Just Killing Time (6 page)

T
he Sleeping Latte should have been called Ruth's Heaven. The warm air that swept out the door as I walked in carried a mixture of scents that practically made me swoon: fresh-baked goods, strong coffee, and a faint hint of cedar. The bones of the old diner were still what I remembered from childhood—the countertop and stools along the back, the open kitchen with shelves for pickup, tables and chairs in the rest of the room. But the details were completely different. The countertop was made of wood, the pivot stools were replaced by wooden barstools with backs. These, as well as the deep red walls and the expansive and impressive coffee machinery that lined the very back wall, must have been vestiges of the upscale redo.

None of the tables and chairs matched completely, yet they were all perfect in the space. Upholstery in red, green,
black, and yellow had different patterns, but they all coordinated. A few small couches and wing-back chairs anchored the area to the left. A half-dozen people sat sprawled with laptops and coffee cups, working away. The area to the right had more tables and chairs, and about half of them were full.

A woman bent over one of the tables, spraying it down and wiping it off. A tub of dirty dishes rested on a table behind her. She didn't look up. “Seat yourself anywhere. Be right with you,” she said.

I did as I was told, sitting at one of the cleared tables with no one around me. I watched my old friend Moira Reed make quick work of clearing and cleaning tables, carrying the tub through the swinging doors in the back of the diner. She was back in a moment and attended to the customers at the counter, smiling and chatting with everyone as she refilled coffee cups and water glasses.

I tried to think what Moira had said she wanted to be when she grew up. I'd always wanted to be a horologist, so it was never up for discussion. But Moira had so many interests it was always hard for her to pick just one career. She loved food, so maybe she'd be a chef or a caterer? But she also loved to paint: an artist or illustrator, then? And then there was her curiosity. About everything. Journalist or maybe detective were the options we'd come up with there. But diner owner? We'd never thought of that.

Where I was always on the taller side of average, Moira was a little taller. “Five foot twelve,” she used to say, as if that sounded shorter than six foot. Her brown hair was cut in a bob, with highlights. Her jeans were tucked into short boots and she wore a henley T-shirt under a black-and-white plaid flannel shirt. A red
SLEEPING LATTE
apron offered a
splash of color. She looked Berkshire comfortable, but with an urban edge. Whereas I'd kept the boardlike shape I'd had through middle and high school, Moira was curvier, a taller version of her mother. Even in jeans, she was a knockout. She finished up at the counter and walked over to me.

“Good morning! What can I get for . . . Ruthie, is that you?”

“Hi, Moira,” I said, feeling shy all of a sudden.

“Don't you ‘Hi, Moira' me, missy. Get up and give me a hug.” She took both my hands and pulled me into her arms. I returned the hug and was embarrassed by my tears until I pulled away and saw her face covered as well.

“Ah, Ruthie, it has been way too long. Way too long. And I hate that it has to be now, after everything . . .”

“Ruth! Hello, darling! Aren't you a sight!” Nancy Reed came through the swinging doors and made a beeline to the table. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her clothing was just Berkshire comfortable. Still, she looked more like Moira's older sister than her mother, and she hugged as tightly.

“It's wonderful to see you both,” I said, meaning every word. Nancy reached up and wiped my tears and then cupped my face in her hands. I leaned forward and she gave me another hug.

A gust of cold air followed a small group of what looked like college-aged students coming in. They laughed and pushed each other until they sat at one of the tables on the other side of the room.

“Moira, I'll take care of them. You visit with Ruth. And make sure to invite her to dinner tonight, you hear me?”

“Thanks, Mum.”

We both watched as Nancy walked over and chatted with
the newcomers. Moira moved us to a pair of wing-back chairs in the corner, close to the kitchen and with a full view of the restaurant. Nancy stopped at our table on the way back to the kitchen.

“How do you take your coffee?” she asked, all business.

“Black,” Moira and I said at the same time.

“And could you bring us something to eat, Mum?”

“Could I bring you something to eat? Please, Moira. Like I wouldn't feed her?”

“Thanks, Nancy, but don't go to any trouble.”

“Please,” Nancy said as she turned away, sputtering.

“She's still the same. And you look great, Moira. And this place? Wow, look at you.”

“I know, right? Crazy. One of those universe-aligning things. I needed a change, was visiting my folks, saw the ‘for sale' sign, and boom. A year later here I am, a business owner.”

“Visiting?”

“Yeah, I went to grad school in New York. Went into graphic design, met a guy, living the life, then it all went to hell in a handbasket. Long story for another time. And a bottle of wine. And you? I will admit, I Facebook-stalked you a while back. Saw a picture of that handsome husband of yours in a cute garden. Is he here with you?”

“Another long story. And a second bottle of wine. The divorce papers are still fresh. He and his girlfriend got the garden.”

“Yikes, I'm so sorry. Didn't mean to bring it up, especially now. What with G.T. . . .” Moira's voice broke and she took my hand. “Shoot, I'm so sorry. It keeps creeping up on me. I forget most of the time, and then I remember and I
feel like throwing up. He was like another grandfather to me too, you remember. It's so awful.”

“I can't believe it either.
Awful
is a good word. Inadequate, but good.”

Nancy interrupted us, bringing over mugs of coffee and a large plate of wondrous baked goods. A brioche roll. Blueberry muffins. A turnover that I hoped was apple. I inhaled the aroma of the coffee, and sipped. It tasted even better than it smelled. I picked the turnover from the plate and took a bite. It was apple. The apples were still crisp, with a wonderful spice mixture that included the traditional cinnamon and nutmeg, and something more. Was that ginger? Yum.

