"You going to tell us why you were out here?" Jack asked quietly, while Mae stacked cups with the unnecessary force of someone making a point about order.
Claire dried a plate slowly, watching her distorted reflection slide across the china. "I left a life that fit like someone else's shoes. Engagement that wasn't—Peter Whitfield, insurance, color-coded calendar, napkin rings that matched the season. Mother who keeps score in a ledger only she can read. I told myself Montreal. Ruth has a guest room and doesn't ask me to be grateful for the wrong things. Truth is I just needed the road to be longer than my doubts. The blizzard was not part of the plan. The ditch was not part of the plan. Finding you two was—" she glanced at Mae, who pretended not to listen while polishing a spoon into submission—"unexpectedly the best part of a bad plan."
Jack nodded. He did not offer advice, which Claire appreciated more than advice. He offered another coffee, which was better than advice and hotter.
By nine, the diner had settled into a kind of domestic hush that felt older than the storm. The paper turkeys fluttered whenever the heater kicked on, their construction-paper wings casting little restless shadows. Mae brought out a deck of cards soft at the corners from years of dealing and declared that rummy was a Thanksgiving tradition invented by her late husband, Walter, to keep the children from fighting over drumsticks and the last of the rolls. They played at a booth under a pendant lamp that buzzed faintly, companionably. Mae won twice with the serene ruthlessness of the elderly. Claire won once by accident, drawing the exact card she needed while staring at Jack's hands. Jack lost with theatrical despair and a grin that made Claire's chest feel oddly warm, as if the coffee had migrated.
"Walter cheated at rummy," Mae said, shuffling. "I loved him anyway. That's marriage. You catch them cheating at cards and you still pass them the gravy."