Excerpt from In the Time of Our History by Susanne Pari, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

She craved a latte but headed toward Devon's vintage diner, a Sterling Streamliner that she wished someone would restore. Two cops sat at the counter, hunched, silent, ignoring the squawk of the radios weighing down their belts. The lone waitress, reddish-gray hair twisted into a small tire on the back of her head, refilled their mugs. Mitra slid into a booth.

She remembered the waitress. Tammy. That was her name. Her hair had been copper red back then, and Ana was mesmerized by it. "I bet it's down to her knees," she'd said. The bulbous configurations Tammy sculpted on the back of her head had run the gamut from donuts (several à la Jo Anne Worley) to stiff ringlets the size of Slinkies.

"Who cares?" Mitra had said.

"Why doesn't she ever wear it down?"

"Because, stupid, it's against the law."

Eyes wide. "Why?"

"She's serving food. She has to wear it up so it doesn't get in the food."

"Oh."

Their mother used to drop them off at the diner sometimes when she had errands to run, order them a banana split to share. Mitra wouldn't let Ana touch the chocolate ice cream, would shove the nuts onto Ana's side of the bowl, even though Ana hated the nuts as much as she did and painstakingly atearound them. The waitress had always been nicer to Ana and had once brought her a scoop of chocolate in a little dish. Mitra was livid, and she quickly drummed up a story: Chocolate is more fattening than vanilla or strawberry, so chubby kids like you shouldn't eat it.

Tammy served Mitra a cup of coffee that tasted like a blend of instant and yesterday's grounds. Mitra looked at her watch: eight thirty. Time was not flying. She thought about reading the paper and glanced at a much-fingered tabloid sitting on a stool across the aisle. STAINED! it shouted, referring to Monica Lewinsky's dress. She shook her head slowly and realized with sudden disgust that it was a gesture her father made when he was feeling contemptuous, which was often. She clenched her jaw. Being back meant she would have to deal with him.

She contemplated the sticky menu. She could order some eggs, even pancakes. Why don't you ever get fat, Mitti? Her finger grazed a rip in the vinyl cushion next to her. She looked down. A long slit and yellow stuffing. I'll sit on the rip, Mitti. You sit on the other side. Short, pudgy legs, white sandals dangling inches above the speckled floor.

Mitra left a five for the one-dollar coffee. On the way out, she leaned across the counter to Tammy. "Your hair's beautiful. Do you mind me asking how long it is?"

"Just under my braw strap now," Tammy said, eyes gleaming to life. "Used to be down to the backsamy knees, hon, but that was a lawng time ago."

* * *

Downtown Devon was too small. And flat. Going for a walk in San Francisco was an aerobic workout no matter how leisurely you strolled. Mitra got back into the car and reached for her phone, stopped herself before dialing Julian. She didn't want to wake him; he'd been on call last night. She imagined him taking up the whole of her bed, half of his face on her pillow, his long legs spread to the bottom corners. It wasn't that she missed him really, she just craved the whispery baritone of his voice, the slur of his British accent. It might help her to step back from the gray swirl of Devon before it sucked her in, but she dropped the phone back into her purse.

She drove out of town, up the long hill the school bus used to take, and veered off into a neighborhood of houses on one-acre plots. Many had been renovated, but they bore the remnants of the extra-tall double-entry doors and wrought-iron railings of midcentury fashion. She took several streets—left, right, down, around—driving by rote the way she applied lip gloss without a mirror. She parked and walked, stepping over cracks and avoiding potholes that had grown wider and deeper but remained childhood markers. At the edge of the school playground was a bench she didn't remember. She sat and closed her eyes, let the sun hit her face.

Excerpted from In the Time of Our History by Susanne Pari. Copyright © 2023 by Susanne Pari. Excerpted by permission of Kensington Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.