"Okay," said Wes faintly.
"One. I'm not bringing a store pie to your mother's house. It's an insult. I'll bake my own tonight. Two." She held up two fingers. "I'm not answering to Linda for six hours. Linda sounds like a woman who irons her jeans. My name is Delia Hart, and that's who I'll be, and you can tell her whatever you like about why."
"Delia," Wes said, testing it.
"Delia," she agreed.
"I'm Wes."
"I know," she said, and then, a beat later, as if correcting herself, "It's on your check. You paid with a check once. In June."
From behind the register, Mrs. Moretti made a sound that might have been a cough and returned to her crossword.
That night Wes called his mother from the pay phone outside the Anchor, with the bar noise thudding behind him and the receiver cold against his ear.
"Ma," he said. "Small thing. About Linda."