tricks.”

“I’ll stick to baking. It relaxes me.” I pull my cupcakes out of the oven and arrange them on wire cooling racks. “How sad is it that the crack of dawn in the Hurley’s kitchen is the only time I can get any peace and—”

“Morning, girls!” Mom rushes in through the back door with my little brother and a blast of cold air. “I just heard the weather report—we’re expecting a storm later.”

“Snowed in at the diner! Yes!” Bug pumps his fist, voice muffled by a thick red scarf. His tortoiseshell glasses are all fogged up, so I can’t see his eyes.

I kiss the top of his fuzzy blond head and tug off his backpack and jacket. “Winter in Watonka, Mom. Not a big mystery.”

“No, just a busy night ahead, and we’re already short-staffed.” Mom pulls off her hat, her gray-blond hair crackling with static. “Marianne’s out of town till tomorrow, Nat’s studying for finals, and I’m not sure Carly’s ready for more than two tables at a time.” Her trademark sigh is laced through every word, and I sag when it lands on my shoulders. That blue-and-white sign with the picture of the fork and knife on the I-190, just before the Watonka exit? Well, that’s us—first fork and knife off the highway. Bad weather hits, and all the just-passing-through folks in the world end up in our dining room. There goes my Saturday night.

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Dani says. “We’ll just—”

“Mom, can I inspect the mail?” Bug asks. He fingers the envelopes sticking out of Mom’s overstuffed purse. “I brought my lab gear.”

“Sure, baby. Use my office.” She hands over her purse and hangs their coats in the staff closet as Bug skips into the windowless room at the back of the kitchen. “Where’s the omelet setup?”

“Already done.” Dani hops up from the counter and shows mom the veggies, right where we always put them.

“Ma, chill. We’re fine,” I say. “It’s not even time to open.”

Dani and I follow her to the dining room. In flawless, unbroken succession, she pours herself a coffee, starts a fresh pot, checks all the sugar dispensers, and gives the counter an unnecessary wipe-down with a wet paper towel.

You can take the waitress out of the diner … but then she comes back and buys the joint.

“Know what you need?” I ask.

“A winning lotto ticket and a vacation? Preferably someplace tropical, no kids allowed?” She sits on a maroon leatherette stool next to Dani, rests her elbows on the counter, and sips her coffee.

“We’re fresh out of lotto tickets.” I take one of my experimental cupcakes from the case and put it on a pink-trimmed plate. “New recipe. As the owner, you’re obligated to try it.”

“They’re amazing,” Dani says. “She’s on a roll lately.”

“Don’t have to convince me, darlin’.” Mom smiles and carves out a piece with a fork. After the first bite, she loses the cutlery and dives in with her fingers, just the way you’re supposed to.

“They’re called Cherry Bombs,” I tell her after she inhales the last of it.

“Baby, you’re some kinda genius. Love them. And you.” She pecks my cheek and drops her dishes in the bus bin underneath the counter.

“I have a bunch more cooling,” I say, untying my apron. “I’ll be back later to frost.”

“You’re going on break? But the snow, and—”

“Ma, I’ve been in the kitchen all morning. I’m just going for a walk. I’ll be back before the rush, then I can help wherever you guys need me. Okay?” I grab the bus bin with her dishes and bump open the kitchen doors with my hip.

“Okay,” she calls after me. “Say bye to Bug first. Mrs. Ferris is picking him up in an hour.”

“Hudson!” Bug flashes a gap-toothed grin from behind his makeshift crime lab in Mom’s office, a pair of sandwich bags zipped over both hands. In one, he’s holding a white envelope; in the other, a half-eaten candy cane with a cotton ball rubber-banded to the end of it.

To my early morning eyes, it appears he’s dusting our mail for fingerprints, but you can’t always tell with Bug.

I set my backpack on the floor and plop down in the chair across from him. “Looking for evidence?”

“Nope.” He slides the glasses up his nose with the back of his wrist and rubs the envelope with the candy cane. “Anthrax. I’m at a critical juncture.”

Critical juncture? Sure. What eight-year-old isn’t?

“Find anything interesting?” I ask.

“No powdery residue. But definitely suspicious. Smell.” He slides a makeup catalog from beneath a microscope made out of a plate, a toilet paper roll, and an intricate arrangement of pipe cleaners. “Any ideas?”