#coffeeshock

As he leans against the counter, Booker just opts to nod. At this hour, the British girl in front of him is too cheerful for his liking, but the important thing he always keeps in mind about Eleanor Lamb is that she is always this cheerful. In spite of that, she knows how to make a decent cup of coffee, and that’s what helps Booker remember to be civil with the girl.

“The usual, then?”

Booker nods again. “Tallest size you got, as strong as you can legally make it. And a, uh… What did she f—? Hang on—”

He fishes around in the pocket of his jeans and withdraws a scrap of crushed paper. This he passes to the young woman behind the counter. He rubs a hand over his face while she studies it, trying to wake himself up or, at the very least, seem much more plugged into his immediate surroundings than he would currently like to be. An initial look of confusion quickly gives way to realization on Eleanor’s face.

“Oh!” she says. “A regular caramel macchiato!”

“Whatever’s written there; I know it’s a caramel something, but she was talking up a storm,” Booker mutters with a wave. “And a bage—no. D’you guys have any of them breakfast sandwiches?”

Eleanor beams at him. “Always.”

“One of those, then, and all of that to go.” He returns to digging in his pockets, this time for his wallet. “What’s the total, Ellie?”

“Hm? O-oh—no—” Eleanor shakes her head. “You know we’re not supposed to—”

“Just…” Booker studies the menu hanging above the coffee bar and counts out the total in his head. “Call it a tip.”

“But Sinclair—”

“Sinclair’s your boss, Ellie. Not mine.” And as he sticks fifteen dollars in the tip jar, he manages to smile at her. “Call it a donation. You got today’s paper yet?”

With a little sigh, Eleanor reaches underneath the counter for the copy always set aside for him. With a small word of thanks, Booker retreats to an empty table near the section of the bar reserved for picking up orders. He barely gets halfway through skimming the largest headline before the sound of someone whistling distracts him.

“Now if that there ain’t a man as ignorant of good Christian charity as a warthog is of good table manners.”

Booker barely bothers to look up. He knows that Georgia drawl anywhere. It belongs to a man who dresses as if he thinks he’s a character on Mad Men—a man who, unfortunately, owns the entire coffee shop.

“I wasn’t aware you knew anything about charity, Sinclair, let alone the Christian kind.”

Even without looking up, he can feel Augustus Sinclair pretending to be mildly offended. “Mr. DeWitt, I resent that remark! I’ll have you know that I am quite a good friend of the Big Man Upstairs. Why, I’m a fixture of the evening service every Sunday and everything!”

“Is that because you’re usually too busy sneaking out of some woman’s house to attend morning services?” asks Booker.

“Oh, come now! I may be a businessman several hours of every day, but I am a gentleman all of the time—and a gentleman always knows when to end a casual dalliance with a lady friend before things become complicated.”

“Yeah, that’s usually before he has to sneak out of her house.”

“Uh-huh.” Sinclair merely smiles. “How’s your head doin’ today?”

“Oh, it’s downright killing me.” Booker throws a brief glance in the direction of his business neighbor. “But I woke up in my own bed today, so I guess that’s something.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to call the papers and let ‘em know to stop the presses,” answers the Southerner with a bit of laughter.

Eleanor appears then, cardboard coffee carrier (loaded with two cups) in one hand and a white paper bag bearing the coffee shop’s logo in the other. Booker rises, tucking the folded newspaper under his arm before taking what is his with another grateful murmur of thanks.

“Oh—Elizabeth wanted me to tell you to come by when you had a chance. Said she had some…some book or journal or something she dug out of our storeroom that she wanted you to look at,” Booker tells her. “I didn’t really understand too much of it, but she seemed excited, so I guess that’s something.”

Eleanor perks. “Alright. I’ll come by when I’ve got my lunch break.”

“Great.”

Sinclair clears his throat. “Speaking of things worth looking at—”

Booker lets out a heavy sigh. “The answer’s still no, Sinclair.”

“Aw, but you haven’t even seen the new design! It’ll be an easy enough job. Done in about three weeks—”

“For the last time—”

And that’s when a loud booming noise sounds from several floors above, loud enough to make the Lighthouse’s ceiling lights bob on their chains. A few of the patrons look around, startled. None of the regulars even move. Booker just gives another sigh and tries to make the redoubled pain in his head go away through sheer force of will.

“Thanks again, Eleanor.”

“DeWitt,” Sinclair calls just as he gets to the door, “when you gonna come to see the sensible side of things and realize that joining up establishments solely in looks might be a good investment?”

“Probably—”

BOOM! This time the seascapes on the walls rattle in their frames.