Chapter 11: The Notice
The notice found Lou Hart before the coffee did.
She came around the corner at five forty, her breath white in the October air, and there it was: a white envelope taped to the Beacon's front door. Whoever had put it there had come at dawn, with the care of a man who wanted it to look official.
Lou stood a moment with her hand on the handle. Then she peeled it free.
She read it on the sidewalk. Foreclosure proceedings. Sixty days to cure the default. The balance, the arrears, the fees on the fees. A business card on the back: "Call me before you do anything, Lou. H.P."
Her bank manager for thirty years, Pike had sent flowers to Marco's funeral.
Lou folded the notice twice and pocketed it. She unlocked the door and started the coffee. The Beacon opened at six thirty, and the rule above the pass said nothing about mornings like this.
"Nobody leaves hungry," Lou told the empty kitchen, and her voice sounded thin off the tiles.
Bea came in at six fifteen, smelling of cold air and the mint gum that hid her cigarettes.
"You look like a weather warning," Bea said. "What's on the door?"
"Nothing," Lou said.
"You peeled something off it. I saw the tape."
Bea leaned on the pass and waited, and Lou gave up.
She smoothed the notice flat on the counter. Bea read it without moving her lips. When she finished, she picked up an empty mug and set it back down.
"Sixty days," Bea said.
"Sixty days."
"Howard Pike signed it."
"He taped it on himself," Lou said. "His card says to call him first. Guts in person, grace in the dark."
Frankie came through the back with a crate of eggs and stopped when he saw their faces.
"Somebody died," he said.
"No," Lou said. "We're dying slower than that."
He read it twice, folded it the way she had, and handed it back.
"What's the cure number?" he asked.
"Eleven thousand, four hundred. Before the fees. After, call it fourteen."
The lunch rush came and went like a tide. Regulars filled the booths, and nobody knew about the countdown in Lou's apron pocket. Old Harlan told the cod story. Mrs. Peavy sent back a pie. Lou laughed, and at two o'clock the bell rang and a man in a navy suit walked in with a leather folder.
He was in his forties, neat hair, shined shoes, a showroom smile.
"Mrs. Hart," he said. "Glenn Mercer. Sunrise Stacks. We've spoken on the phone."
"I remember," Lou said. "You're the one who keeps sending me letters."
"Good memory," he said, and he laughed, practiced but not unkind. "May I sit?"
"You can sit. Coffee's a dollar."
He drank the coffee, nodded at the pie case, and opened the folder.
"I'm not here to pressure you. Truly. The company is expanding into the harbor corridor, and your lot is the one we keep coming back to. Four hundred and twenty thousand dollars for the property. Cash. No contingencies. And a two-year consulting role at our newest location. Your name on the door, Mrs. Hart. A real salary."
Lou looked at the document. She looked at his polished shoes. She looked at the pie case.
"You want to put a Sunrise Stacks on my corner," she said.
"We'd put the best Sunrise Stacks on your corner," Mercer said. "I'll be honest. I know about the notice. We watch the filings. Sixty days is a hard number. Four hundred and twenty thousand clears the mortgage and puts money in your pocket, and you walk away with your name on something new."
The diner was empty except for Harlan in the corner booth, pretending to read the paper.
"Mr. Mercer," Lou said, "you drank my coffee and you were polite about my pies. But this diner is not a lot. It's a kitchen. My husband is buried ten minutes away, and his rule is painted over my pass. Sixty days is sixty days, and I'll spend every one of them cooking."
Mercer closed the folder. "That's fair," he said. "The offer stands. You have my card." He paid, left a five-dollar tip, and the bell rang behind him.
After dinner, Lou gathered Bea and Frankie at the counter and laid the notice between the napkin dispensers.
"Sixty days," she said. "Pike was decent. The bank doesn't want the building. He said to call him before I do anything foolish."
"Foolish like what?" Bea asked.
"Like selling to Sunrise Stacks," Lou said. "Mercer was here today. Four hundred and twenty thousand for the lot."
Frankie's big hands went still on the dish towel.
"That's a lot of money, Lou," he said quietly.
"It's a lot of money for a parking lot," Lou said. "And I'm not selling."
Silence settled over the counter, the heaviest sound in the room. Bea stared at the notice. Frankie stared at his hands. The coffee machine hissed and went quiet.
"So what do we do?" Bea said.
"We cook," Lou said. "We open at six thirty tomorrow like always. We serve breakfast to the harbor, and Pike and Mercer and the whole county courthouse can wait in line behind Old Harlan for a booth."
Bea laughed, a short rough sound that broke in the middle. "Damn it, Lou."
"I mean it," Lou said, and she was on her feet now, and her voice filled the kitchen. "Marco's rule is still on that wall. Nobody leaves hungry. Not tonight. Not in sixty days. Not ever while I'm standing behind this counter. They can take the building. They cannot take the kitchen."
Frankie nodded slowly. "Then we cook," he said.
"We cook," Bea said.
Lou picked up the notice, folded it once more, and slid it back into her apron pocket. She had sixty days. She had a kitchen. She had Bea and Frankie and a rule painted in her dead husband's hand.