He told her about Linda. He told her about the cat named Pepper and the bad back and the sister in New Britain. He told her about the blue envelopes and the porch light and the four-sentence letter. He told it badly, out of order, and at one point Mrs. Moretti put down her crossword to listen, and at another point a man came in for a dozen rolls and waited politely for Wes to finish the part about the chiropractor before ordering.
When he was done, the blonde girl was quiet for a moment. She took a pie out of the case, a plain apple with a crimped crust, and set it in a white box and folded the lid closed with quick, practiced hands. Then she leaned her elbows on the counter.
"I'll do it," she said.
Wes blinked. "Do what?"
"Be Linda. Go to Connecticut. Eat turkey. Charm your mother."
"You don't even know me."
Something passed across her face then, quick as a bird crossing a window, and was gone. "I know you take your coffee black," she said. "I know you count your change twice and you tip in quarters and you hum when you're waiting, always the same five notes, and you've never once finished the tune. I know you don't like pignoli. I've got nowhere to be tomorrow. My family's in Toledo and the bus fare is criminal and my roommate's going to her boyfriend's in Providence, and if I stay in my apartment I'm going to eat a can of cranberry sauce with a spoon and watch the parade by myself and feel sorry for myself, and I'd much rather feel sorry for you."
"I can't ask you to do that."
"You didn't ask. I offered." She tapped the pie box. "But I have conditions."