Ember Days

By Mary F. Burns

On the edge of the cultural earthquake that would be the 1960s, the people who live in the coastal village of Mendocino in 1959 can feel it coming. Beats and Jazz, poetry and art are spilling out of San Francisco onto the northern coasts of California. World War II is laid to rest, but people feel restless. When a village son, now a priest, comes back home to bury his mother, he finds his younger brother gone and a town full of secrets--some of them his own. A youthful mother and her grown daughter find themselves yearning for a wider, more exciting life than what the small village offers, while two brothers taking care of an aging father battle each other and their own spirits as challenges arise to confront them and force them to change.  Ember Days, named for the ancient marking of the change from one season to the next, reveals the heart's deep longings and fears in the face of truth and change, life and death.

 

"Ember Days is a magnificent, rich, and beautifully written story. The people are so real and moving that my eyes often filled with tears and I didn't want the book to end." --Stephanie Cowell, author of Claude & Camille, Marrying Mozart

• Language: English
• Publisher: Word by Word Press
• Release date: Sep 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201025939

Mary F. Burns

Mary F. Burns writes historical fiction, including an historical mystery series featuring the artist John Singer Sargent and the writer Violet Paget (aka Vernon Lee). She is a member of and frequent speaker for the Historical Novel Society, as well as the Henry James Society and the International Vernon Lee Society.  Ms. Burns was born in Chicago, Illinois and attended Northern Illinois University in DeKalb (BA/MA English Lit); J.D. from Golden Gate University School of Law. She lives in San Francisco with her husband. Before she wrote novels, her career focused on media relations, corporate communications, crisis communication consulting, and event organization. As an independent scholar, Mary has focused her studies and writing on Vernon Lee, Henry James, and Virginia Woolf. Her novels frequently include noted authors as characters, such as Jack London, George Sand, John Singer Sargent, Vernon Lee, and Henry James. Her literary essay “Reading Mrs. Dalloway” was published in 2020, and the Henry James Review published her paper on Vernon Lee and Henry James in the Winter 2023 issue. She has presented papers at various academic conferences: The Sargentology Conference, York University, 2016; Henry James Society Annual Conference, Trieste University, 2019; Vernon Lee: Aesthetics & Empathy at Churchill College, Cambridge, 2022; Keynote Speaker, Teesside University Postgraduate Conference 2023: Ethics, Literature, Culture. Her website is www.maryfburns.com Mary F. Burns writes historical fiction, including an historical mystery series featuring the artist John Singer Sargent and the writer Violet Paget (aka Vernon Lee). She is a member of and frequent speaker for the Historical Novel Society, as well as the Henry James Society and the International Vernon Lee Society.  Ms. Burns was born in Chicago, Illinois and attended Northern Illinois University in DeKalb (BA/MA English Lit); J.D. from Golden Gate University School of Law. She lives in San Francisco with her husband.

Book preview

Ember Days

by

Mary F. Burns

Copyright © 2016, 2021 by Mary F. Burns

Published by Word byWord Press

San Francisco, California

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Burns, Mary F.

Ember Days  / Mary F. Burns

ASIN: B01C7SFGRO

ISBN: 978-0692653630

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This story about family

—and brothers in particular—

is dedicated with love and appreciation

to my brother Art.

Table of Contents

Winter

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Spring

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Summer

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Autumn

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Winter

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Novels by Mary F. Burns

Winter

One

Mendocino, California – February, 1959

Howard Cain moved into town on Ash Wednesday, the night the library burned down.

He was unloading boxes from his car when the harsh clang of a church bell broke through the fog, disembodied and directionless. A faint orange glow to the west grew as he squinted at it. He dumped the box he was carrying and ran toward the light.

A stream of people was heading downhill toward the heart of town. Most still wore pajamas, hastily covered by raincoats or robes. The chill winter fog absorbed the cries of voices, and then flung them back like echoes.

It’s the library! Oh my God, it’s the library!

Where’s the fire truck? Anyone called yet?

Father James must have seen it and rung the bell!

A bucket line already snaked from the nearest water tower, some thirty yards away. Howard grabbed four pails and ran down to fill them with water, passing them to outstretched hands. Two teenaged boys brought back the empties to him—pails, flower vases, soup pots, anything that could hold water. Black smoke mixed with the fog, and the acrid smell of burning paper and upholstery stung his nose.

