“Yeah, well. Food and all that,” Ash said. “This is Truman. Rayanne owns the place.”

“Guilty,” Rayanne said. But whereas someone else might’ve said it as a quip, Rayanne seemed legitimately burdened.

Truman shook the hand not holding the cigarette and let go with the strong sense that his hand would smell of smoke anyway.

“She around?” Ash asked, looking toward the back of the restaurant.

It was cozy inside, with dark wood walls and flooring, a dark wood bar, gold chandeliers over the tables, and dark green tablecloths. Somber paintings of ships, gulls, lighthouses, and snowy farm scenes hung on the walls, and there were antler coat hangers near the front door. It looked nothing at all like the woman standing before them, who, Truman could see once she stabbed her cigarette out and uncrouched from her perch, wore a wildly printed jumpsuit so voluminous it swallowed her small frame and Doc Martens with a thick sole, even with which Truman still towered over her.

“Yeah,” Rayanne said, then yelled, “Day!”

From the back of the restaurant strode a woman who looked straight out of Le Cordon Bleu. She wore a white chef’s jacket, her hair was swept back into a tight bun, and she gave the impression she would be perfectly capable of spatchcocking anything you put in front of her. Truman took a tiny step back.

Ash, on the other hand, smiled wider than Truman had seen him smile at anyone else they’d encountered.

“Day, hi,” he greeted her enthusiastically. “This is Truman. He’s staying in Greta’s place for a while. From New Orleans.”

Day turned calm gray eyes on Truman and held out her hand.

“New Orleans. Excellent,” she said and shook Truman’s hand firmly.

“Thanks. I mean, I can’t take credit. Obviously.” Truman willed himself to shut up.

Day simply raised one perfectly arched eyebrow and stood, calm, silent, and intimidating. She seemed utterly at ease, which flustered Truman.

“So what’s up?” Rayanne asked, lighting another cigarette.

Day reached over, slid it from her hand, and put it out between her fingers. Then she tucked it, filter side down, into the pocket of her chef’s coat.

Ash outlined what they wanted to do, and Truman chimed in every now and then to add a detail. When they were done, Rayanne nodded. “Sounds great to me. As long as I don’t have to make a bouquet.”

“No flower arranging required,” Ash assured her. “Day?”

Day hadn’t given any response while they’d spoken, and now she simply nodded once and said, “I’ll prepare a suitable menu.”

Ash nodded back, and Truman had a vision of them hanging out, sitting in total silence except that each would say one sentence every couple of hours and the other would nod one time in acknowledgment.

He snorted a laugh.