Chapter 23: Open Door

Callister's reopened on Saturday morning at seven, on the old lease, at the old rent.

I had signed the papers on Friday in the board woman's office, in black ink, and she had stamped them herself.

By half past six the line ran past the florist, past the laundromat and around the corner of Tremont Street.

"Where did they all come from?" I said.

Dee had flour on her nose and a pencil behind each ear.

"Four hundred thousand views," she said. "And the Globe ran the cake photo. Do not make that face. Open the door."

I opened it.

The bell rang over the first customer.

It was an old woman with a cane, and she bought a dozen butter cakes and told me they tasted like her sister's.

Then it was a rush, one face after another, and the register sang.

At nine, the pastry staff from the Grand came in a body.

There were nine of them, in their good coats, and my old trainee led them with something in both hands.

It was a glass jar with a lid, and it was stuffed with bills.

A strip of masking tape on the front said, in her handwriting: SYLVIE. WE BET WRONG.

"It's the whole pot," she said. "Forty-one of us. We didn't want it. We took a vote."

"I can't take that."

"You can." She put it on the counter. "It's a tip jar. Put it by the register."

I looked at her.

I looked at the others, who were looking at their shoes.

"Thank you," I said, and my voice was not steady. "Next time, bet on me."

"We will," said the trainee. "We already are."

Dee put her head on my shoulder and wept noisily into my apron.

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