Elizabeth closed the door behind her when she left, the time a quarter to seven. She loved the morning air, still crisp from damp nighttime but lit with fresh, low sunlight. Only the slightest chill plagued the warmth, one that refreshed her lungs when she inhaled. Lack of sleep left her a little sluggish, but not enough to spoil her outlook. She slung her purse over her shoulder and just as she began thinking of Henry, he appeared, as though her very thoughts could make him materialize. He seemed to be deep in thought when he walked by, and paused when noticing her, doing what could be classified as a double-take.
Smiling, she lifted her hand in a wave and met him on the street. He seemed only slightly more wary than usual, and even gave her a muted smile in return. He wore a suit, as was customary, but appeared much more casual—not just because of his beard, which he had trimmed very short, but because his hair wasn’t combed away from his face. It was still cropped and tidy around his ears but fell wherever it pleased—a look suggesting that all he’d done was run damp fingers through it. She imagined what it would be like to run her own through it.
“Ms. Ashton,” he greeted her. She detected a welcoming tone.
“Mr. Clayton,” she said, trying to keep her voice professional as it came through her smile.
She glanced up at him as they walked; when he returned the glance, they both looked away. They did this a few times, playing hide-and-seek with their eyes, and she bit her lip in an attempt to hide her smile. It was especially hard since he appeared to be doing the same thing. How much did he know, or did he know she knew anything at all?
Was he thinking about last night, as she was? It hadn’t been until after two a.m. when she returned home, and there hadn’t even been much conversation between them. They’d simply walked, probably miles. She liked to think he was giving her a tour of sorts, showing her the forest she’d been aching to see. She’d tried asking him questions about who he was, how long he’d been that way, and what the evil presence was that showed up from time to time; but he hardly answered and when he did, the answers were short and elusive. It was okay though, that he didn’t trust her enough yet. After all, he’d kept his life a secret for a long time, probably more years than she’d been alive.
“The cookies,” he finally said when they reached the corner of Alder and Clayton. “They’re fantastic.”
“Thank you, I’m glad you like them.”
“Between Arne and me, we’ve nearly emptied the plate already.”
She chuckled. “Be careful. They have been known to cause belly aches.” After a smile on his end, she said, “So, Mr. Clayton, are you going to take me up on my other offer, about free coffee for life?”
“No.” She tried not to deflate, and he quickly corrected, “Not on the free part anyway.”
She studied him from a sidelong glance, and again they both smiled. In the beginning, she hadn’t thought he was capable of normal smiles, but the ones she’d begun to see were some of the most charming she’d seen on anyone. They left a feeling in her chest she could describe only as a sense of tiny, fluttering wings.
It came on then, a yawn—without her consent. She tilted her head away from him, covering her mouth.
“Tired?” His voice was quizzical.
“Everyone is these days, aren’t they?”
“Perhaps you’re not cut out for early mornings.”
“Early mornings and late nights.” He lifted a brow, no doubt testing her, and she quickly recovered, “I just couldn’t sleep well, that’s all.”
It seemed to have been enough to convince him; his shoulders relaxed and relief practically fell upon him in a wave. It only reaffirmed that he could never know she knew.
They neared Henry Street. “Mr. Clayton, is Arne…allowed to come in, too?” The question sounded silly, as though Arne was a child. He seemed to think so, too, since he gave a subtle harrumph.
“You think I keep him chained up at the car, do you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It’s okay. I expect people would think that, given…everything.” He seemed distant for a brief moment then looked down on her. “Arne doesn’t come in by choice, Ms. Ashton. His choice. He feels it would make his job more…difficult.”
She ached for him to elaborate, but she’d bombarded him with enough questions in the past twenty-four hours. “Maybe free coffee would entice him.”
His brow creased.
“Well, if you’re not going to take me up on the offer, maybe he will.”
She unlocked the door to Jean’s in the way he’d showed her a few days before. When she opened it, flipping the sign to an “open” position, she turned to him. A sweet doughy aroma wafted from the open door. “Are you coming?”
He hesitated, but followed her in. His eyes scanned the place, since it was the first time he’d seen it revived. Her vision followed his, which lingered on the framed photos that decorated the west wall. More precisely, his vision zeroed in on the middle one of him and his mother. It had to be his mother, since there was no question anymore that the boy was him, not his father. She’d spent the early hours of the morning in her bed aligning the pieces. It made more sense that way, with all he and Arne had told her, some of the information conflicting.
That boyish, dimple-adorned smile in the photo was the same she saw this morning, the same that had left her chest feeling like a butterfly cage. When she looked away from the picture and back at him, she almost recoiled from the way he was already watching her—not the picture.
“I’ll get your coffee on,” she said, and walked behind the counter, placing an apron over her head and tying it behind her. First, she preheated the oven in the kitchen and removed the dough—prepared the evening before and already strategically placed on baking trays—from the industrial-sized refrigerator. When she returned to the lobby, Henry seemed to be wondering what he should do, and she began boiling water then added beans to the grinder. For a moment, he just stood there, but then he sat at the table farthest from her—the one in the corner. The sound of the grinder filled the awkward silence that she didn’t think was awkward at all, and the door opened behind her. For a second she thought he’d escaped, but when she turned she found Eustace, Taggart, Old Ray, and Doc Ortiz. Eustace and Elizabeth exchanged smiles. “Good morning,” she said to them.
“It’s already smelling good, Beth,” Old Ray said, his long white hair pinned back in a perfect ponytail, as it always was. She’d known the obvious since the moment she’d met him: that Old Ray was of a Native American heritage. But it wasn’t until her night with Regina and fried chicken that she’d learned he was one of the last of the Clatsop tribe—a branch of the Chinooks. The tribe, Regina said, had been losing its identity for some time now, and recently, in an attempt to keep its culture and ceremonies alive, Old Ray had joined the Clatsop-Nehalem Confederated Tribes of Oregon, an unofficial confederation fighting for the independence of the Clatsop tribe. He was the last in his family, apparently, and used to be a raging drunk. Now, though many years sober, he owned and ran the only tavern in town.
Sheriff Taggart adjusted his belt and looked around, appearing surprised when he noticed Henry. “Mr. Clayton,” he nodded.
“Sheriff,” Henry said.
Regina entered then, and so did Sheppy, with his red backpack and lime green Chucks. They exchanged hellos as Elizabeth emptied the medium-sized grounds by rounded tablespoons into both French presses. Then two teenagers she’d never met came in, along with the Thurmans. The space was small for all the bodies, and the sensation thrilling.
“Well, look at you,” Regina said, and Elizabeth peeked from over her shoulder as she began grinding the beans for the espresso machine. Regina stood over Henry, fists on her hips, and he appeared uncomfortable. Hopefully, all the attention wouldn’t scare him away. “Just when I thought you couldn’t get any handsomer, Mr. Clayton.”
He glanced up at her, rendered speechless.
“The beard’s particularly striking.”