Chapter 10: Snowed In

The storm came in on Tuesday afternoon.

By four, the plow man had phoned to say his truck was in a ditch.

By five, he sat by the radiator with a thermos of cocoa and a face the color of boiled ham.

By seven, there were eighteen inches on the ground and the street had vanished.

"Everybody goes home," Mabry announced, zipping her puffer to her chin. "Right now. While the roads are still a rumor."

"Come to my place," I said. "It's three blocks."

"Three blocks in this?"

She lifted her eyebrows at Abel, then at me, then at Abel again.

"I'll sleep at the Grange. They have cots. And a vending machine."

She went out into the snow with the plow man, and the door closed on the wind.

The diner got very quiet.

Ansel had gone up to bed at six, tap, tap, tap on every stair.

The snow hissed against the windows, and the old neon OPEN sign, which nobody had ever turned off, buzzed red over the door.

"Well," Abel said.

"Well."

"You can't walk home."

"I could," I said. "I'd die of exposure and my ghost would haunt you."

"That's very specific."

"I've given it thought."

He rubbed the back of his neck, and I realized he was nervous, and I liked it too much.

"I'll make you dinner," he said.

"You hate cooking for people."

"I hate cooking for critics. You're a baker."

"Sit," said Abel Cushman, and pointed at the corner booth, and I sat.

He put a cast-iron pan on the flat-top and moved around the kitchen.

It was a different Abel.

His shoulders came down.

He hummed under his breath, tuneless, and he cut a loaf of rye with long easy strokes.

Twenty minutes later he set a plate in front of me.

A grilled cheese.

It was golden brown and glistening, and it smelled of butter, thyme and something I couldn't name.

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