Chương 18: Tables under the Awning

The preserved monster-boar shoulder would last forty-three days. Possibly fifty if the storage room remained cool, dry, and undisturbed. It would last thirty-two if I opened the wrapping regularly to examine it. Uncle Darin had underlined that part. Nessa had added another line beneath it. He means you. I sat behind the service counter with the butcher's prices spread before me. Salted shoulder. Smoked belly. Rendered fat. Dried sausage. Whole joint bones.

The list contained everything I had requested, along with dates, weights, storage conditions, and several comments written with increasing impatience. The prices were reasonable. The total was not. Purchasing enough preserved meat, grain, oil, beans, roots, and other supplies for sixty days would consume most of the restaurant's operating reserve. Thirty days would consume less, though still enough to make a broken cold cabinet or poor month uncomfortable. The food would also occupy the pantry.

Some of it would remain there long enough to become a problem I had purchased in advance. Nessa stood at the counter, counting the morning payment box.

"You have been looking at that list for eleven minutes."

"I am calculating."

"You calculated yesterday."

"I am checking the calculation."

"Did the prices improve overnight?"

"No."

"Then the answer is probably the same." I looked toward the pantry. The chalk marks I had drawn for additional shelves still covered one wall. The highest line reached above my head. A shelf there would require a ladder. Nessa had objected to the ladder. Her objection had contained several useful points and one unnecessary description of me falling into the flour.

"We should keep the information," I said.

"Yes."

"We should also purchase a small quantity of the older smoked shoulder."

"For the restaurant?"

"For testing."

"How much?"

"One piece."

"That sounds almost reasonable."

"It is reasonable."

"That is why I said almost." I folded the butcher's list and placed it in the lower drawer beneath the delivery records. The drawer already contained future projects. A larger drink station. Improved pantry seals. A third cupboard conductor. Ale, crossed out twice. A permanent restaurant expansion did not appear anywhere on the list. The building had been profitable for three months. That was enough time to learn that customers liked the food. It was not enough time to remove walls.

I took a cloth and erased the highest pantry line. Then the second. The lowest remained. One additional shelf would be useful even without a reserve. Nessa watched from the counter.

"Progress," she said.

"I am still installing one."

"I know."

"That means I have not abandoned the plan."

"I did not ask you to abandon it."

"You objected to the ladder."

"I objected to climbing over sacks during lunch because you built a second floor inside the pantry."

"That was not the design."

"It was becoming the design." The sunrise bell had passed, and breakfast service was nearly finished. Tomas sat at table four with two wall guards. All three had ordered fried rice despite the breakfast menu offering eggs, potatoes, toast, and porridge. The guards claimed fried rice prepared them for the morning shift. Tomas had worked the night shift. He claimed it prepared him for sleep. At the window table, Lysa read from a schoolbook while Perry arranged pieces of toast into the shape of a tower.

The flower seller occupied the smallest table near the entrance. A courier sat beside her with one boot resting on a travel bag. Sixteen of the eighteen chairs were occupied. That was busy for breakfast. It was manageable. The front door opened. Four guild workers entered together. They stopped just inside. The first looked around the room. The second counted the empty chairs. The third looked toward the service counter.

"Four?" Nessa asked.

"Yes."

"We have two seats together. Two more will open shortly." The first guild worker looked at his companions. They carried travel packs and wore dust along the bottoms of their coats. They had probably entered through the western gate shortly after sunrise.

"We'll find somewhere else," he said.

"The food can be packed," Nessa offered.

"We've been eating on the road for three days." He looked toward Tomas's table. Tomas continued eating. Two of his companions had already finished. Neither appeared willing to move. The guild workers thanked Nessa and left. The door closed behind them. I watched through the front window as they continued east.

"They might return for lunch," I said.

"They wanted breakfast."

"We could have moved two chairs."

"Where?" I examined the dining room. The center walkway remained clear. The table beside the service counter had room along one edge, though placing chairs there would narrow the route to the kitchen.

"We could move table six closer to the wall."

"We moved it away from the wall because customers kept striking their elbows."

"That occurred twice."

"It occurred during the same dinner."

"The second customer had seen the first."

"That did not protect his elbow." Tomas lifted his empty bowl.

"More rice?"

"Breakfast portions are limited," I said.

"You lost four customers. There should be extra."

"That is not how portions work."

"It could be." Nessa collected the two empty plates from his table.

"Your companions have finished." Tomas looked at them. They looked toward the door.

"We were waiting for him," one said.

"You could wait outside," Nessa replied. Tomas stared at her. She stared back. A minute later, all three guards were standing beneath the awning. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work! Tomas still held his tea. The four guild workers had already disappeared around the corner. Nessa returned to the counter.

"That solved the seating problem too late," I said.

"Yes." I looked through the window. The bench beneath the awning held Tomas and one of the guards. The third stood beside them. Perry had named it the waiting bench after my father installed it. It had become part of the street. People sat there while cupboard orders warmed. Couriers rested travel bags against its legs. Children climbed onto it despite being told not to stand on the seat. During dry evenings, customers occasionally carried drinks outside. No one had carried a full meal yet.

