Well, it wasn’t exactly fabulous, just a little diner off Highway 180 on the way back to town, but they were open, and the food was good — although I wasn’t quite ready to admit that their omelettes might be just as good as Aunt Rachel’s — and nobody seemed to give a damn what I looked like. The waitress gave Connor a hearty hello and took our orders promptly, and returned even more quickly with some much-needed coffee.
I waited until she was gone, then asked quietly, “Does she know?”
He seemed to guess right away what I was really asking. “No. This place isn’t a Wilcox hangout. My friend Darren brought a group of us here once when we were going out to do some cross-country skiing, and I’ve been coming back ever since. Sometimes it’s nice to be in a place where no one knows much about yo