Howard saw a tall man dressed in priest’s clothing taking charge of the crowd with military directness. A second bucket line was started to douse the other side of the building.

Thank God there’s nothing right next to it, someone standing near Howard said. He looked up toward the library for a moment—two stories, square-built on a slab foundation, but with a grace of pointed arch windows, and a single tower with a widow’s walk, lurid now in the orange flames, that made it seem almost like a church. There was nothing but an empty field all around it.

From the upper floor, smoke forced its way out through cracks in the time-warped wood. A sudden blast exploded several windows from their frames, scattering glass on those nearest the building. Everyone gasped and began to retreat in fear and confusion.

Howard headed toward the building, he and the priest racing to assist people hurt by the explosion. Others soon joined them, women and men with smudged and strained faces, reaching out to lift and carry neighbors stunned by the blast and bleeding from cuts. The heat seared Howard’s face, a sudden flame roaring right in front of him as he leaned down to help a man who had fallen in the blast.

Two young men, one fair-haired and slender, the other shorter and dark, came around a corner of the building, barely managing two wheelbarrows filled with books. Their clothes were blackened and their hair singed. The priest ran to them, shouting to Howard to follow him as the young men stumbled on the uneven ground.

My God, Thomas! Matt! What the hell are you doing?

It’s okay, Father, said the fair-haired one. Had to save what we could. He grinned and grimaced at the same time, his hand pressed against his right side as he sagged against the wheelbarrow.

Thomas, Thomas, the priest said, an arm around the boy’s shoulders. He looked up at Howard. Let’s get them away from the fire. Howard nodded, and unceremoniously picked up the dark-haired boy who looked ready to faint but grimly determined not to. Howard steadied himself for a moment, thrown by the sudden weight, but he was a strong man, and he moved quickly away from the flames. The one named Thomas was struggling to walk with the help of the priest.

The faint but growing wail of a siren was greeted by cheers from the bucket brigade. Speeding down Highway One from Ft. Bragg, twelve miles away, the tank truck roared into sight, and people stepped back to let the town’s volunteer firemen manage the hoses. The waves of smoke increased as the forceful spray of water drenched the building; the smell of burning and the thick ash drove people back, coughing, from the dying flames.

Howard sensed that the boy he carried was embarrassed by his help, and he quickly but carefully set him on his feet.

You’re okay, right? he said, keeping one hand on his arm. Matt, is it?

Yeah, Matt said. Fine. Thanks. He steadied himself and took a deep breath.

Matt! You crazy, stupid...! One of the volunteer firemen ran over and grabbed the boy’s arm. Howard stepped back. The boy’s father? Not old enough. Older brother, probably.

I’m okay, Mark, the boy said. Had to help Thomas.

Thomas, that troublemaker! Always getting you... He reached his hand behind the boy’s head and pulled him to his chest for a moment. Best not to tell Dad. He cuffed his brother’s shoulder lightly, and ran back to the fire.

The library smoldered and hissed, smoke and steam issuing from the black and broken timbers, stark in the headlights of the fire engine. The fire was out.

It seemed like it had taken hours, but when Howard checked his watch, only forty minutes had ticked by since he’d come running from his house.

Howard looked at his hands, smudged and reddened. He realized that his face hurt.

Oh Lord, your eyebrows are burned clean off!

He turned to see who had spoken, to see whose eyebrows had gone up in smoke, and was surprised to be surrounded by a small crowd of people. A tall woman in a cream-colored robe, her braided hair frowsy and raised like a corona in the headlights, put a tentative hand on his forehead. He winced, and she drew her hand back quickly. Howard was a tall man, an inch or so over six feet, but this woman’s eyes were nearly level with his. Her look was steady, and appraising.

We’ll get some cold cream on that right away, she said, then smiled. They’ll grow back.

Another voice spoke to his left.

You’re the fellow who’s bought the café, right?

Howard nodded, and the man who spoke nodded toward the fire, shrugged, and held out his hand.

Welcome to Mendocino.

People passed around cups of coffee and brandy, but Howard eagerly drank from a pitcher of cool water. The woman in the robe returned and led him to sit down on a neighbor’s front steps, and applied a soothing cream to his smarting face and eyebrows. He closed his eyes in grateful submission, feeling a slight buzzing in his head as the aftermath of exertion.