"Two tables would fit beneath the awning," I said. Nessa followed my gaze.

"One table."

"Two narrow tables."

"People need to reach the cupboards."

"The cupboards are on the other side of the entrance."

"They still need to pass the tables."

"There is enough room."

"You have not measured."

"I know the width of the frontage."

"From memory?"

"Yes."

"That does not make me feel better." I retrieved the measuring cord. Nessa closed the payment box. Breakfast service ended shortly afterward. Tomas returned his cup and complained that the bench was harder than the dining chairs.

"It is a bench," I said.

"That does not explain why it is uncomfortable."

"It was built from wood."

"So were the chairs."

"My father made the bench." Tomas considered that.

"It is a very sturdy bench." He left for home. I stepped outside. The morning had warmed. Sunlight reached the upper windows across the street while the western wall kept part of the road in shade. The air smelled of bread from Mara's ovens, hot metal from the nearby workshop, and the sharp herbs hanging outside the apothecary. The Second Spark's awning extended six feet from the front wall. The hungry cupboards occupied the left side of the entrance. The bench rested to the right.

Between the bench and the corner of the building lay enough open frontage for one table. Possibly two. I measured. Nessa stood in the doorway.

"Well?"

"One table comfortably." She smiled.

"Two if the second is placed past the awning."

"Then it would be in the rain."

"Only when raining."

"We would bring it inside."

"Where?" I looked through the doorway at the full dining room.

"That requires further consideration."

"One table," Nessa repeated.

"The bench can serve as seating for another."

"For drinks."

"And food."

"People need somewhere to place the bowls."

"A narrow ledge could attach to the wall." She looked toward the side of the building. I followed her gaze. The wall had sufficient space. A hinged ledge could fold flat when unused. It would require two support brackets, weather sealing, and—"No," Nessa said.

"I have not proposed anything."

"You stopped looking at the ground."

"That does not establish intent."

"You looked at the wall."

"It is part of the property."

"We are buying a table."

"A folding ledge would cost less."

"A table can be moved."

"The ledge would fold."

"A table will not require you to carve into the building after midnight."

"That is not relevant."

"It is the most relevant part." I measured the open space again. One narrow table. Four chairs if people sat closely. Three comfortably. The bench could seat two more. Five outdoor customers during busy service would have prevented at least part of the morning loss.

"We need a table," I said. Nessa nodded.

"And six chairs."

"Four."

"The bench requires no chairs."

"Then why six?"

"Two could replace the weakest chairs inside." She looked into the dining room. Chair seven leaned slightly. It remained safe. Probably.

"Six," she agreed. My father's workshop stood beyond the eastern market. I went after lunch. The afternoon interval gave me enough time if I walked quickly, purchased the furniture without unnecessary delay, arranged transport, and returned before evening preparation. That plan failed when I reached the market. There were too many tables. A secondhand dealer had arranged them in rows beneath a patchwork canopy. Round tables. Square tables. Tall tables designed for people who apparently disliked sitting.

Small tables with thin legs. Heavy tables requiring four people and an apology to the floor. My father stood beside a scarred oak table, examining one corner.

"You sent for me," he said.

"I asked whether you knew anyone selling used furniture."

"You sent Amon to ask."

"He was already walking toward the market."

"Amon said it was urgent."

"I said before evening service."

"That is urgent to Amon." Father pressed one thumb against the table's joint. The leg moved.

"This one is poor."

"I had already determined that."

"You were looking at the price."

"The price is good."

"The table is not."

"The top is sound."

"The leg will fail."

"I can reinforce it."

"You would still own a poor table with one strong leg." I moved to the next. It was narrow, long enough for four people, and built from dark wood softened by years of use. Faint rings marked the surface where cups had once rested. One side carried a shallow burn. The joints held. Father tested each leg.

"Boardinghouse table," he said.

"How do you know?"

"Too narrow for a family kitchen. Too plain for a dining hall. Strong enough for lodgers." The dealer looked up from his stool.

"Came from the Willow House."

"That closed last winter," Father said. The dealer nodded.

"Owner moved north."

"Before or after the road trouble?"

"Before. Went to live with her daughter." Father examined the underside.

"No rot."

"I said it was good," the dealer replied.

"You said the other one was good."

"It was good for firewood." We bought the narrow table. The six chairs took longer. Father rejected four. I rejected two. The dealer rejected my first offer. We eventually purchased six mismatched chairs, all structurally sound. None looked as though they belonged together. That suited The Second Spark. A delivery cart would not arrive until the next morning. Father tied the table across his handcart instead.

"You do not need to bring it today," I said.

"You need it before evening service."

"That was Amon's wording."

"You did not correct him."

"I did not know he would find you."

"He always finds me." We carried the chairs in pairs, hanging them from the sides of the cart. By the time we reached the western district, one wheel had begun squeaking. Father stopped twice to inspect it. The table arrived before it failed. Nessa stood outside with both hands on her hips.

"You walked to the eastern market."

"Yes."

