“I’ve read every mystery on the shelf. I’ve watched everything worth watching. The cat my brother sent me a picture of yesterday is wearing a sweater and I spent ten minutes looking at it. I need to leave.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Where do you think?”
She picked him up at nine-thirty. He was on the porch with his cane, dressed in actual clothes—not the sweatpants he’d been wearing for weeks, but khakis and a collared shirt. He’d shaved. He looked like Bernie again instead of a man recovering from something.
“You dressed up,” she said, coming around the car to the passenger side.
“I put on pants. That’s not dressing up.” He shifted the cane to his other hand and reached for the door.
She looked at him more closely and smiled. “You shaved.”
“I shave.”
“You haven’t shaved in two weeks.” She stepped back to give him room to maneuver into the seat.
“How would you know that?”
“Bernard. I see you three times a week.”
He got in the car—the cane first, then the knee, then the rest of him settling into the low seat. She didn’t help. He hadn’t asked her to and she knew him well enough to know that helping would be worse than watching.
He put the cane between his knees. “Let’s go.”
The Shack was four minutes from his house, which was four minutes from hers, which was four minutes from everything in Laguna if you knew the streets. He got out slower than he’d gotten in, the knee straightening in stages.
They walked to the door at his pace. She kept step with him without deciding to.
He stopped at the door, one hand on the frame, and looked through the glass. The OPEN sign was lit. The morning light was on the windows. Anna was at the counter. Joey stood at the pass. The dining room was half full with the Wednesday breakfast crowd. The door opened and the smell came through—sourdough and coffee and the grill already working.
“Five weeks,” he said, his hand still on the doorframe.
“Five weeks and three days.”
Bernie nodded. “But who’s counting?”
“Joey is counting. Joey has a spreadsheet.” She reached past him and pushed the door open.
Joey saw him first.
Joey was at the pass with a ticket in one hand and a coffee pot in the other and he stopped mid-pour when the door opened. The coffee pot stayed tilted. The cup beneath it filled and kept filling.
“Joey,” Anna said. “The coffee.”
Joey set the pot down without taking his eyes off Bernie and came around the counter. He did not run—Joey did not run—but he moved at a speed Margo had only seen him bring to napkin emergencies. He stopped three feet from Bernie, straightened his apron, and clasped his hands in front of him.
“Mr. Klein. You’re here.”
“I’m here, Joey.”
“The booth is ready.” Joey glanced toward the corner. “I heard you heard about the reservation.”
“I heard.” Bernie leaned on his cane. “It was precautionary, I’m told.”
Joey rocked slightly on his heels. “Five weeks and three days. The salt shaker has been maintained.”
“I appreciate that, Joey.” Bernie shifted his weight. “I really do.”
