He had first begun driving through a licensed fleet three years earlier, after a run of executive meetings in which every conversation sounded like a transaction disguised as friendship. He was properly insured, held the necessary driving credentials, and took fares in the ordinary way, though his accountant considered the project ridiculous. The work was sometimes difficult, occasionally dull, and reliably humbling. People argued with him about directions, told him stories they would never tell a banker, and occasionally handed him damp bills while apologizing for the condition of their shoes.
But there was a difference between being anonymous and being honest, a difference Noah had not yet allowed himself to examine. He had told Emma nothing technically false about the taxi, and yet he knew she had formed an understanding of him that was incomplete in ways that mattered. As he drove toward Manhattan, he rehearsed explanations he did not owe a stranger and wondered why the prospect of explaining himself to one tired young woman felt more frightening than a boardroom full of angry directors. The question stayed with him long after the rain stopped.
Lorraine Carter did not ask about the interview until she had set a mug of tea in front of her daughter. She knew Emma's face well enough to understand the answer before she opened her mouth, and she also knew that being asked to explain a disappointment too soon could make it feel larger. The restaurant was quiet except for the refrigerator's low vibration and a radio in the kitchen carrying a baseball game neither woman was following. Rain tapped the windows above the empty booths where customers had once waited for tables on weekend mornings.
"They hired someone else," Emma said at last. Lorraine pushed the sugar bowl a little closer. "Did they say why?" Emma looked at the hands she had been holding tightly around her tea. "More experience. They interviewed me three times, gave me work to do for free, then told me not to call again."
Lorraine's expression hardened, though she kept her voice gentle. "Then they didn't deserve three months of your life." Emma shook her head. "I needed that salary, Mom. I told you I'd help with the back rent, and I meant it." Lorraine came around the counter and laid one hand on her daughter's shoulder, the way she had since Emma was small enough to fit under her arm.
"You helped me before anyone asked you to," Lorraine replied. "You keep the books, you close the kitchen, and you've been keeping this place alive while trying to make a life of your own. Don't turn another company's decision into proof that you failed us." Emma wanted to accept the words, but the stack of envelopes beside the register looked like a second, less forgiving opinion. The electric company had agreed to another payment extension, and the produce distributor had stopped accepting checks after the last one arrived late.
Lorraine noticed Emma looking at the envelopes and turned them face down. "Eat your pie before you start arguing with paper," she said. Emma took a small bite, tasted cinnamon and the butter her mother still insisted on using even when it cost more, and found that she was crying. Lorraine did not comment on the tears; she simply pulled up a stool and sat beside her until they passed.