THE JOB THAT MADE ETHAN COLE PART OF GREYHAVEN
Chapter 3
Ethan arrived at 5:47.
Claire was already there.
She looked at the clock.
“You’re late.”
“It’s five forty-seven.”
“Exactly.”
Ethan looked at her.
“Do you sleep?”
“Sometimes.”
“Good.”
She handed him an apron.
“Kitchen.”
The kitchen was small.
Commercial stove.
Two refrigerators.
A sink.
A coffee machine.
A toaster that looked older than Walter.
Claire pointed at a tray.
“Eggs.”
Ethan stared.
“How many?”
“Forty.”
“Forty?”
“Hotel is full.”
“How many people?”
“Forty-two.”
“Then why forty eggs?”
“Some don’t eat eggs.”
Ethan looked at her.
“Do you always answer questions like that?”
“Yes.”
“That’s going to be a problem.”
“No.”
She walked away.
“It’ll be your problem.”
By seven, Ethan understood why the previous cook had burned toast.
The hotel dining room filled quickly.
Families.
Fishermen.
A couple from Portland.
An elderly man traveling alone.
Two women who complained that the coffee was too strong.
A businessman who wanted eggs cooked exactly six minutes.
A child who refused to eat anything that touched tomatoes.
Ethan moved through the kitchen like he’d been doing it for years.
Eggs.
Bacon.
Toast.
Coffee.
Pancakes.
He didn’t rush.
He simply kept moving.
At 8:30, the dining room began to empty.
Claire came into the kitchen.
“You survived.”
“So did everyone else.”
“Mostly.”
She pointed toward the dining room.
“The fisherman at table six wants to meet you.”
“Why?”
“He says your eggs reminded him of his wife.”
Ethan paused.
“That’s either a compliment or a problem.”
Claire smiled.
“Go find out.”
The fisherman was seventy if he was a day.
Gray beard.
Blue jacket.
Hands that looked like they had spent half a century pulling nets.
He stood when Ethan approached.
“You made those eggs?”
“Yes.”
The old man nodded.
“Good eggs.”
“Thank you.”
“My wife used to make them.”
Ethan didn’t know what to say.
The man looked toward the empty chair across from him.
“She died three years ago.”
Ethan’s expression softened.
“I’m sorry.”
The fisherman nodded.
“Me too.”
He looked at Ethan.
“Don’t stop making them.”
Then he walked out.
Ethan stood there for a moment.
Claire watched from the counter.
“You okay?”
Ethan nodded.
“Yeah.”
But his eyes followed the empty chair.
There were things food could do that words couldn’t.
Sometimes it brought people back for a few seconds.
Sometimes it reminded them of someone they’d lost.
And sometimes, Ethan realized, it made a stranger feel less alone.