“This is amazing,” I said, gesturing to the turnover.

“Mum makes most of the food for the Latte, but we do outsource some of it. The turnovers are from a bakery in town. We always use other small businesses if we can, and keep it seasonal and local. Orchard is on a big ‘keep it local' trend right now.”

“Hasn't it always been like that?”

“Yeah, but the idea has built up some momentum. There's a new town administrator—did you hear about that?”

“Someone mentioned it, but no real details. What is a town administrator? Is that different than what Grover Winter did?”

“A town administrator is a paid position. The first one in Orchard's history. Grover Winter had taken on the role for years, but he was never paid for it. When his wife got sick, he had to cut back on the time he spent on the Board of Selectmen. It made everyone in town realize just how much he'd been doing over the years to keep the town running. He suggested that the town hire an administrator and pay him
or, as it turned out, her. Kim Gray. Grover Winter still served on the Board of Selectmen, which was a good thing. One of the first things she did was to come up with the idea to bring in a couple of chain stores, including a coffee franchise.”

“How did that go over?”

“Not well. But the brouhaha started a ‘buy local' movement. It's one of the reasons I got this location at such a great price. Strong local ties, and I wasn't a franchise. Now the new idea is to make Washington Street a historic district. Some people are taking the whole ‘buying local' thing to the extreme though. See the couple by the window?”

“I don't recognize them.”

“Ada and Mac Clark. New age hippies. They've taken over the grocery store.”

“Taken over? You make it sound like it's been invaded by alien life-forms.”

“They're into all things local and organic. Mum bakes for them and we send leftovers over at the end of the day for them to sell as day olds that night since we won't use them. They have an emphasis on seasonal foods and a crazy selection of teas. They are really very nice people and a big improvement over his uncle Matt Clark. Of course, that isn't difficult. The problem with Mac and Ada is that they're the food police.”

I laughed a little and moved the brioche over to my plate. Moira hadn't changed a bit. I'd forgotten how she could make me laugh.

“They judge your basket, I swear. All the junk and processed food is in one badly lit aisle. I feel guilty even going there, since half the time I only want corn chips and ready-made onion dip. And they keep trying to host wine tastings
and cheese events in the store, to support local. People attend, but the events aren't fun.”

“What could possibly make an event in a grocery store fun?” I laughed.

“You know, they need to make it the kind of event you look forward to attending. That makes you smile while you're there. That you don't check your watch during. You know. Fun.” Moira sighed and shook her head. “There isn't much fun in Orchard.”

“Was there ever fun in Orchard?” I asked.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I guess I do. The town seems to have changed a lot while staying exactly the same. Does that even make sense?” Moira nodded her head. “This town administrator, what's her name again?”

“Kim Gray,” Moira said quietly, looking around.

“Is Kim Gray doing a good job? Seems like a big step for Orchard, hiring someone.”

“Depends on who you ask, I guess. There's a lot of strife these days. She keeps trying to get new businesses in town, which is good, but the businesses she is going after don't sit well with old Orchard. Take the new bookstore going in across from you.”

“Beckett Green's shop?”

“Oh, so you've met him already? Yeesh, that was fast, even for him. Yes, Been There, Read That. That building was this close to the wrecking ball, but then Beckett stepped in and bought it. Now Kim Gray has set her sights on the old Town Hall. G.T. was leading the charge to get it declared a historical landmark.”

“So where does it stand now?”

“There's a problem with the deed. It was actually in the Winter family for years, but a few years ago they leased it to the town. Now she's making noises about eminent domain, just taking it over. Grover left the deed to G.T. in his will, but no one can find it. If they find the deed, it's a simple decision: the Town Hall would be safe. But if they don't, there's going to be a meeting on Thursday to discuss the next steps.”

“Wow, that sounds a little complicated. Why does the town want it?”

“Kim wants to level it and use the front half of the land for an indoor mall of sorts. And then make the back half of the lot a parking structure.”

“A parking structure?” I laughed. “For the dozen or so cars that are downtown at any given time?”

“Not downtown, Ruth. Historic district. G.T. used to call it a tourist trap. G.T. and a few other people were fighting the idea of a new building. They were doing a good job keeping her hopping.”

“What do you mean?”

“G.T. had made it a habit to go to every town meeting. Called it his new sport, throwing nails in front of the wheels of progress. Jeez, I'm going to really miss him.”

“Me too,” I said. It hurt my heart that I would never know the grandfather who was taking on town government. The grandfather I remembered voted in every election, but that was about as involved as he got.

“There have been some changes for the good in Orchard over the past couple of years. Like that one.” Moira gestured toward the door with a nod. I turned to see a man in uniform walk up to the counter. He had powerfully broad shoulders
that stretched the back of his dark blue jacket. I watched as Nancy flirted with him, flicking his arm with her dish towel. When he turned and saw Moira, he nodded at her, a faint smile cracking his brown face, but not for long. He went to the counter, sliding into a stool.

“Who's that?” I asked, though I thought I knew.

“The chief of police. Jeff Paisley.”

“He's good at his job?”

“He's by the book. The old chief, you remember Harmon Gibbs, right? He just kept the peace. Did his hours, let the state police take over nights and weekends. Chief Paisley is on twenty-four/seven and doesn't let calls go through to the barracks until he's fielded them first.”

“That's good, right?”

“Right. A little obsessive, but good. He's trying to get at least one full-time officer in addition to the three part-timers he's got now. It makes sense. With Harris University buying up parts of Orchard, there's more going on here than ever before.”