"Not in this rain, sir," Marcus answered. "She has asked for a room. We should check her in, or at least give her a safe place to wait while we sort it out."
"Take off those gloves. You're finished at the Wexley."
Marcus glanced down at the gloves resting in his palm. He remembered Ruth folding her work uniform every night when he was a child, even after an employer had treated her badly, because she believed the work itself had done nothing to deserve disrespect. He set the gloves carefully on the reception counter. For a long moment he looked at the place where he had stood through eight winters, eight Christmas seasons, and hundreds of arrivals, then turned to Odessa.
"Come on, ma'am," he said. "There's a diner across the street. At least we can get you something warm."
Whitley gave a sharp laugh. "You just lost your job for an old stranger?"
Marcus held Odessa's bag as she drew her coat around herself. "My grandmother didn't raise me to leave a lady in the rain."
Odessa looked up at him. "Then she raised you well, son."
The outer doors opened, admitting a sheet of cold wet air. Marcus held an umbrella above Odessa's head as they stepped into the storm together, while inside the Wexley the chandelier still shone, the pianist still played, and Grant Whitley congratulated himself on having restored order to his lobby.
The diner across from the Wexley was called Bellamy's, though its sign had lost two letters years earlier and most regulars simply called it the Bell. It occupied the ground floor of a narrow brick building, with a row of red stools against the counter and booths whose vinyl seats had been repaired in different shades over time. The place smelled of fresh coffee, grilled onions, and the lemon cleaner the evening waitress used on every table. Marcus had eaten there so often after late shifts that he no longer looked at the menu, and the owner sometimes left an extra biscuit on his plate when he seemed unusually tired.
Odessa followed him inside, grateful for heat that came without qualification. The waitress, a woman named Alma who wore reading glasses on a chain, brought a towel without asking and directed them to the booth furthest from the drafty door. Marcus hung Odessa's coat on the hook beside the table, spread the towel over the chair, and pulled the seat out for her before taking the opposite bench. He did these things without ceremony, as if the gesture of making someone comfortable was its own sufficient reason.
"Tea," he told Alma. Then he looked toward Odessa. "No sugar?"
She smiled for the first time since leaving the hotel. "Seventy-four years, and nobody ever guessed that right."
"My nana liked tea that way," Marcus said. "Said sugar made people forget whether the tea was any good."
Alma looked at him more closely. "You're not in uniform anymore."
"Long evening," Marcus replied.