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He was going to send her a postcard, but he changed his mind and bought a stamped envelope. He went over to the Calendar Island Motel and wrote her a letter as he ate bacon and eggs and homefries. He described the new house and reported that Emma was crawling and would be walking soon. Work was O.K.; there were nice people at the hospital.
Moody's hadn't changed much in twenty years; they'd extended the dining room; the non-smoking area had gotten larger. Waitresses ran chattering back and forth to the kitchen, unimpressed as ever with anyone who did not live in Lincoln County. He ate bacon, eggs, toast, and homefries, taking his time. The whirlwind visit to Deer Isle was still sinking in.
He wasn't sure he could take seeing her again that day. He drove into Portland and had lunch at Becky's, glad to be back. He stared at the booth where he first saw Francesca. It occurred to him that he hadn't checked on his brokerage account for months. He ate the last of his homefries and slid the plate across the counter. "Had enough?" The waitress paused. "No, but. . ."
He chose a table at the far end of the diner and sat facing the wall. Jennifer made herself comfortable and surveyed the crowd. "I like it here," she said. "I don't know why I don't come here more often." "Good place," Oliver said. Jennifer ordered a fruit bowl with granola and yogurt. He asked for bacon and eggs, homefries with green peppers and onions, and Texas toast.
Her black hair, gathered behind her head, was held by a tortoise shell comb. Her face was long and utterly calm. Eggs, homefries, and burgers sizzled in front of her. She dropped slices of bread into an industrial toaster, flipped and scrambled, stirred and buttered, served and cleaned with untroubled movements of her arms and hands.
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