"You said you were going to look at furniture."

"I found furniture."

"You also brought Neil."

"He was at the market." Father looked at her.

"He sent Amon." Nessa nodded as though that explained everything. Mara came from the bakery while we unloaded the chairs. She wiped flour from her hands onto her apron and circled the table.

"It has a burn."

"It is shallow," I said.

"It gives it character."

"It gives it a damaged surface."

"Same thing, depending on the price."

"The price was acceptable." Father set the final chair beside the wall. Mara ran her hand across its back.

"None of these match."

"The inside chairs do not match."

"They match in spirit."

"That does not mean anything."

"It means Laura's curtains have been doing a great deal of work." My mother arrived before I could respond. She carried folded cloth beneath one arm. I looked at Father.

"You told her."

"I left a note." Mother placed the bundle on the bench.

"Amon came by the house."

"That is becoming a problem."

"He said you bought an outdoor dining room."

"I bought one table."

"He was disappointed too." She unfolded two tablecloths. The first was brown with narrow gold stitching near the edge. It matched the curtains inside. The second was made from heavier green cloth.

"You already had these?" I asked.

"I had the fabric."

"You sewed them this afternoon?"

"They are rectangles, Joe."

"The edges are finished."

"Rectangles can have finished edges." Mara held the green cloth over the new table. It settled across the scarred surface and hid most of the burn.

"Now it belongs here," she said. The statement was imprecise. It was also correct. Father reinforced the weakest chair while I cleaned the table and sealed the feet against damp stone. Nessa established outdoor service before anyone sat down.

"The table opens during lunch and dinner when the weather is dry," she said.

"Breakfast can also be busy," I replied.

"The morning stones stay cold."

"The customers wear coats."

"They will carry the cold inside every time they ask for more tea."

"That happens already."

"Lunch and dinner." I looked toward the table. The afternoon sun had reached it.

"Breakfast when warm." Nessa considered that.

"Breakfast when I decide it is warm."

"That is subjective."

"Yes." She continued.

"No moving indoor chairs outside. No carrying the table into the street. No blocking the cupboards. Outdoor orders go on the same slips as indoor orders."

"That was already the plan."

"No one orders from the kitchen window."

"I would not allow that."

"Tomas will attempt it." That was likely. Mara returned to her bakery and came back with two small clay pots. Mint grew in one. The other held a low flowering herb with pale yellow blossoms.

"They can stay on the table," she said.

"Customers require space for plates."

"They are small."

"They occupy measurable area." She placed them near the wall. The table still held four place settings. I left them. The first outdoor customers arrived before the evening bell. Lysa and Perry claimed the bench. A pair of wall workers took the table and asked whether sitting outside changed the price.

"It does not," Nessa said.

"What if it rains?"

"You become wet for free." They accepted those terms. The evening remained clear. Lanterns came on along the western road. Their warm light caught the rims of bowls and the edges of cups. The restaurant's music reached through the open windows, softened by cart wheels and conversation. The table filled twice during dinner. A courier ate porridge while watching the last wagons enter through the western gate. Three guards shared fried rice and argued about whose shift had repaired the most damaged section of wall.

A woman from the laundry brought her daughter and sat on the bench while the girl counted the sparks painted on the hungry cupboards. No one blocked the entrance. No bowl fell. One customer complained that the stew cooled faster outside. That was true. I adjusted the serving bowls for the next order. Nessa noticed.

"You are not enchanting the outdoor table."

"I was considering heated plates."

"No."

"The wind removes heat."

"People know wind is cold."

"The food should remain at the intended temperature."

"The food remained hot long enough to eat."

"Not at the edges."

"Joe." I stopped looking at the table.

"For now," I said.

"Forever would also be acceptable." The late bell approached. Outdoor customers left first as the evening cooled. Nessa wiped the table and brought the herb pots inside. We carried the chairs beneath the awning and secured them with a chain through the lower braces. The table remained against the wall. Its green cloth went inside. Without the cloth, the burn showed again. That was acceptable. The front door opened while Nessa counted the final dinner payments. Tovan entered carrying his notebook.

He paused when he saw the new table outside. His gaze moved over the chairs, the bench, and the cleared path to the cupboards. Then he came inside.

"Outdoor seating," he said.

"During busy hours," I replied.

"Did it work?"

"Yes." Nessa looked up from the payment box.

"One table worked." Tovan glanced between us.

"I was not aware there was disagreement."

"There is not," I said.

"There were nearly two tables," Nessa replied. Tovan looked back through the window.

"One is better there." Nessa smiled. I took the kettle from the warming mark.

"Bitterleaf?"

"Please." He chose the same rear table as the night before. Nessa allowed the water to settle before pouring. Mint softened the edge. Tovan paid two kamera and opened his notebook. The restaurant quieted around him. Outside, the new table waited beneath the awning. Its wood carried old cup rings, a shallow burn, and fresh sealant around the feet. The building had gained no walls. We had not borrowed money, opened the operating reserve, or filled the pantry with sixty days of meat. Five more people had eaten dinner.

That was enough growth for one day.