Page 9 of Deacon

By closing time I felt stupid. By midnight I felt worse, lying awake in the apartment over the shop with my father’s voice in one ear and, in the other, the memory of Deacon shoving his fists in his pockets like they needed locking up. He seemed to be fighting with himself, and I couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t.

That kept me up a lot longer than my father did.

Friday the bike rattled my front window at the usual time, and my hands lost track of the croissant dough.

I had his rolls bagged before the bell stopped ringing. He noticed. One corner of his lips tipped up, and he dropped a ten on the counter.

“You’re ahead of me.”

“You’re predictable.”

“Ouch.”

Earl was at the window table with the Albuquerque paper, doing a bad job of pretending to read it. Deacon kept his voice down, and to anybody watching we were two people talking about nothing much.

“Your old man call?”

“No.”

“Anybody come in you don’t know?”

“It’s Salvation. I know everybody.”

“You know what I mean, Chelsea.”

He said it low, and there was nothing easy in it. His face gave nothing away for Earl’s benefit, but his eyes were fixed on mine, and I realized he wasn’t making small talk. He was worried about me.

“Nobody,” I said. “Nothing at all. It’s been quiet.”

“Good.” He picked up the bag. “What time do you finish?”

“I close at two. Then cleanup, prep for tomorrow. Why?”

“I’ll come by tonight. Eight. I’ll knock at the back.”

Tonight. At my place, after dark. My stomach dropped straight through the floor.

“Why the back?”

“Because if my bike’s parked outside your shop all night, the whole town knows by breakfast. Linda would write to her son about it.”

He had a point. I hated that he had a point.

“Eight,” I said.

He was already turning for the door. He stopped. “Keep it locked till you hear my voice.”

He left. Earl rustled his paper and looked at me over the top of it for a long, thoughtful moment, and I went back into the kitchen and punched the dough down harder than it deserved.

He knocked at eight exactly. No engine. He’d walked from wherever he’d left the bike, and the night came in with him, cool and dry.

I’d made a fresh pot and put out the rolls I’d held back from the case. He looked at the plate, then at me.

“You saved me some?”

“They were going stale.” I shrugged. “Just what we hadn’t sold.”

He looked at me like he didn’t believe me.