FORTUNATELY FOR MY soul, Davenport is not at The Perfect Cup when I walk down there about fifteen minutes after hanging up with Helen.
But as I approach, my eye is drawn to a small blue-haired figure in a wheelchair, staring at her cup of coffee.
When I get there, I order my coffee and doughnut and take them outside to the patio, where Gladys sits alone, looking as bereft as Nate did a few hours ago.
“Hi, Gladys,” I say quietly.
“Hi,” she answers, not looking up from her empty cup.
“May I join you?”
She nods, so I sit down. I lean forward, resting my chin on my hand. “So how are you doing, sweetie?”
Gladys looks up at me, a spark of defiance in her eyes amidst the sadness. “Are you asking me as my priest or as my surrogate father?”
This catches me off guard. I pause for a minute be
