Those Who Favor Fire by Lauren Wolk (easy readers .TXT) 📕

a spatula dripping in her hand, a look of uncertainty on her face, made the perfect audience: she watched, listened, did not interfere, posed no threat.) Christopher Barrows would never have been sorry, never have said so.

But Christopher Barrows would never have come to Belle Haven in the first place, much less to Angela’s Kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” said Joe. “Truly.” With what was becoming habitual surprise, he felt a keen shard of admiration for this waitress. He had not met her like before or, if he had, had not recognized the breed.

“Much better,” she said, and gave him his eggs.

Just then, a boy of about ten and a woman past sixty came down the stairs at the back of the pantry and tied themselves up in clean aprons. They said their good mornings to the cook and the waitress, smiled at Joe, and set to work. As if on cue, several farmers came into the shop to have breakfast, bringing with them the faint smell of Clorox, mud, gasoline, and sweat. Those who chose counter stools said good morning to the women, the boy, and nodded to Joe. For the first time since arriving in Belle Haven, he began to feel less the alien, a bit more the neighbor. He watched the waitress take a cantaloupe out of the cook’s hands and slice it gracefully into perfect wedges before wiping her hands, removing her apron, and hanging it from a peg. She turned to the cook. “How much do I owe you?”

“For what? You made my breakfast, remember?”

“For the cinnamon rolls.”

“Bah.” The cook waved her hand impatiently. “Don’t be silly, Rachel.”

“Come over for brownies, then, and we’ll be even,” said the girl named Rachel.

The cook said, “It’s a deal.” And then, as if reminded that Joe had done nothing to earn his breakfast, she fished a pad out of her apron pocket, tore off a check, and tucked it under his coffee cup, face down. “Come again,” she said, and turned back to her griddle.

Baffled by their conversation, Joe watched Rachel slip a flat wallet from the back pocket of her jeans and remove a twenty-dollar bill. She crumpled it in her fist and cautiously jammed it into a gleaming bucket that sat next to the coffeemaker. It made a crunching noise, like someone walking on gravel. When she caught him watching her, she slowly lifted one eyebrow, removed her hand from the bucket, and turned to the older woman who had come in with the boy to help and was now filling small silos with sugar.

“Rusty and I are going to the movies tonight,” she said. “Want to come along?”

“Do we get popcorn?”

“Goes without saying.”

“Count me in. Be nice to give Angela an evening to herself.”

“Hang on a minute,” the cook said, gently flipping an egg. “I don’t want an evening to myself. It’s Thursday, Rachel.”

“Good grief,” Rachel said, smacking her forehead. “So it is. I’ll meet you back here when I drop off Dolly and Rusty after the movie.”

“Fair enough,” said Angela, the cook. “See you then.”

“And I’ll pick you two up at seven sharp,” Rachel said, waving at Dolly, the silo-filler, and Rusty, the counter boy. “See ya later.”

As Rachel walked out of the shop, Joe wolfed down the last of his breakfast, scrambled off his stool, still chewing, wrenched his wallet out of his pocket, and thrust a ten at the boy. Then he quickly pocketed the change and rushed out after her, leaving neither thanks nor tip behind.

Chapter 11

        Out on the sidewalk, Joe looked up and down the street, as excited as he’d been as a boy spotting his first doe. He finally saw her, a block away. Hurrying to catch up, he noticed that she was standing absolutely still and staring across the broad street into a small parking lot tucked between a hardware store and Paula’s Beauty Salon.

A man and a woman said something to her as they walked by, looked back at her as they continued on, but she seemed not to notice them. She was still standing there, her arms hanging loosely at her sides, when he slowed, wondering what to say. Finally, he called her name. It felt like a song on his tongue. “Rachel?”

She didn’t answer but, after a moment, turned her head to look at him. What he saw on her face, the anger there, stopped him in his tracks.

“Did you want something?” she asked him, distracted and impatient.

He thought she might still be angry with him. He wondered if he ought to say no and go on his way. But he didn’t want to do that, and he rarely did things that he didn’t want to do. Instead, he said, “I’m sorry about that stunt I pulled back there.”

For a moment she looked confused. Then, “You already said you were sorry.”

“Well, I was hoping you’d maybe have lunch with me or something. Give me a chance to atone.”

She turned again to look across the street. “We’ll see,” she said.

“Or if you’re not busy right now I could buy you a cup of coffee.”

“I’ve already had too much.” Still without looking at him, she said, “You’re a reporter, aren’t you?” It had the sound of an accusation.

“Why would you think that?”

“They do stories about the fire sometimes.” Now she turned back toward him and put her hands on her hips. “Most of them have lousy manners.”

Joe, too, put his hands on his hips. They looked like kids at recess, squaring off. “Well, I’m not a reporter.” The men at the gas station and, later, Ian had not seemed reluctant to talk about the fire out under the fields, but perhaps this girl Rachel was a more suspicious sort.

“You really want to do penance?” she asked, turning away from him once again, still absorbed with something else, something that had nothing to do with him, he now realized. He waited. After a bit she said, “Come on, then,” and stepped off the curb.

With Joe following, Rachel walked quickly across