Seven Empty Deposit Envelopes Showed What Was Happening At Carters Diner
She walked back to the front register as the bell above the door let out a soft jingle.
Arthur, the retired carpenter who had complained about the cold service three weeks ago, stepped inside.
He was wearing his heavy canvas coat, his face red from the morning chill.
Morning, Clara, Arthur said, sliding onto a stool at the counter.
Morning, Arthur, Clara said. The usual?
The special, Arthur said. And make sure the rye toast is dark.
He looked over at the rear booth and nodded to Carter.
You look different without that blue hat, Arthur said, squinting across the room.
I left it in the truck, Carter said, holding up his mug. Decided I didn’t need it today.
You look like you own the place, Arthur said, letting out a short, dry laugh.
I do, Carter said.
Arthur stared at him for a second, then looked toward the kitchen where Henry was carrying a tray of clean glasses to the front.
Well, Arthur said, turning back to his counter stool. The coffee smells better today, whoever owns it.
Henry set the tray down with a soft click and smiled at Arthur.
