“Maya left for work at six,” she said, setting a cup of coffee on the counter. “She had a headache, apologized three times, and promised never to drink again.”
“How long do you think that promise will last?”
“Until her next friend’s birthday.”
I laughed.
Diane pushed the coffee toward me.
“Sit down. There’s bread in the oven.”
“I should probably get going.”
“You can leave after breakfast.”
There was something about the way she said it that made refusing feel unnecessarily complicated.
So I sat.
The kitchen was filled with morning sunlight. A small pot of basil stood on the windowsill, and the cabinets were made from dark oak with careful, old-fashioned joinery.
I couldn’t help examining them.
“You notice the woodwork,” Diane observed.
“It’s my job.”
“Are you a carpenter?”
“Furniture maker, mostly. I own a small shop on the east side.”
She looked genuinely interested.
“What kind of furniture?”
