Chapter 11: Opening Day

I set the egg flat down on the counter very carefully.

"We're not open yet."

"The sign says open." Vivian tapped the glass. "Your daughter's handwriting. It's cute."

The bell rang again behind her.

Stool Nine came in with his wife, then the deacon and his, then the two sisters.

Then three men from the bus yard I didn't know.

Then a family with a baby, who'd seen the sign from the street.

In ten minutes every stool but one had somebody on it.

Stool one still had Vivian.

She didn't order.

She sat with her hands folded on the counter and her pear-shaped diamond catching the light, and she watched me work.

I poured coffee.

I cracked eggs.

I turned bacon and flipped hotcakes and pulled the first pan of biscuits, and every time I turned around, her eyes were on me.

They were nice eyes now.

Clear. Wet. A little bloodshot at the corners, still healing.

The stitches were too small to see.

Lily came down the side stairs counting.

"Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen."

She came through the kitchen door with one hand on the wall and her apron on backwards.

"Mama, I'm here for my job."

"Go wipe the pie case, baby."

She went along the counter by touch, past the deacon, past the sisters, saying good morning to each back she touched.

She got to stool one.

She put her hand on Vivian's white sleeve.

"Good morning. Do you want pie?"

Vivian looked down at her.

She looked a long time.

Then she lifted her eyes to me.

"She has your mother's hands," she said softly. "I noticed that. In the crosswalk."

Something in me went cold and clear.

I put down the spatula.

I came around the end of the counter.

"Lily, go upstairs, please."

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