The massive redwood timbers that formed the structure of the old library building were scarred but still standing. People were hauling out water-soaked books and partly burned chairs, despite the efforts of the volunteer firemen to keep them away from the building. A young woman with long dark hair stood forlorn, gazing at the destruction in disbelief, and then stumbled over to where Howard sat.

I can’t believe this happened, Mom, she said, standing near the woman with the cold cream. I can’t imagine how a fire would start. I’m sure I put everything away in the kitchen. Her voice drifted off, her gaze returned to the smoldering timbers.

I’m sure you did, honey, her mother said. She glanced at Howard, touched his face gently. There, I think you’ll be okay, Mr. Cain, but you’d better have Dr. Kessler check you out in the morning. She laughed at the look on his face. Doesn’t take long for everyone to know everything in a small place like this. She held out a hand, and he took it; she had a firm grip. I’m Alice Fitzpatrick, and this is my daughter Ellen. The daughter only nodded, her attention focused on the hissing ruins of the library.

We’ll see you around, Alice said, and turning to her daughter, put her arm around the girl and drew her close. Winter nights on the northern coast weren’t so much cold as damp, and Howard saw both women shivering as they walked away. He began to feel it himself as the fog pressed around him.  

The priest came over to sit down on the steps. He looked more than just exhausted; there was pain in his eyes that focused Howard’s attention.

Are you okay? Howard said. Father? The title felt strange to say for a number of reasons—not least that the priest was a much younger man, maybe around forty. His red hair was almost long enough to show a bit of curliness, and there was ash smeared across his pale cheeks. He’d closed his eyes and turned away his face for a moment.

Just tired, thanks, he said. He squared his shoulders and opened his eyes. Do you suppose it’s okay to make a joke about the fire happening on Ash Wednesday?

Howard laughed. I’ve always thought that Catholics were the best at poking fun at their own religion.

The priest nodded, half smiling. James McGuire, he said, and held out his hand. You’re a good man to work with in an emergency, he said. God bless you.

They shook hands, and Howard felt in the priest’s grip a tremor, a tightness, that he recognized as desperation.

Two

Early the next morning at St. Andrew’s, Father James said the final blessing of the Mass over nearly his whole congregation of parishioners. He wasn’t surprised that so many joined the usually sparse morning Mass attendance; he hoped it wouldn’t always take a disaster to inspire people to come to church.

"Ite, Missa est."

"Deo gratias."

And we are especially grateful, O Lord, for sparing our town and people from serious harm in last night’s fire, and we pray for those who are recovering from their injuries. Amen.

The people echoed a heartfelt Amen and began to shuffle out as soon as Father James had left the sanctuary through the sacristy door. He filled the now empty chalice with water and murmured a prayer as he poured it down the sacrarium drain that led directly to the ground, ensuring that no iota of divinity would mix with the less pure water that flows through domestic pipes. He returned to the church to snuff the candles on the altar, smoothing the worn white cloth under them, and placed the red-covered Sacramentary on the podium. He was grateful that no parishioner had stayed behind to talk to him.

Back in his everyday black robe and collar, he made everything secure in the church, blessed himself from the holy water font at the door, and turning out the lights, decided to walk a bit through the town. The door remained unlocked, as always, and the flicker of the sanctuary candle high in its red glass cage signified that God was there, waiting for anyone to come by who needed a few moments of silence or prayer.

The coastal village of Mendocino City was down to about five hundred people now, fewer even than when James had lived there as a boy. The logging companies had slowly erased themselves from the landscape of the economy, but the town was ever hopeful. New highway projects were expected to bring tourists from San Francisco—to do exactly what, no one was quite sure. Their little village didn’t look like much to the eyes of a stranger, but the generations of families who lived there loved it fiercely.

James found that he could pace the ragged circumference of the village streets in the time it took to read his morning prayers. He was accustomed to being outdoors and praying regardless of the weather, to escape from the silent rectory and for the sheer pleasure of breathing the ocean-filled air. His morning walks were a link to memories of happier times in Assisi, after the War, where he studied and trod the worn stone floors of the cloisters, quietly joining in the devotions of the brothers and the pilgrims who went there to find a little respite from the world.

