The second thing he caught was a bit of plastic pinned to the ample bosom of her turtleneck sweater. It bore a happy face and said, “HI, MY NAME IS” with Billie written below. Billie, huh? The name fit the voice, and the voice fit the face.

Comfortable.

“Yours or your wife’s?” she repeated, blushing a bit, and he finally realized he was staring at her.

“I’m not married,” he managed.

“So, in other words, they’re yours,” she said, teasing. “Hey, don’t be ashamed of that. A good read’s a good read, you know?” She plucked the top book off the stack and flipped through it. “Now this one’s pretty good.” She leaned a little closer, and whispered, “I guess I’m the reason they’re on sale. I read when it gets slow here, and I guess I kinda bend the covers.” She worked as she talked, wiping the counter and setting a cup and saucer in front of him. “But, no harm done, right? I mean, so much the better for you, right? You did want coffee, right?”

“How did you know?”

She gave a mock salute. “It’s my job, sir. In case you didn’t see this god-awful tag, my name’s Billie. I’ve never been much for wearing the stupid thing seeing as how I know most everyone in town, well, at least the ones that come in here. But you never know when strangers might come through, and here you are. That is what you are, isn’t it? A stranger?”

He laughed. “I think I might qualify, yes. My name’s Chris.” He offered a hand over the counter and was relieved to find her grip a little less relentless than Charlie Bean’s.

“I guess you got the third degree from Charlie already.” She motioned toward the window. “I couldn’t help but notice. I hope it didn’t bother you too much. He doesn’t mean anything by it, you know, he’s just doing his job.”

Stiles nodded. “He was nice enough about it. Even offered to give me some work.”

“Oh? What do you do?”

“Woodworking mostly,” he said, blowing the steam from his coffee. “But it’s just to pay the bills. I’m really a writer. At least at heart.”

“Oh, really?” Her eyes lit up and she leaned further over the counter as if they were sharing some fascinating secret. Her closeness surprised Stiles. She smelled like Dial soap. Something in him growled, and he knew it wasn’t the Egg McMuffin this time. “Have I read any of your stuff?” she asked.