The panadería pastries sell out every day. Linus and I had the idea to get them for a discount before they threw the leftovers in the Dumpster. Julie lets Linus work on a new lunch menu with more healthy items, less reliance on potatoes, grease, and cheese. She agrees to a punch card for coffees. One day as I’m clearing dishes and lugging my tub from table to table, I look up and see a new splotch of real, vulgar graffiti on the fake brick walls of the coffeehouse. I stand, looking at the walls for a long time, turning, taking in the whole space, the amount of light from the windows high on the walls, thinking about how we can fix this.
Blue comes in one night to help paint the walls and the bathrooms, arriving with cans and rollers and brushes from the shed at Leonard’s. Temple helps me haul out ladders from Julie’s office and push the tables and chairs into the center of the room. Randy and Tanner work on the tops of the tables, painting them different colors, adding different patterns to some, sanding and gluing old postcards to others. Blue and Julie and I paint for hours, a soft wheat color that glows in the morning and looks ethereal at night. “But now there’s nothing on the walls,” Julie says. “They look so empty.”
“Not for long,” I answer.
I’m working the counter on Temple’s smoke break one evening when Ariel comes in, tentatively, as though unsure if she’s in the right place. Her mouth opens in pleasure when she sees me. “You! What a lovely surprise. I was at your show, but I didn’t see you.”
I take a deep breath. “I stole your cross. It was me. And I’m sorry.”
Ariel dips her head. “I know. I understand. Thank you for returning it.” She reaches out. “May I?” she asks. I nod.
She lays her hand carefully over mine. “I lost my son, so I know what it is like to be…empty, but full, with hell. I know you know what that means. That’s all I want to say about that. But I want you to know that I am glad you are okay. I am so, so glad.”
I nod, trying not to cry. She pats my hand, asks me for a double espresso. I’m relieved to be able to turn away and do something so she can’t see the tears falling. She walks around while I work the machine.
“I haven’t been in here in years,” she shouts over the noise of the machine. “It had gotten so grungy. My friend told me to stop by.” She peers at the walls. They’re hung with brilliant, intricately woven landscapes: women working in fields; complicated cityscapes; a tawny mountain with a sun hovering just above.
“My goodness,” she says breathily, moving closer to the walls. “These are rather exquisite. Who did them?” Her voice rings out in the new, clean café.
“The cook,” I answer proudly, swiping my face dry and turning around with her demitasse. “Linus Sebold.”