Down through the light drizzle of rain onto Lansing Street ... God, come to my assistance. Lord, make haste to help me... west on Little Lake Street, out along the headlands to the cliffs overlooking the sea ... the sweet tang of grass mixing with the pungent ocean smells ... O God, you are my God, for you I long; for you my soul is thirsting. My body pines for you like a dry, weary land without water... Back toward the town along Main Street, houses and shops facing the sheer drop to the bay, sagging with age and peeling from the salt air. Left on Lansing, up the hill, past the graves ... Et ne nos inducas in tentationem And lead us not into temptation. Sed libera nos a malo. Amen.

James turned back up the hill toward the compact rectory, which stood at a little distance from the church in a thin grove of eucalyptus, retired from the road and facing inland, toward the cemetery where several generations of Irish, Portuguese, Spanish and English settlers were buried. He wanted to be alone, and was grateful that the housekeeper wouldn’t be in until Saturday. Lent had begun yesterday, very early this year, even before St. Valentine’s Day—and breakfast had been just cold cereal and coffee.

He walked with weary steps around to the broad back porch that faced west and south, where he slowly lowered himself onto a well-worn rocking chair, tentatively, like an old man careful of his thinning bones. He still had the hard frame of the soldier he’d been fifteen years before, but his exertions during the fire, and the entirely sleepless night on another count, were taking their toll. Gradually he began to rock, pushing his feet against the porch floor, gaining strength and rhythm. He closed his eyes, and tears squeezed through the tightened lids.

He fumbled to find the letter in his pocket, and made himself read it again.

Dear James, 

This is hard news to tell, but I’ll just have to say it straight out, I am in prison. I have been here, the state penitentiary in Huntsville, Texas, for about six months. I guess I’m just now realizing that it’s for real. I wasn’t sure where you might be, but a nice Lutheran minister down here has helped me, and there you are right at home in Mendocino after all.

The letter arrived yesterday, on Ash Wednesday, and what with hearing confessions and distributing ashes at three ceremonies during the day, James hadn’t even seen it sitting on his desk with the rest of the mail until nearly midnight. He’d had no rest after that, and even the fire at the library had only shuttered it from his mind for a bare hour.

There’s too much to say to write it all down, and we are allowed only one three-minute telephone call each month. I just wanted to get to you and let you know where I am. I know it’s been a long time since we talked or saw each other. I guess a priest has to go where he’s told. Funny that you ended up at home after all this time. I hope to hear from you soon. 

Your brother, Mickey

James raised a hand to his eyes, then both hands covered his face, but he made no sound. He ran his hands through his hair, grown longer now with neglect and indifference, and took a deep breath. The sun pierced the canopy of trees around the porch and he felt rather than saw the day brighten around him. He’d been trying so hard to find out where his brother had gone, ever since he returned to Mendocino several months ago, after his mother’s death—and now this letter, out of the blue. He wondered if Mickey knew their mother was dead, and his heart ached to think that his return letter to his brother would have to contain that painful news.

A prayer from the Ash Wednesday office rose unbidden. Let us come to the Lord with all our heart, and leave the past in ashes. Direct our hearts to better things, O Lord, as we turn to You with tears and fasting.

Three

Some two weeks after the library fire, Ellen Fitzpatrick walked out onto the front porch of her mother’s house and leaned against the railing, contemplating the land and the ocean laid out in horizontal waves before her. The house had been built by her great-great-grandfather during the Redwood Rush of the 1860’s, and it was still the farthest one from the center of town. Except for a passing car now and then, the only sounds were the clamor of gulls threaded with the scree of hawks over the headlands, and the suck and crash and hiss of waves against the rocks. Now, in early March, there would be a brief warming of the land, opening the grasses and the tiny jewel-like clovers and pinpoint daisies after the rains of winter and before the cold summer fog.

Ellen saw her mother walking up the road, carrying two buckets of seaweed that slopped over the edges, wet and stringy. She shook her head, and shoved away from the porch railing. She walked down the path, opened the gate to their yard and waited.

More seaweed, Mother? She shook her head again, and automatically reached for one of the heavy buckets. What are you going to do with this batch?

Her mother smiled as they walked to the porch, and set her bucket on the faded steps with a thump and a slosh of green water. She frowned at the steps and touched a worn plank briefly with her fingertips. Looking up, she scanned the house walls. This place needs painting again. It’s been too long.

Ellen waited, hands on hips.

Oh, right, Alice said, looking at the seaweed. Facials! she said. Like mudpacks. She brushed at the lock of hair falling in her eyes. I’ve been reading up on all the good stuff that seaweed has in it. You can eat it, use it for medicine, smoosh it into compresses for sore muscles. She patted Ellen’s cheek gently, and Ellen could feel the slight grittiness of sand against her skin. Keeps the skin toned too.

