I heard the ring of a cash drawer. “Would you mind paying now so I can close out the till?”
“Not at all.” I pulled out my wallet. “How much do I owe you?”
“Five. Two for the coffee. Three for the pastry.”
“But . . .”
“I’m just kidding. Two dollars.”
I walked over to the counter and handed her a five anyway. “Keep the change.”
She took the money. “A three-dollar tip for a two-dollar coffee?”
“That’s for staying open late.”
“Thanks. You said you’re on a different time zone?”
“I just flew in.”
“Is this your first time at Mr. G’s?”
I nodded. “Yes. I just moved here.”
“How long ago?”
“About eight hours.”
“You are fresh. Where did you come from?”
“The west. Denver.”
“I’m from Utah.”
“Utah,” I said. “I’ve been to Salt Lake City at least a dozen times. We had a client there. Beautiful city.”
“I’m not from Salt Lake,” she said. “I’m from southern Utah.”
“I’ve been there too. The St. George area?”
“Not too far from there.”
“There’s some beautiful scenery in that area, Zion National Park, Bryce Canyon, the Grand Canyon.”
“Yes there is,” she said. “And lots of tourists.”
“What brought you to Chicago?” I asked.
“I needed a change of scenery. How about you? Work?”
“Yes.” Then I added sardonically, “. . . And family.” I gestured to the portraits. “So, I’ve been trying to figure out what all these people on the walls have in common.”
“They’re all famous people from Chicago.”
“Oh,” I said. “That makes sense. But I can’t figure out who some of them are.” I pointed to a picture of a middle-aged man with short auburn hair and wire-rimmed glasses.
“That’s Robert Zemeckis. He’s a film director.”
“Right,” I said. “He made Back to the Future.”
She shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“You’ve never seen Back to the Future?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“With Christopher Lloyd and Michael J. Fox?”
She shook her head again.
I looked at her quizzically. “How could you not have heard of Back to the Future?”
“I’m not much into movies,” she said.
“All right,” I said, pointing to another picture. “Who’s that guy?”
“Edgar Rice Burroughs. He wrote Tarzan.”
“Do you know everyone in here?”
“Everyone except you.”
“I’m Joseph.”
“Nice to meet you, Joseph. I’m April.”
I took another sip of my coffee. “April. Were you born in April?”
“No, but my sister was.” She paused. “Her name is June.”
I grinned. “And you were born in June?”
“No, my brother August was. I was born in August.”
I laughed. “You’re making this up.”
“Nope. It’s the honest truth.”
“April, June and August. Any other months?”
“I also have a sister named January.”
“It’s a good thing your family isn’t as big as mine.”
She gave me an amused look. “And why is that?”
“You’d run out of months,” I said. “There are thirteen of us.”
She didn’t overreact to the number like most people did. “That’s a big family,” she said.
“Actually, it’s four families. My father’s been married four times.”
“Where do you fall in the lineup?”
“Last wife, second-to-the-last kid. I have a younger brother.”
“You’re almost the baby,” she said. She glanced over my shoulder. “Your coffee’s getting cold. Hand me your cup and I’ll freshen it for you.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “I’m sorry, I’ve kept you late enough.”
She pulled a strand of hair back from her face. Her eyes looked tired but were still soft and kind. For a moment I just stared at her. “That’s okay,” she said. “I still need to record the receipts. Get your coffee.”
I retrieved my cup. She dumped out the remaining coffee and filled it again, topping it off with milk. “There you are. And no hurry, I’ve still got at least twenty minutes of things to do to close up.”
“Thank you. I promise I won’t bother you again.”