‘Well,’ the guy said, stepping back from the counter and looking beneath it, ‘let’s see… there’s some rhubarb. Apple. And some razzleberry.’
‘Razzleberry?’
The guy nodded. ‘Raspberry and blueberry. Sort of tart, sort of mellow. It’s a little intense. But worth trying.’
‘Sounds good.’ Eli glanced at me. ‘What do you want?’
‘Coffee?’ I said.
‘Just coffee?’ the guy asked.
‘She’s not from here,’ Eli explained. To me he said, ‘Trust me. You want pie.’
‘Oh.’ They were both looking at me. I said, ‘Um, apple, then.’
‘Good choice,’ Eli said as the guy turned around, grabbing two mugs from a rack behind him and filling them from a nearby coffeepot. Then, as we watched, he pulled two plates out from under the counter, followed by two pies. He cut hefty slices of each, arranged them neatly with a fork beside, and them pushed them over to us.
I picked up my mug first, taking a tiny sip. Eli hadn’t been joking after all: the coffee was incredible. But not as good as the pie. Sweet Jesus.
‘I told you,’ Eli said. ‘Beats the Wheelhouse by a mile.’
‘The Wheelhouse? Who’s eating there?’ the guy said. Eli nodded at me. ‘Oh, man. I hate to hear that.’
‘Clyde,’ Eli said to me, ‘is a man who takes pie very seriously.’
‘Well,’ Clyde said, flattered, ‘I mean, I endeavor to. But I’m only a beginner at this whole baking thing. I got a late start.’
‘Clyde owns the bike shop,’ Eli told me. ‘And this Laundromat. And about four other businesses here in Colby. He’s a mogul.’
‘I prefer the term renaissance man,’ Clyde said as he picked up his magazine again, which, I saw now, was a copy of Gourmet. ‘And just because I’m good at business does not mean I can do a perfect piecrust. Or so I’m learning.’
I took another bite of the pie – which tasted pretty close to perfect to me, actually – and looked around the room again.
‘You have to admit,’ Eli said as Clyde flipped a page, studying a recipe for potatoes au gratin, ‘this is better than driving or reading.’
‘Much,’ I agreed.
‘She doesn’t sleep either,’ Eli told Clyde, who nodded. To me he said, ‘Clyde bought this place just so he’d have something to do at night.’
‘Yep,’ Clyde said. ‘The coffee shop part, though, that was Eli’s idea.’
‘Nah,’ Eli said, shaking his head.
‘It was.’ Clyde turned another page. ‘Used to be, we’d just hang out during the spin cycle, share a thermos and whatever pastry I was working on. Then he convinced me maybe we weren’t the only ones looking for a place to go other than a bar late at night.’
Eli poked his fork into his piecrust. ‘Spin cycle,’ he said. ‘That’s not a bad one, actually.’
‘Huh.’ Clyde considered this. ‘You’re right. Write it down.’
Eli pulled out his wallet, then took out a piece of yellow folded paper. From the looks of it, it was a list, and a long one. Clyde handed him a pen, and I watched as he added SPIN CYCLE to the bottom.
‘We need a new name for the bike shop,’ Clyde explained to me. ‘We’ve been trying to come up with one for ages.’
I had a flash of my first day in Colby, the conversation I’d heard among Jake, Wallace, and Adam as I passed them on the boardwalk. ‘What’s it called now?’
‘The Bike Shop,’ Eli said, his voice flat. I raised my eyebrows. ‘Nice, right?’
‘Actually, it’s called Clyde’s Rides,’ Clyde said, picking up my coffee mug to refill it. ‘But the sign got blown off during Hurricane Beatrice last year, and when I went to replace it, I thought maybe it was time to give it a new name…’
‘… which we’ve been trying to do ever since,’ Eli said. ‘Clyde can’t make up his mind.’
‘I’ll know it when I hear it,’ Clyde said, hardly bothered. ‘Until then, it’s fine if everyone calls it the Bike Shop. Because that’s what it is. Right?’
A phone rang behind him then, and he turned to grab it. As he stepped outside, the receiver pressed to his ear, Eli turned to look at me. ‘What did I tell you?’ he said. ‘Pretty good, huh?’
‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘And you’re right. I never would have found this place in a million years.’
‘Nope,’ he said.
We sat there for a minute, eating. On the other side of the wall, I could hear a load bumping through a drying cycle, thump thump thump. My watch said two fifteen. ‘So,’ I said. ‘What else you got?’
I’d thought I was pretty good at both staying up and staying productive. But Eli was the master.
After the Laundromat, we got back into his car – an old Toyota truck with a cab on it, the back of which was filled with bike parts that clanked and rattled with every turn – then headed fifteen miles west, to the twenty-four-hour Park Mart. There you could, at three A.M., not only buy groceries, linens, and small appliances, but also get your tires rotated, if you so desired. As we walked the aisles, a cart between us, we talked. Not about Abe. But about almost everything else.
‘So, Defriese,’ he said as he compared brands of microwave popcorn. ‘Isn’t that where Maggie’s going?’
‘I think so,’ I said as he pulled down a box, examining it.