I had four days left in Saltmere when the restaurant held its last dinner service before the grant decision.
Diane invited me to come. She said there was no expectation, no story attached, and I could say no without hurting her feelings. I appreciated the care in the invitation. I still almost refused.
The restaurant sat on the water, low and weathered, with a sign that read MERCER'S WHARF in blue paint. I'd been coming there since I was a child. The room held the smell of hot butter, fried potatoes, and sea air, with old photographs lining the walls.
Diane seated me near the front. Eli was busy at the counter, speaking with a supplier. He glanced over when I came in and gave me a small wave. I waved back.
The evening went well enough. I talked to Diane's neighbor about her new dog and
