Ruby opened her mouth, probably to politely decline, but the older man was already heading for the door.
“Come on, come on! The lunch rush will be over soon and Millie gets cranky if I show up when she's trying to close the kitchen.” He grabbed a worn fedora from a coat rack by the door and settled it on his head at a jaunty angle. “Besides, you can't stay in Aqua Vista without experiencing Millie's. It's basically a crime.”
Celeste and Ruby exchanged glances. Ruby's expression was amused, and something about the shared moment, this silent communication, made Celeste's stomach flip.
“I guess we're going to Millie's,” Ruby said.
They followed the antique store owner out into the afternoon sun. The street was quiet, just a few cars parked along the curb, a dog sleeping in a patch of shade. The kind of town where everyone knew everyone, where secrets were currency and gossip traveled faster than light.
The kind of town Celeste had spent her whole life trying to navigate without drawing the wrong kind of attention.
“How long have you lived here?” Ruby asked, falling into step beside Noah.
“Oh, going on forty-five years now. Moved here right after I married my wife, Amelia. God rest her soul.” His voice softened. “She passed three years ago, but she loved this town. Loved thestore even more. She used to say every object had a soul, and it was our job to find them good homes.”
“That's beautiful,” Ruby said, and she meant it. Celeste could hear it in her voice—that genuine interest, that ability to connect with people that seemed to come so naturally to Ruby.
Celeste had never been good at that. She was better with facts, with logic, with arguments that could be won through preparation and intelligence. People were messy, unpredictable. They didn't follow the rules.
“She sounds wonderful,” she offered, trying to contribute to the conversation.
“She was. Kept me honest, that woman.” Noah chuckled. “Used to catch me trying to overcharge tourists and she'd give me this look, you know the one. The look that saysI know what you're doing and you'd better stop.”
“My grandmother has that look,” Celeste said before she could stop herself. “Perfected over seventy-five years.”
“Grandmothers have that special kind of authority. The kind that makes grown men apologize for things they did years ago.”
“That's exactly it.” Celeste felt herself relaxing slightly. “She once made my uncle confess to breaking her favorite vase when he was twelve. He's fifty-three now.”
Ruby laughed. “Please tell me there's a story there.”
“He'd claimed it was the dog for so long. At a family dinner last Christmas, Nonna just looked at him and said, 'Augustine, I know it was you.' He cracked in thirty seconds.”
“The power of Italian grandmothers,” Noah said solemnly. “A force of nature.”
They reached Millie's—a diner that looked exactly like it sounded. Red vinyl booths, checkered floors, a jukebox in the corner that was actually playing Patsy Cline. The smell of frying bacon and coffee hung in the air like a permanent fixture.
“Noah!” A woman in her sixties appeared from behind the counter, flour dusting her apron. “You're late. I was about to send out a search party.”
“Now, Millie, you know I'm always fashionably late.” Noah gestured to Ruby and Celeste. “I've brought guests. These lovely ladies are interested in tomorrow's estate sale.”
Millie's expression grew even more friendly. “Well then, sit yourselves down. Any friend of Noah’s gets the good booth.”
She led them to a corner booth by the window, the vinyl patched but clean. Celeste slid in on one side, and Ruby took the opposite seat. Noah squeezed in next to Ruby, already launching into a story about the time Millie had chased a customer out with a spatula for insulting her meatloaf.
The waitress appeared—a young woman who looked barely out of high school—with a pen poised over her notepad. “What can I get you folks?”
“I'll have the club sandwich,” Celeste said, scanning the laminated menu. “With—”
“Loaded fries instead of regular, extra pickles on the side, and sweet tea with extra ice,” Ruby finished smoothly.
Celeste's head snapped up, eyebrow raised. “How did you—”
Ruby shrugged, looking pleased with herself. “I used to work at Lapierre's after school. Remember? That French place on Oak Street back in Cheyenne Valley?”
Celeste did remember. She'd gone there frequently during the holidays before their high school was back in session, usually with textbooks spread across the table and nursing coffee for hours while she studied. The atmosphere had been quiet, perfect for concentration. And the servers had been unobtrusive, letting her sit for hours without complaint.
But that was years ago. Over a decade.
