The cab snaps its brakes. Nelle’s head jerks forward, and the driver yells out a stream of curse words in a Scottish accent so thick, it’s like hearing another language. The car in front of them has stopped abruptly, red taillights shining guiltily.
She peeks out the side window and sees a random Edinburgh street, the stone facades blurry in the dark. Iron railings line the balconies, window boxes full of dead things. The buildings are more uniform than in Old Town, so she judges that she is probably in the aptly named New Town, just across the North Bridge.
The cab driver points. “Under that place there is a wee spot I like. The owner’s nice if you talk to him.”
“Thanks.” Nelle pays him and climbs onto the curb. The bottom of her camel coat hangs around her ankles, dangerously close to the puddle she’s standing right in the middle of.
“Cheers.” The driver wheels off.
A hot-pink poster with bold black letters catches Nelle’s attention:Eye Care.
A shudder races down her spine.You’re shitting me.
No sign for the Underground Café, but she knows the spot.Surely it’s not open this late.She creeps down the steps, into the damp, and waits until she sees motion through the fogged window to pull open the ice-crusted door.
“Well, well, well,” says a familiar voice behind the espresso machine. “If it isn’t the reporter. Where’s your friend?”
Nelle says nothing and slides onto a wooden stool at the end of the counter. The rest of the café is empty.
“Can I have a hot latte?” she asks. “With an extra espresso shot.”
She opens her journal in her lap, shakes her pen, and writes a description of the British pound. Hears the crinkle, smells the paper, feels the smooth glossy texture. She writes down each sensation, and a little more than the amount she needs pops into her hand. Crisp. Real. She places the money on the countertop as if she pulled it from her bag.
While he counts out her change, Terry says, “How was Christmas?”
“Fine.” Nelle opens her hand for the coins. Drops two pounds in his tip jar. She doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t care about anything but getting to Penelope’s house in Scourie, ensuring that her great-grandmother is okay, and then finding James.
Terry passes her the latte in a ceramic mug. She starts to ask for a to-go cup instead when she sees that the toasted foam is swirled into a four-leaf clover, and he has placed a little spoon on the saucer by the mug.
“Thank you,” she says. Steamed milk coats her throat, cut through with bitter espresso. Hints of dark chocolate, but thinner. Sharper. Tangier. The milk gives it a heavy comfort, like wool on a cold night. “This is the best coffee I’ve ever had.”
Terry beams.
Once she is warm, she leaps. What does she have to lose, after all?
“Terry ...” she begins. “You have a car, right?”
He frowns and scratches his scarlet beard. “I do.”
“A license?”
“Yeah?” he says, a skeptical crease between his brows.
He will need more warming up before I introduce the idea of a road trip to Scourie.
Nelle drags a finger along the countertop and speaks casually. “I need to get my license replaced, and I was wondering if you knew how to do all that.” She shrugs. “I have no one else to show me.”
“Is your license ... American?” he asks, frowning further.
She winces. “Never mind that. How wasyourChristmas?”
“Seen my ma.” He slings a rag over his shoulder.
“Hm.” Nelle sips her drink. “What’s the problem?”
“I love making coffee more than money.” He leans over the counter with his own mug, eyes roving across the empty tables and booths. “She thinks I’m wasting my life away. No children, no future.”
Nelle takes another sip. “At least you’re good at what you do.”
