Grant Mercer had already passed the café when the truck’s wipers lost their argument with the rain. He eased to the curb, watched water pour from a clogged gutter, and decided he’d done enough driving for one afternoon.
In the back seat, Flint stood before Grant reached for the ignition.
“Don’t get excited. I’m buying coffee.”
The German shepherd regarded him with the sober patience of a dog who had never once been consulted about a travel itinerary.
Grant pulled on his jacket and waited for a break in traffic. Flint crossed beside him, close enough that the dog’s wet flank brushed his jeans. Beneath the café awning, Grant shook water from his sleeve before opening the door.
A spoon struck the inside of a mixing bowl somewhere in the back. The room smelled of coffee, warm pastry, and something made with apples. He saw a row of coat hooks, a basket of knitting beside an occupied chair, and a crooked stack of local newspapers held down by a saltshaker.
That would do.
A teammate had recommended this corner of Idaho months earlier. Dunley was a small place in Lemhi County, with ranch country below it and mountains close enough to change the weather before a person finished lunch. By the end of September, most vacationers were gone. Grant had remembered the description when his leave was approved.
At thirty-five, he could account for most of his adult life by where he’d been ordered to report next. There was always another training block, another flight, another date that didn’t belong entirely to him. For this trip, he’d allowed himself ten days in the valley, with travel on either end. He hadn’t made a single reservation that couldn’t be canceled.
Two days of driving and walking had passed without anybody needing anything from him. He’d eaten standing beside the truck, followed an unmarked track until he felt like turning around, and watched Flint investigate the same stretch of grass with more commitment than Grant had brought to choosing a destination.
Now the rain had delivered them to a place called Talvessa.
He took a small table behind a rack of books, away from the aisle. Flint settled at his left boot. The dog was five, dark-sabled, and trained to wait without advertising how much he noticed. His service harness drew a glance from the young woman who came to the table, but she addressed Grant.
“What can I bring you?”
“Whatever coffee doesn’t require a conversation.”
“Black, then.”
“That’ll work.”
Her hair was cut short and dyed an improbable shade of rust. She checked that Flint wasn’t blocking the aisle, then headed toward the counter.
Grant opened the map on his phone. He was looking for the road to the lake when a woman spoke beyond the book rack.
“Hang on to your plate. I’ve got another one coming.”
His thumb stopped on the screen.
There was a clatter of dishes, followed by a quieter remark he couldn’t hear. He turned toward the counter, though for a moment all he could see was a customer shrugging out of a raincoat.
Then the customer moved.
The woman behind him was folding a paper sack closed, pressing each crease with the side of her thumb. A pencil had worked loose from behind her ear. She caught it, tucked it back, and leaned toward the man to hear his answer.
Nora Bellamy.
Grant put his phone facedown.
Her hair had been longer when he’d known her. Now it barely reached the collar of her shirt, and there was silver near one temple. She wore an apron with a faded pocket and had a small smear of flour near her wrist. None of that slowed recognition. He knew the way she listened, chin lowered slightly, as if the person speaking deserved her whole attention.
Fourteen years had passed since he’d heard her say anything at all.
She hadn’t seen him. From the counter, the books hid most of his table. Her gaze traveled across the room once, paused on Flint’s harness, and moved on.
Grant could have stood. Her name was right there, waiting to be spoken.
Instead, he watched her reach for a clean plate.
He told himself he was letting her finish what she was doing. He had always preferred a few seconds to understand a situation before entering it. But his hand had closed around the edge of his phone, and he knew he was putting off the moment when she’d look at him.
His coffee arrived. He thanked the young woman, shifted the cup clear of Flint’s leash, and forgot to drink it.
At the counter, a road crewman tried to balance a takeout bag, his gloves, and a ringing phone. The bag caught against the corner of a chair. A carton dropped, followed by a wrapped biscuit.
The man stood over the mess, his shoulders sagging.
Nora came around with a towel before he could get down on one knee.
“Leave that to me.”
“I can pay for another.”
“You bought breakfast, not a floor inspection.”
She sent him back to the counter, replaced what had fallen, and slipped an extra napkin into the new bag. The man left smiling at something she said too quietly for Grant to hear.
A little later, an older woman had trouble getting the card reader to accept her payment. Nora turned the screen so she could see it better. She didn’t take the card from her or begin punching buttons. She pointed once, then waited while the woman completed it herself.
After that, a delivery driver brought in a dented insulated flask. Nora filled it, rang up an ordinary coffee, and was already helping the next customer when he noticed how much she’d given him.
Grant finally raised his cup.
He remembered her at nineteen, standing in her mother’s bakery in Salmon, dividing the last two pastries between them with a knife too dull for the job. Nora had been taking classes to become a physical therapist assistant. He’d been working at Dorven, changing tires and doing brake jobs, saving whatever remained after rent and the truck.
Their evenings usually involved something that needed carrying or fixing. Her mother, Vivian, had a talent for finding work the moment Grant appeared in the doorway. He’d hauled flour, shifted racks, and once spent an hour repairing a cabinet while Vivian questioned whether he’d ever seen a screwdriver before.
On nights when there was nothing left to do, Nora saved coffee in the bottom of the pot. They drank it on the rear step, their knees touching because the step was narrow, and split whatever hadn’t sold.
A backpack hit a chair near the café’s rear doorway.
Grant looked up.
A boy of about eleven crossed the room at speed and wrapped his arms around Nora’s waist from behind. She grabbed the counter to steady herself, then turned within his hug.
“You’re going to take us both down one of these days.”
“Did you save it?”
“Hello to you, too.”
“The apple thing.”
“The apple thing has a name.”
“So do I, and I’m hungry.”
She put a hand against his cheek, briefly, before pointing toward his backpack.
“Schoolwork. Then negotiations.”
He made a face, but he went.
Grant had almost smiled. Then the boy turned, and Grant saw the dark eyes and the familiar angle of his brow.
He lowered the cup without drinking.
Of course she could have a son. There was nothing remarkable about that. Nora was thirty-three, and he knew almost nothing about the life she’d lived since he’d last seen her. He glanced at her hand as she reached for the register. No ring, though that settled nothing.
The boy called something from the back room. Nora laughed.
Grant looked toward the door.
He had come for quiet, not to walk into someone else’s family carrying questions she might have put away years ago. She’d had every reason to build a life. He could finish his coffee, leave money on the table, and spare her an awkward conversation on a busy afternoon.
Flint shifted until his shoulder rested against Grant’s boot.
“I know,” Grant said under his breath, though he didn’t know what he was agreeing to.
He reached for his jacket.
Across the room, Nora picked up a coffee server and began checking tables. She stopped beside the front windows, filled two cups, then turned down the narrow aisle toward him.
Grant let go of the jacket.
She was already lifting the server when she looked past his cup. Her attention caught on his hand, traveled to the pale mark above his eyebrow, and stayed on his face.
The server remained suspended between them.
“Grant?”
He’d had fourteen years to imagine a good answer.
“Hi, Nor.”
She set the pot on the neighboring table before she could spill it. For several seconds she only looked at him. Behind her, somebody called for a spoon.
“I was certain I’d made you up for a second.”
“I get that sometimes.”
A small, disbelieving smile reached her mouth. Then she noticed Flint.
“You don’t travel alone anymore.”
“Not if he has a say.”
The dog lifted his head. Nora kept her hands at her sides.
“What’s his name?”
“Flint.”
“He looks busy.”
“Mostly supervising.”
The young woman behind the counter called for help with an order. Nora glanced back, picked up the server, and took a step away.
Then she turned.
“Stay. Please. I can get a break…”
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