“My house is a drive, and with having to be here so early…” She trailed off, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Anyway. I appreciate it.”
I nodded, and she went over and began slapping napkins for place settings on the counter. Through the window, I saw Clark with his head bent as he plated, while Ben flipped bacon at the flattop. (By now it was habit to look at the shirt he was sporting: This one wasCEDAR HILL ROCKETS LAUNCH!, with planets all around the words.) I knew on the surface it did look like by being here, I was doing them a favor. Really, though, I’d have to call it even.
“You good?” Kasey asked me as she stuck two more tickets on the spindle.
The phone was ringing again, as more people pressed in the door. Still, in the short time since I’d arrived, the chaos had again been a kind of comfort.
“Yeah,” I replied. “I’m fine.”
“Here you go.” Kasey held out a folded wad of bills. “For yesterday, too.”
“If I were you,” Lana advised as she came out the screen door to join us on the loading dock, “I’d take that and run. Just saying.”
“You don’t have to give me money,” I said to Kasey.
“This isn’t a volunteer organization.” She motioned at me with the cash again. This time, I took it. “If you work, you get paid.”
“Plus we need the help,” Clark said from where he was sitting on the corner, legs dangling over the side. “Despite the stress, this deal with Cardoon is working. That’s definitely the busiest we’ve been all year.”
“Not for long,” Lana told him. “I bet we top it within the week.”
“From your lips to the restaurant gods’ ears. We’d be able to update the POS system to the modern age,” Clark said.
“I kind of like the order pads,” Lana said. “They’re homey.”
“You don’t have to do the books,” Clark told her. “It’s like torture with all that paper.”
“Part of having your name on the license,” Kasey said. When I looked at her, she added, “His dad named it in his honor.”
“He did?” I asked.
Instead of responding, she opened the screen door and disappeared inside. When she returned, she was carrying a battered silver frame holding a license for Clark’s Egg, dated 2007. Tucked into one corner was a photo. In it, a skinny dark-skinned guy stood in front of the sign that still remained out front. He had a curly-headed toddler on one hip, clearly Clark, his oppositearm around a younger Kasey. They were all grinning.
“Opened it on my second birthday.” Clark smiled. “Back then all I could do was push buttons on the register. Cut to now, eighteen years later, and Kasey and I are co-owners.”
“Just until he finishes his MBA,” Kasey told me. “At which point I will gracefully exit.”
“No way,” Clark said. “Then we franchise.”
“Listen to you!” Kasey bumped his shoulder with her knee. “Your dad would bust with pride. Especially consideringhisbookkeeping system was just a pile of napkins.”
“While his tackle box was NASA-level organized.”
“Well, of course,” Kasey said. “Fishing was important.”
They both laughed. Their connection was so easy, worn like a groove.
“Did I meet him?” I asked her. “Marshall?”
She thought for a beat. “Doubt it. He wasn’t much for funerals, which is the only time we saw you and Cat.”
“No point to them,” Clark said now. “Why celebrate someone when they can’t even enjoy it?”
Kasey sighed. “His words exactly. Which was why we never did anything for him. I guess.”
We were all quiet for a moment, the only sound a Dolly Parton song that was playing inside. A moment later, Ben came out, his apron on that same way, loose around his hips. He looked at us all sitting there. “Who died?”
“Marshall,” Kasey said quietly.
