Blue Foam Lemon Milk

I found my brother's signature on the sale offer while I was counting forks. The offer sat beneath the register at the diner, folded in half and weighted with a sugar jar. I'd been searching for a receipt from the previous night, because our accountant wanted proof that the new freezer had been paid for. Instead, I found a letter from Calder Development with a price that made my stomach tighten and a signature that looked exactly like my brother's. The front door banged open. "Don't sign anything," I called, before I even looked up. Evan came in carrying two coffees and a cardboard bakery box. His hair was wet from the rain, his jacket zipped to the throat. He had the same habit he'd had as a teenager of arriving as if the day had been waiting for him. "I wasn't planning to," he said. I slid the letter across the counter. "You already did." His eyes went to the page. Then to me. He set the coffees down carefully. "It's an offer to negotiate," he said. "Not a sale." "You signed an exclusivity agreement." "It's a standard term." "It says we can't approach another buyer for sixty days." "We're not approaching another buyer." "That's not the point." I had been prepared for a discussion about the freezer receipt. I hadn't prepared for this. My mind began building a list anyway: call the attorney, check the estate paperwork, get a copy of the property deed, confirm whether my half of the business gave me any say over the building. Then a second list began beneath the first: what if the developer had already spoken to the landlord, what if the landlord had already agreed, what if Evan had signed for both of us? I pressed my thumb into the edge of the paper. "You promised we'd keep the diner open through the harbor festival," I said. "You said we'd decide together after the festival." "We will." "Then why did you sign this?" "Because they're making an offer." "An offer we can't show anyone else for two months." "I'm trying to keep our options open." I almost laughed. "You're keeping one option open. Theirs." Evan looked past me at the row of stools, the scuffed floor, the glass case where we kept the lemon pies. Our mother had run the Gull's Rest for thirty years, first with a husband who left and then with two kids who grew up learning to stack plates and keep quiet when the coffee urn was empty. The signature page had our mother's name typed in the seller line. She'd been dead for four months. "They want the property," Evan said. "Not the diner." "The building is the diner." "The equipment can be sold. We can sell the recipes." "You can't sell a recipe like you're selling a used grill." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Mara, this place is bleeding money." "Because we're still waiting on the harbor grant." "We've been waiting for months." "The review is next week." "And if we don't get it?" I reached for the offer again, but my fingers had gone cold. "Then we make another plan." "You always have another plan." "That's better than having no plan." "Not always." His voice was quiet enough that I had to look at him. I saw the rain on his shoulders and the familiar fatigue around his mouth. I also saw the red mark on his thumb from the pen he'd used to sign away sixty days of our choices. I folded the offer in half. "We're supposed to meet at the school," I said. His eyes flicked to mine. "Today?" "The community center is using the old school for the festival kickoff. We have to check the kitchen and sign the permit. We said ten." "I know." "You'll be there?" He didn't answer quickly enough. "I'll be there," he said. I checked the clock. 8:17. The kickoff meeting was at ten. I already had the bus schedule in my phone, the diner's delivery window on a sticky note, and a text drafted to our lawyer. I'd prepared backup plans for each one before breakfast. Still, when Evan picked up one of the coffees and walked toward the kitchen, I watched him go. I'd been watching him leave rooms since I was eight years old.