But it smells so bad.

Well, yes, her mother admitted. But I think I can bring it down a little. She smiled again—Ellen recalled telling a friend that she thought her mother was born smiling. I could start a whole line of cosmetics and face creams, don’t you think? Sea Witch Face Cream! She laughed heartily, and Ellen had to smile. Now there’s a name that would be an advertising challenge!

Alice rubbed her hands together to get the sand off, and then clapped them on her blue jeans. Her feet were bare. Ellen made a face.

Honestly, anyone would think you were twelve years old, she said. Her mother was nearing fifty, but looked a dozen years younger.

And you, my dear, Alice said, "seem old enough to be my mother." It was lightly said, but Ellen felt a little pang. Her mother instantly repented.

Oh, Ellen, she said. Sorry, I’m sorry. She looked in her daughter’s eyes, and then reached out and shook her by the shoulders ever so slightly. You are rather a serious one, you know, she said. You always were. I remember we had to pry you away from the encyclopedias to get you to bed. She paused, looked away, looked back at Ellen. "Life is to be enjoyed, to be lived, every day. Don’t let it pass you by, it all goes so quickly, you know."

I know, Mother, I know. It’s okay, I just, you know, Ellen buried her face in her mother’s shoulder and hugged her close. A small voice deep inside hinted that her mother was talking about more than Ellen’s life, but the thought that her mother could be unhappy made her feel slightly panicked and she pushed it away. She stepped back, taking a deep breath of the morning air and, wanting to change the subject, spoke without thinking.

Aren’t you writing anymore? She caught herself, too late, and glanced at her mother’s face, where a shadow flitted, darkening her blue eyes.

Alice shook her head; a half-smile glimmered and was gone. She gave one of the buckets a nudge with her toe.

It’s been a while, she said, rubbing her hands again. That’s why I’ve taken up with this—another nudge at the bucket—to try to see if what’s on the back burner will start cooking up again.

You mean, like doing something with your hands... Ellen said.

Yes, a practical distraction, of sorts, Alice said. If I keep obsessing about not being able to write, it just makes it worse. She shrugged, and then crossed her arms on her chest, gazing away from Ellen toward the ocean.

But you’ve written so much already, Ellen said, trying to be encouraging. It’s not as if you don’t know you can do it. She thought of the three books that bore her mother’s nom de plume—Laura Ashford—all of which Ellen had read, complicated novels about love and betrayal, and about breaking rules.

Her mother didn’t answer right away, and when she did, her words came as if from another country. "There’s always this voice that tells me: You’re a fake, your writing isn’t any good, that last book was a fluke, you haven’t really got anything worth saying... She broke off, seeing her daughter’s face, wide-eyed and concerned, and shook her head. Don’t worry, I’m just being melodramatic," and she opened her arms again to hug her daughter.

They both turned to pick up the buckets and bring them into the house.

I don’t know what to do with myself, Ellen said as she held open the screen door for her mother to pass by. There’s a possibility we may be able to use the old Baptist church, you know, the one on Ukiah Street, for a temporary library, but I haven’t heard for sure yet. She looked down at her hands as if wondering at their idleness. I’ve become so used to being at the library working.

Well, maybe a little break might be a good thing, her mother said. You’ve barely taken a day off since you started there. Ellen felt her mother’s sidelong glance at her. Alice spoke again as they walked through the hall to the kitchen, treading carefully so as not to spill a drop of sea water on the old Persian rugs. The morning sun followed them in, lighting up the paintings that hung on the walls—my father’s paintings, my mother’s books, Ellen thought—what is mine?

Her mother was talking to her, and she drew back from the whispers.

Didn’t you say you were going to have to find ways to replace the books that were lost, like going to used bookstores and such?

Yes, Ellen said. We’ve been given a budget for that.

So why don’t we drive down to San Francisco? Alice said, setting her bucket in the deep porcelain sink in the kitchen, and reaching for the one Ellen held.  We could go to North Beach and look at that used bookstore there, you know, the big one on Columbus?

Hmm, Ellen said, handing her the bucket. Would we have to go that far? There are used bookstores in Santa Rosa. She was trying to sound indifferent, and failing completely.

