Pinch of Love (9781101558638) Read Online Free PDF Page A

alone scraping silver bowls with white spatulas.
    The bells jingled; Nick stood in the doorway. “Need a hand, Silo?” Nick asked. He always called EJ Silo, because that’s his shape: tall and thick. Nick approached the counter, and Charlene handed him a tray that secured four cups of coffee.
    â€œThey’re all on the house,” she said. She screwed three more coffees into another tray and filled a paper bag with creamers, sugar packets, and stir sticks.
    Nick spoke with Charlene in that genuine, friendly way of his. Told her all about The Trip, their work, where they were staying, what they were doing.
    Charlene nodded, eyeing EJ. “Come back tomorrow, if you can,” she said.
    â€œOh, we’re only going to be in the touristy section today,” EJ said. “Because—”
    â€œWe’ll be back tomorrow,” Nick said.
    They finally left the café, each carrying a tray of coffee. Nick paused on the sidewalk. “Look at me,” he said.
    â€œWhat?” EJ stopped beside the van. His eyes met Nick’s.
    Nick laughed in that total-body way of his.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou know what.” Nick jerked his head in the direction of the café. “You’re totally macking on that cute Cajun coffee-shop chick. You’ve got the exact same look on your face as when you were twelve and France asked you to dance to ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ ”
    â€œShh,” EJ said. He glanced at France inside the van; Russ appeared to challenge her to a thumb fight, and she was ignoring him. It had been a very long time since EJ felt anything for France, and vice versa. It had been a very long time since EJ felt anything for anyone.
    He sensed his cheeks reddening. “Don’t say anything,” he told Nick.
    â€œI won’t.” Nick laughed again. “You dog.”
    Russ slid the van door open and took the tray from EJ. “What’s funny? I always miss it.”
    â€œNothing,” EJ said. “Absolutely nothing.” He took his seat next to Russ. But EJ smiled as he helped distribute coffee to everybody—Russ and France and Dennis, Chief and Father Chet and Pastor Sheila, who was driving—and he smiled the rest of the day.
    Every three weeks since, each shipment of chicory root from New Orleans comes with a handwritten letter from Charlene. It usually starts with something like, “Thanks for your order. How’s life in the Great White North?” as if Massachusetts is all impenetrable frozen tundra.
    Charlene’s never been to New England. He fantasizes about hosting her, showing her around town, all his favorite spots. The summit of Mount Wippamunk (though he’d probably have to drive her to the top because he’s so out of shape); the second floor of the old fire station, with its antique brass pole and pool table from 1892; the bench in his own backyard, which looks out over Malden Pond. He’ll show her his mother’s name carved in the back of the bench. His father made it for his mother. His father always tinkered, always made things. The bench was the last thing he made before the divorce.
    EJ can’t believe it’s been more than a year since he’s talked to Charlene in person. He can’t believe that all that time, she’s continued to write, e-mail, text, and even, from time to time, call. When his cell phone beeps at four in the morning, he knows it’s Charlene.
    He was supposed to visit her once, in August. She invited him, and he made all the arrangements; he planned to take off two weeks and drive down. He even bought an extremely small diamond pendant at the Greendale Mall, but he returned it after she wrote, in her very next letter, about the atrocities of diamond mining, and some awareness rally she attended. He fretted about not having a gift and briefly felt sorry for himself that Nick wasn’t around to give him advice.
    But Charlene’s mother died