Hastily, Sherry filled the guy’s coffee cup. Without sparing Madison a glance, she murmured, “Thanks,” before rushing away.

“What was that?” Janice asked when Madison placed the sugar in front of her.

Madison regarded the waitress’s retreating back. “No idea.” It was the truth. All this crap with her grandmother had obviously thrown her off track. She stared at the stack of paperwork Janice had placed in front of her. “Um, so if you can’t fight the will, what exactly do you want to do?”

Janice pressed her lips together. “You haven’t listened to one word I said about my plan, have you?”

No sense in denying it. Madison shrugged.

Huffing, Janice leaned forward. “I will get Gerald to take a closer look at the exact ownership of Fielding Inc. and the setup of your trust. He’s a colleague of mine specializing in trust funds, so if there’s something, he’ll find it.”

“Something?”

“If I’m not mistaken, the only person laying eyes on your finances is this weasel Flinton. I wouldn’t be surprised if we find there’s more money than he or your grandmother told you.”

It was better than nothing. “Sounds like a plan. Okay, where should I sign?”

Janice pointed at the stack of paperwork. “This basically allows me to speak on your behalf. Take your time reading the de—”

“Nah, it’ll be fine. So, I guess on the last page?”

Janice nodded. She flipped through the paperwork and tapped on a line. “Here.”

Madison signed and tossed the pen aside. “So now that we’ve taken care of this, want to tell me why we had to meet in this shabby place?” Again, she glanced around and found Sherry within seconds.

The waitress carried four plates at the same time to various tables.

“…and because of that I thought it best to meet here.”

Madison hummed.

Sherry swept an unruly blonde strand of hair behind her ear.

“I think I’ll invite her for a drink,” Madison said, interrupting Janice. “What do you think?”

“Who? The waitress?”

Madison leaned back. “Sure, why not?”

Janice’s brows hiked up to her hairline. “I had no idea that gray mouse was your type.”

True. Usually, she wasn’t interested in pale and exhausted-looking waitresses, but there was something about her.

“Sherry,” a guy with a Mexican accent shouted from the kitchen. “There’s a call for you. It’s Rita Mae. Something’s wrong with Jake.”

The already pale features of the waitress turned stark white as she made a beeline toward the kitchen.

“She needs a real man,” the other waitress—a redhead in her fifties—said to the guy behind the counter. “One who will take care of her and the boy.”

He nodded. “Without that neighbor of hers, she would be totally lost. A woman needs a man; that’s just how it is.”