But he still did not open it.
Margaret did not visit Copper Bell for almost two weeks.
She decided Nathan needed distance.
Then Grace called.
“I need help.”
Margaret immediately assumed something had happened to Nathan.
“What?”
“Maribel has the flu, Tessa's kid broke his arm, and Ava is taking an exam.”
Margaret waited.
Grace continued.
“I need someone to work the register Saturday.”
Margaret laughed.
“You called the wrong widow.”
“You worked bookkeeping for thirty years.”
“At an insurance company.”
“Numbers remain numbers.”
“I've never used a diner register.”
“You'll learn.”
Margaret should have refused.
Instead she arrived at six-thirty Saturday morning.
By seven-fifteen she regretted every decision she had ever made.
Customers appeared endlessly.
Coffee needed refilling.
Receipts printed from machines Margaret did not understand.
People requested substitutions as though breakfast were international diplomacy.
Nathan worked the kitchen.
At first neither acknowledged how strange this was.
At eight-thirty Margaret entered the wrong order.
Nathan appeared at the service window.
“Table twelve did not order three omelets.”
“I know that now.”
“What did they order?”
“Two omelets and French toast.”
“Which kind?”
Margaret stared.
“There are kinds?”
Nathan closed his eyes.
Grace laughed from the coffee station.
By ten, Margaret was exhausted.
By eleven, she had learned enough to stop panicking.
A regular customer named Mr. Fields insisted on sitting at the counter and complaining about everything.
“Coffee's weak.”
Margaret refilled him.
“Then perhaps you should drink less.”
Mr. Fields stared.
Then laughed so hard Nathan looked out from the kitchen.
Margaret began enjoying herself.
At noon, Ava arrived after her exam.
She froze when she saw Margaret behind the register.
“What happened?”
Grace answered.
“Your grandmother works here now.”
Margaret nearly dropped a coffee pot.
Grace immediately corrected herself.
“Potential step-grandmother. Complicated family terminology.”
Ava stared at Margaret.
Margaret waited for anger.
Instead Ava smiled slightly.
“That apron is terrible on you.”
Relief hit Margaret so strongly she almost cried.
“Thank you.”
Ava tied on her own apron.
They worked side by side.
Nothing important was discussed.
No family history.
No Henry.
No apologies.
Ava explained the register.
Margaret showed Ava a faster way to reconcile receipts.
At closing, Nathan emerged from the kitchen.
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
“You were terrible until ten.”
Margaret smiled.
“Your father would have said the same thing.”
Nathan's expression changed.
Margaret regretted saying it.
Then Nathan smiled faintly.
“Actually, he'd have said you were terrible until noon.”
They laughed.
It was small.
But small things mattered.
Grace placed a plate of fries between them.
“No family therapy after closing.”
Nathan raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
“Eat.”
Margaret looked around the diner.
For the first time since Henry died, she realized she had gone an entire day without thinking about returning to an empty house.
Ava called Margaret on a Wednesday evening.
“Are you busy?”
Margaret looked around her silent living room.
“No.”
“Can I come over?”
Twenty minutes later, Ava stood at the front door holding a bakery box.
“I didn't know what people bring when visiting estranged relatives.”
Margaret laughed.
“Apparently cupcakes.”
Inside, Ava looked around.
Photographs of Henry covered several shelves.
She stopped in front of one.
He was fifty in the picture.
Nathan would have been twenty-six.
“So that's him.”
“Yes.”
“He looks like Dad.”
“Very much.”
Ava examined another photograph.
“Dad never kept pictures.”
“I understand.”
They sat at the kitchen table.
Ava opened the cupcake box.
For several minutes they discussed harmless things.
College.
Ava was studying nursing.
The diner.
Grace.
Then Ava asked, “Why didn't you come find us?”
Margaret had known the question was coming.
Still, it hurt.
“I was a coward.”
Ava seemed surprised.
“You could blame Grandpa.”
“I could.”
“He was the one who fought with Dad.”
“Yes.”
“But?”
Margaret looked at her.
“I stayed married to him. I watched years pass. Every year I could have written one letter.”
“Why didn't you?”
“Because your grandfather would get angry.”
Ava waited.
Margaret continued.
“And because part of me was afraid your father would reject me.”
Ava nodded slowly.
“So everybody was scared.”
Margaret smiled sadly.
“Yes.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Extremely.”
Ava looked toward the hallway.
“Dad says families are complicated.”
“He's correct.”
“He also says sometimes staying away is healthier.”
“He may be correct about that too.”
Ava looked directly at Margaret.
“Do you want to be my grandmother?”
Margaret's throat closed.
“I don't know if I'm allowed to want that.”
“That's not what I asked.”
Margaret felt tears forming.
“Yes.”
Ava looked down at her cupcake.
“I already had a grandmother.”
“Claire's mother?”
“She died three years ago.”
“I'm sorry.”
“She was great.”
Margaret nodded.
“I don't want to replace anyone.”
“I know.”
Ava took a breath.
“I think I'd like to know you.”
Margaret reached across the table.
She stopped before touching Ava's hand.
Ava closed the distance herself.
Margaret held her fingers.
Then Ava said, “Also Dad says your potato salad was terrible.”
Margaret stared.
“He ate three helpings every Fourth of July.”
Ava laughed.
“That's what I told him.”
They spent the next hour looking through photographs.
Margaret showed Ava pictures of Nathan as a teenager.
Nathan with braces.
Nathan wearing a disastrous haircut at seventeen.
Ava took photographs with her phone.
“Oh, Dad is going to hate this.”
Margaret smiled.
“Then send him this one.”
She handed Ava the worst photograph in the box.
For the first time in twenty years, memories of Nathan became something other than regret.
They became family stories again.
Nathan opened Henry's letter on a Monday morning before the diner opened.
He called Margaret an hour later.
“Can you come?”
She arrived to find him sitting alone in Booth 6.
The letter rested on the table.
Nathan looked as though he had not slept.
“You read it.”
“Yes.”
Margaret sat.
He pushed the pages toward her.
“I think you should.”
Margaret hesitated.
“It was written to you.”
“He mentions you.”
She read.
Henry's handwriting had become unsteady toward the end of his life.
Nathan,
I have started this letter six times. Every version sounds like a man trying to explain himself instead of apologize. Grace says that is because I am still trying to win an argument that ended twenty years ago. She is probably right, which is irritating.
Margaret smiled through tears.
That sounded like Henry.
She continued.
I told myself you abandoned me. The truth is I gave you an ultimatum because I believed being your father gave me the right to control your choices. When you chose differently, I punished you for becoming your own man.
Nathan looked out the window.
Margaret read on.
When Ava was born, I kept her photograph. Margaret asked me to call. I refused. That was my decision, not hers. But I also made it difficult for her to do what she knew was right.
Margaret stopped.
Her vision blurred.
Henry had tried to protect her.
Even in confession.
She continued.
When Claire died, Grace told me. I drove to Fairbridge. I sat outside the diner for almost an hour. I was afraid if I walked inside, you would tell me to leave. I went home.
Nathan covered his face.
Margaret read silently for a moment.
Then aloud.
That is the decision I regret most. A father should not require permission to show up when his child is hurting.
The next line was shorter.
I failed you.
Margaret stopped.
Nathan whispered, “Keep going.”
I began coming to the diner because it was easier to watch your life than ask to be part of it. That was another cowardly choice. You built something good here. You raised a remarkable daughter. You became the kind of man I should have been proud of long before I was willing to admit it.