Delaney suddenly felt more exposed than she had beneath a hundred cameras. "I am sorry," she said. "Everywhere else is full." Merritt looked at the empty space beside his daughter.
Delaney hesitated, then asked the smallest question she had asked anyone all night. "Can I sit with you?" Tamsin looked at her father. Merritt moved his coffee cup aside.
"Seat is not mine to own." Delaney slid into the booth. Outside, black cars rolled slowly past the rain-streaked windows searching for her. Inside, Merritt returned to his coffee as if billionaires joined him for pie every Thursday.
Tamsin pushed the basket of fries toward Delaney. "You can have Harrisburg." Delaney laughed before she could stop herself. It was the first real laugh she had given anyone all evening.
She thought she had asked a stranger for a chair. She had no idea she was sitting across from the man who had quietly changed her life before she ever had money, power, or a name anyone recognized. Delaney wrapped both hands around the coffee mug the waitress had placed in front of her, letting the warmth settle into her fingers. For several seconds, nobody at the booth spoke.
Rain traced crooked paths down the diner window, catching the red glow of the neon sign outside. Tamsin broke the silence first. "You are dressed really fancy for a Thursday." Delaney glanced down at the silver fabric barely hidden beneath the borrowed coat.
I came from a work event. Was it fun? Delaney considered the question. There were tiny pieces of food on very large plates.
Tamsin frowned. That sounds terrible. Merritt hid a smile behind his coffee. Delaney laughed again, softer this time.
She had spent years learning how to speak to boards, reporters, governors, and people whose assistants had assistants. Yet, sitting across from a 10-year-old arranging French fries into geography felt strangely more difficult. What kind of work do you do? Tamsin asked.
Delaney hesitated. I run a company. Like a store? Something like that.
Merritt lifted his eyes. He knew. Delaney could see it now. There was no confusion in his expression, no attempt to place her face.
He had recognized her the moment she entered. Still, he offered her the gift almost nobody else did anymore. He let her remain unnamed. And your dad?
Delaney asked. He fixes everything, Tamsin said immediately. Merritt shook his head. That is advertising, not fact.
He fixes heating systems at St. Catherine Community Hospital, Tamsin continued. And sinks, and cars, and my science projects when I build them wrong. You build them creatively, Merritt corrected.
That is different. The waitress returned with a slice of apple pie Merritt had ordered before Delaney arrived. He cut it into three pieces without asking whether anyone wanted to share. Somehow, Delaney found that more generous than the speeches she had heard an hour earlier about charitable giving.
At the counter, an elderly woman in a faded blue coat opened her purse and began counting coins beside her check. Once, twice, then a third time. Her shoulders tightened. I am sorry, honey, she whispered to the waitress.
I thought I had enough. Merritt noticed. He did not stare. He reached for his wallet beneath the table and removed a $5 bill and three ones.
Delaney saw the frayed edge of the wallet and the grocery receipt folded behind his driver's license. She also noticed him glance at the total on his own check before sliding the cash beneath his coffee cup. Tamsin, he said, show Miss. He paused.
Delaney looked at him. Delaney, show Delaney why you gave Erie three fries. Tamsin launched into an enthusiastic explanation about lakes, borders, and why Idaho was impossible to construct with fried potatoes. While she spoke, Merritt stood, carried his coffee cup to the counter, and said something quietly to the waitress.