“I can see that,” he said, his crooked smile widening as he reached the edge of our table.
He looked at Clara and gave a polite nod, but his eyes returned to me immediately, studying my face as if he were trying to match it to a photograph he had carried for a very long time.
“May I buy one?” he asked, pointing a manicured finger toward the stand.
“They are for the bazaar, Garrett,” Clara said, her voice rising in that warm, gossipy lilt she used when she wanted to find out something private. “But I suppose we can make an exception for an old friend.”
Garrett reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a leather wallet, sliding a twenty-dollar bill onto the table with an easy, practiced motion.
“Keep the change for the choir fund,” he said.
I looked at the bill, then at his hand, where a heavy gold watch glinted under the fluorescent tube.
“We do not have change for a twenty anyway, Garrett,” I said, my voice softer than I intended.
“Then it is a donation,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine. “Are you free for a cup of coffee, Eleanor?”
I looked at the half-filled trays, then at Clara, who was already nodding so hard her earrings jingled.
“Go on, Eleanor,” Clara said, leaning forward to adjust a stack of paper plates. “I can finish the cookies.”
I untied my apron, my fingers suddenly clumsy with the knot behind my back.
“I suppose a short break would be fine,” I said.
By eleven-thirty, we were sitting in a vinyl booth at the diner on Main Street, where the steam from the dishwasher smelled of old dish soap and grease.
The waitress set two thick white mugs of black coffee between us without speaking.
Garrett picked up his spoon, turning it over in his hand, his eyes tracking the light reflecting off the metal.
