Between These Walls by John Herrick Page B

jobs were for friends and family members. As visitors passed along referrals, however, her customer base expanded.
    “Have you opened your office suite at the pinnacle of downtown Cleveland yet?” Hunter quipped.
    “Don’t I wish,” Ellen replied. “I’ve got a long way to go before I can rent my own office space. But I’ll get there one day. Slowly but surely.”
    “You seem to have a steady job flow. You must be earning a decent living from it.”
    “It’s enough to pay my half of the rent.” Ellen paused, then added, “My roommate isn’t thrilled when she discovers food and baking dishes spread all over the kitchen counter and dining room table every week, then opens the refrigerator door to find it packed with groceries we don’t get to eat. But at this point, it’s only a short-term situation for her.”
    “That’s right, less than a year away! A perfect June wedding for a delicate princess.” Hunter shot her a wink.
    “The stuff dreams are made of.”
    Hunter sipped his coffee, which went down smooth. Liquid velvet, as he described it.
    As Ellen talked further about her roommate and an argument she’d had with the landlord, Hunter got distracted by a sudden brush against his shoulder as two individuals made their way in opposite directions beside his booth. Hunter looked up.
    “Sorry about that,” said a guy around Hunter’s age as he steadied a tray in his hands. Dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved polo shirt, he looked like the type of person who would wear short sleeves in the middle of winter. Judging from the jeans, Hunter guessed the guy had taken a vacation day.
    “Oh, you’re fine,” Hunter said, waving it off with his hand.
    As the guy walked past, Hunter noticed the flex of his biceps as he carried the tray topped with a sandwich and a heavy bowl of soup. The guy had added a dab of gel to his hair. His dark hair and deep skin tone suggested Mediterranean genes. Italian, probably.
    Hunter returned his attention to Ellen and tried to focus on her face. Yet, at frequent intervals, Hunter flicked his eyes to the guy who had brushed his shoulder, who had settled into the booth behind Ellen, facing Hunter and in his direct line of vision. Unaware of Hunter’s glances, the young guy started his lunch and paid Hunter no further attention.
    “Anyway,” Ellen continued, “when Brendan and I build our new home, I’ll have plenty of room to cook.”
    “Wouldn’t it be easier to buy an existing home?”
    “Are you kidding? This new home is Brendan’s dream. After all these years he’s spent working for the construction company, managing projects and walking people through the options for their homes, he gets to build one for himself.”
    Another quick glance toward the guy in the next booth, then back to Ellen.
    “In that case, it sounds ready-made for him,” Hunter said. “Brendan probably has all the research and connections in place.”
    “Connections, skills, plus we get to buy all the materials at cost, which is a huge savings,” Ellen said. “And since we’re designing the house ourselves, we can plan the kitchen with my business in mind. I’d love to have a nice, big kitchen to work in. It’s every professional cook’s dream.”
    “A new home for a new marriage.”
    Ellen ran her fingernail along the edge of the table, peered at a distant point past Hunter’s shoulder. “Everything changes from there, doesn’t it ...”
    To Hunter, Ellen appeared absentminded. Perhaps she thought she recognized another customer standing in line. He tried to decipher what had captured her attention, but he wound up short and figured he had read too much into it. While Ellen tended not to hide her opinions, Hunter could tell she stifled her share of personal thoughts.
    “How long before you build?” he asked. “Do you have an area picked out?”
    “Oh, I didn’t tell you! Over the weekend, we checked out a plot of land we love! I’ll show it to you some time. If Brendan can