"Speaking of," Jack said carefully, "Claire asked about the gravy earlier. I told her there was a story. Your story."
Mae's hands stilled on the deck. For a moment the diner held only the sound of wind and the tick of cooling metal in the kitchen. Then Mae dealt again, slower. "Stories are for people who stay through breakfast," she said. "If you're still here when the plow comes, maybe. If you insult my biscuits before then, never."
Claire raised three fingers like a scout. "I will worship the biscuits."
"Good," Mae said. "Worship is the correct attitude toward carbohydrates in Vermont."
When Mae finally declared bedtime—she climbed the narrow stairs behind the kitchen with a muttered blessing for the storm to behave and a warning not to burn the place down or fall in love too quickly, both of which she seemed to consider fire hazards—Jack and Claire remained in the soft light of the pendant lamps. The paper turkeys watched like a silent jury of craft projects.