Chapter 19: The Coffee Counter

On Monday morning, Brittany Orwell stood behind the counter of the diner on Rice Street in a white apron that went to her knees.

She held a glass coffeepot out in front of her with both hands, as far from her body as her arms would reach.

"It's hot," she said.

"It's coffee," Dot said. "It's supposed to be hot. Pour."

The cook who owned the place now leaned in the kitchen window with a spatula.

He had hired her right on the spot, on Dot's word.

"Pays eleven an hour plus tips," he had said. "You eat free. You break a cup, you owe me a cup."

Brittany had said yes before he finished.

Now she poured, and a little of it went on the counter.

"Wipe it before it dries," Dot said. "No, not with your sleeve. You're not wearing cashmere."

"I know."

"Do you?"

I sat at the end of the counter with a plate of eggs, watching.

Keir sat next to me with his boots hooked on the stool rung and a mug in his big hands.

"I'd put money on a broken cup by nine," he said.

"Ten dollars on the first dropped plate," I said.

"You're on."

The bell over the door rang, and the regulars came in.

There were six of them at that hour.

A retired postman, two nurses coming off night shift, a man who sold insurance, and an old couple who split one breakfast every day.

They all knew Dot, and they all looked at the new girl.

The postman lowered himself onto a stool and peered at her over his glasses.

"I know you," he said. "You're the airport."

Brittany's hand tightened on the pot.