Oh, come on, it’ll be fun, Alice said, rinsing her hands in the sink, and carefully pulling back a lock of hair that had pulled loose from her braid. We could go to City Lights, too; you liked those Ferlinghetti poems we read the other night, didn’t you? We could go there, and get some dinner at Fior d’Italia. We could stay at the YWCA if we can’t find anything else. Alice took Ellen’s arm with a firm hand, and gave it a little shake. Come on, I haven’t been to San Francisco in ages. She paused, and Ellen knew her mother was thinking of the writing seminars she’d attended, while Ellen was at the university across the bay, in Berkeley. It occurred to her that her mother hadn’t written anything, as far as she knew, since Ellen returned home. She could feel her mother looking intently at her; Alice spoke again. It must be two years—not since you came back from college.

Ellen was silent, fighting the dread she felt about returning to the city, and to North Beach in particular. She couldn’t keep resisting without having to explain everything, everything she was trying to forget. Well, maybe this was what she needed to do—confront her fears and memories, and take away their hold over her. And besides, it wasn’t fair to keep her mother from visiting the city.

Okay, she said, trying to smile. Okay, Mom, it could be fun.

Ellen watched her mother rinse the seaweed and prepare to hang it up to dry in the barn, all the while talking cheerfully about where they would go in North Beach. But Ellen felt as if her chest were caving in, crushing the little rock that had grown around her heart.

Later that day, Alice sat at her desk in the downstairs library, blank sheets of paper neatly placed in the center of the leather and felt blotter that protected the fine grain of the wood desk. It had been her father’s, and her grandfather’s—both the desk and the blotter—and many of the books that lined the walls and glimmered behind the glass doors of the cabinets were theirs as well. Avid readers of history and biography, philosophy, science, theology—and novels, too, all the great classics—her father and grandfather still filled the room with the spirit of their arguments and discussions, which Alice had loved to listen to, and contribute to when she could. Her father had encouraged her writing from a young age, and there had been many presents of blank books, now long filled with her poetry, stories and observations. Her father had often repeated to Alice the advice of Henry James to a young friend, an aspiring writer, that she should seek to be one of those persons on whom nothing is lost.

One of those on whom nothing is lost, Alice said softly to the presences in the room. She stared at the blank paper before her, then rose with a sigh and left the room.

Four

Behind the long counter on one side of the sun-filled space that was the new Mendocino Café, Howard stepped from grill to cupboard and back again, efficiently cooking and serving as if he’d been there for years. He glanced from time to time at the dozen or so folks who were digging into eggs and toast, fruit salad and fried potatoes, and drinking hot coffee. Originally a small-town boy himself, he knew that change was not something folks like these embraced readily, but the accident of the fire had erased the usual cautious boundary lines.

He’d made sure to keep Gloria, a veteran waitress, on board to minimize the difference, but he’d had the café painted in fresh white and yellow, inside and out, and replaced the battered chairs and Formica-topped tables with sturdy wood furniture. Even after only three weeks, it was getting so busy that he was thinking of hiring another waitress and maybe a second cook, especially for breakfast. Can’t stop being ambitious, can you? he thought sourly. You didn’t come here to build an empire.

He was ringing up a customer when he saw Ellen and Alice enter the restaurant. He gestured at two places that were open at the counter, and they sat down. They had come here a few times in the last couple of weeks and treated him as a friendly acquaintance.

Good morning, Howard, said Alice.

He nodded. What’s up with you two? He stepped over to the counter where they sat, with a glance for the eggs he was frying.

First, Alice said, a cup of your delicious coffee to get me going. She peered at his brow for a moment, then smiled. Looks like those eyebrows are coming back in okay.

Are they? Howard glanced in the mirror above the cash register, touching his forehead lightly. He was startled to see himself suddenly as others would be seeing him: a spare, tall man with graying hair, long white apron engulfing his frame, a plain but sad face. I guess they are. I hadn’t really noticed. I have to admit, he thought. I think I looked better in a suit.

Ellen picked up a menu card from behind the napkin dispenser and idly looked it over. Howard brought back a full mug of coffee for Alice and placed it on a paper napkin. She poured in a healthy dose of cream and a spoonful of sugar.

So what brings you two here so early? Howard asked. He turned and reached with the spatula to neatly flip two eggs, over easy.

We’re going down to San Francisco today, Ellen said. For a couple of days, I guess.