The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(41)

His explanation came as a relief, and I smiled. “Not psychic. Just . . . nosy.”

“I prefer ‘observant.’”

“Most nosy people would.”

He laughed and turned back to his work. He was dressed in a red plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows; his forearms were tanned.

He gestured toward a radio on a stool. “Mind if I turn this on?”

Soon a piano was playing in the background—classical, which surprised me. Chopin, I think. Apparently Simon wasn’t such a country-western fan after all.

I took a deep breath and dove in, setting to work as I had the first day, wiping down surfaces, refilling canisters. I slid trays of loaves and biscuits in and out of the oven, setting them on racks to cool. Now and then I glanced at Simon, moving so easily, so confidently, about his work. I would take my cue from him.

There weren’t as many customers this morning. One was a plump and pensive woman who said she was the town librarian, although she hardly fit the type.

Jean Toliver wore a skirt to her ankles, a long-sleeved velour blouse cinched at the waist with a silver concho belt. Hanging low on her chest was a magnificent squash blossom necklace of silver and turquoise.

I learned she was from a small town in upstate New York near the Adirondack mountains, but had a lifelong interest in Southwestern Indians, so I imagined she meant it as an homage to dress like many traditional Navajo women. I’d also seen very traditional ones wear their hair twisted at the nape into a sort of stiff, vertical double twist, but Jean wore hers in a simple braid down the back.

Her skin was so milky I suspected she rarely made it beyond the library stacks. Her eyes were the color of nougat behind round-rimmed glasses.

“You’re the new one,” she said.

I wasn’t sure how to answer her.

“You like books—I can tell. Not everyone does,” she continued, glancing around the café with disapproval. “A few of us started a monthly book club. You should come.”

She opened a canvas tote, drew out a flyer and handed it to me. “Our next meeting.” Then she smiled, and two deep dimples gave her a girlish look.

I slid the flyer into my apron pocket. As I turned to leave, Jean tapped my arm.

“We have monthly poetry workshops, too,” she murmured. “At the library. You should bring some of your work.”

I hadn’t told Jean I wrote poetry. Or rather, that I used to, eons ago. In fact, I hadn’t told anyone.

“I wouldn’t be good enough,” I said. “But I might sit in one day, if that’s all right.”

Jean nodded. “Anytime.”


*

By late morning the breakfast shift had eased up, and it was my first chance for a break. I poured a glass of lemonade and took a seat on a stool. Simon turned off the grill and leaned on the counter, a dish towel slung over his shoulder.

“This is the speed most days,” he said, nodding at the tables, most of them empty. “Second gear. Occasional shifts into fourth.”

He struck me as a curiosity. A short-order cook who liked Yeats and classical music. Served in the military. Traveled. Had even, as Jessie said, fought in a war.

“Don’t you ever get bored here?” I asked.

He paused. “There’s a saying: ‘May you live in interesting times.’ That happens to be a Chinese curse. There’s a lot to be said for the simple life.”

“That’s funny—I said the same thing once to a college friend about a hundred years ago. But interesting times have a way of ambushing you, don’t they?”

“They do.”

Simon had a frankness about him. An easiness that invited conversation. Even, to an extent, confidences. But just how far did that extend?

I bent over my lemonade, unable to look him in the eye.

“You’re from Morro originally, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Third generation. My people are from Maryland and Virginia, but my grandparents settled here before the Civil War.”

“Then you left.”

“Not strictly by choice. Sometimes there’s a job to do, and you’re called to do it. A lot of men were.”

“Jessie said you were in the war. Iraq was it?”

He drew a deep breath and turned away. His strained expression made me regret probing the subject. Roadside bombs, snipers, multiple deployments, post-traumatic stress—not every veteran could reassimilate easily or quickly after trauma like that.