Chapter 6: The Diner

The president looked at Jared for a long time.

"Thirty days," he said. "Same as her. Leave your cut on the table."

Jared took two folded papers out of the inside pocket of his vest and put them in his jeans.

Then he slid the leather off his shoulders and laid it across the table in front of the president.

He had a plain gray T-shirt on underneath, and the scar through his eyebrow stood out white.

"Thank you for your time," he said, and he walked out.

I followed him through the main room and out into the lot.

He was standing by his bike with his hands on the seat.

"You didn't have to do that," I said.

"I know."

"What do you do for thirty days?"

"I've got a shop," he said. "I'll fix things."

That was the whole conversation, and I rode back to Dot's in her Buick feeling a little less alone.

On Friday morning I went to the diner on Main Street.

It's where the club's wives drink coffee at ten, every Friday, at the long booth by the window.

I'd sat in that booth for two years.

I walked in with my braid down and my shoulders back, and the waitress saw me and her face fell.

She was a prospect's daughter, nineteen years old.

"Mara, I can't," she whispered. "The freeze. I can't bring you food."

"I know, sweetheart. I'll just sit."

I took the end of the booth.

Eight women were already there, and every cup went quiet.

"You've got some nerve," said a woman with a blond bob. "Showing your face after you screamed at a man in front of his own kids."

"His kids?" I asked.

"The little ones at the dinner. You couldn't wait until after."

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