I took a quick breath and the girl seemed to sense my hesitation. ‘I mean, it doesn’t really matter if you don’t want to say.’

I exhaled, feeling silly. She was just a kid, and here I was, being cagey. ‘My new neighbors mentioned they owned it, actually. Just wanted to see it in the flesh.’

‘Really?’ she asked. ‘John and Vera, huh?’

‘You know them?’

She sighed. ‘If you actually live in town full-time, just about everybody knows everybody.’ She wiped the counter again, then arched an eyebrow. ‘You should probably check it out. They need the business, especially now.’

‘What do you mean?’

She smirked. ‘This town isn’t as artsy and progressive as it likes to think it is. They haven’t had great luck here. Locals won’t touch the place, honestly.’

‘Oh,’ I said, remembering how Vera and John had described Woodstock last night. ‘Why’s that?’

Her lips formed a thin line. ‘They just won’t. Anyway,’ she said, changing the subject, ‘what do you do? Not too many jobs up here.’

Again, a spot of hesitation – I didn’t want to give too much away. ‘I freelance. I can work from anywhere, really.’

‘Graphic design?’ she asked.

‘No, I –’

‘Photography?’

‘I’m a writer.’ I practically blurted it out, then took another sip of coffee. This was getting ridiculous. How could it possibly hurt to tell her?

The girl’s face lit up. ‘No way,’ she said. ‘I’ve been wanting to meet a writer. That’s what I want to do, too. I’m trying to decide between novels and screenwriting. Or maybe a memoir – I know I’m too young for that, but I think young people have more to say than people think.’ She reached out her hand. ‘I’m Al, by the way.’

‘Al,’ I repeated, marveling at the progressiveness of the younger generations, with their gender-neutral nicknames. Not Alice or Allison, not even Allie. Just Al.

I took her hand in mine, realizing she was waiting for me to introduce myself, too. ‘Lucy.’

She pulled her hand back and tugged on the end of her hair. ‘Anyway, what do you write?’

‘Magazine articles, mostly,’ I said, keeping it vague. ‘Some personal essays.’

‘That’s so cool,’ she said, without a trace of irony. A bell dinged, and she floated over to the kitchen and returned with my plate. It smelled like oil and salt and roasted garlic, and in a flash, I was back at this restaurant I used to go to with my mom and dad in Seattle.

‘Thanks,’ I said, pushing the memory away and pulling my plate forward.

‘So where do you write for?’

I hesitated, not wanting to divulge too much. ‘All kinds of places. Whoever wants to pay me.’

She grinned. ‘Maybe I’ll come across something of yours one day.’

I forced a smile. I knew she wouldn’t.

‘So how’d you get into it?’ she asked.