Free At the Corner of King Street by Mary Ellen Taylor

salvaged items, including a white stove that dated back to the nineteen forties, a large farmhouse sink that predated World War I, and a white block refrigerator with a long silver handle that dated to the fifties. The countertops were butcher block, rescued from an old restaurant, and the kitchen table was built out of salvaged planking from a Fairfax County barn.
    The room should have looked like an outdated hodgepodge of stuff, but Grace wove it all together in an oddly pleasing sort of way.The retro decorating magazines would have loved it. During my short tenure here at the warehouse, I wanted to reach out to several publications that catered to designers. She thought it was a great idea, but nothing ever came of it.
    The evening summer light, still bright and warm, streaked in through the small window above the sink that overlooked Union Street. The light illuminated the silver in her hair. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
    The coffeemaker looked like a prototype of the first automatic coffee makers.
    She dumped grounds into a white filter and settled it in the machine. “Zeb bought me a fancy coffeemaker as a thank-you for watching Eric from time to time. But I’ve never seen the point of using those little cups. Seems a waste.” As the machine gurgled, she leaned against the counter, folding her arms. “Eric’s a bright, happy child and he loves exploring the warehouse.”
    â€œIt’s a great place for a little boy. I loved it here as a kid.”
    Grace looked at me, her gaze searching and a bit lost, before she turned toward the counter where a plump cherry pie cooled. She reached for a knife and two plates and dished up two slices.
    I remembered begging Grace and Mom to let me stay beyond the summer and go to school in Alexandria. Both women refused, and I was whisked away from the orderly chaos of the warehouse to the hardcore chaos of living with Mom again. Grace understood the depth of Mom’s illness, but couldn’t deal with it. I once thought I was different than Grace, more dedicated to family, but time proved otherwise.
    The coffeemaker gurgled. I rose and got cream from the fridge. Grace set the pie and the coffee on the table and lowered slowly into the seat across from me. For a few minutes we both ate and drank, savoring the bitter and the sweet. We both knew there was amountain to climb and neither of us wanted to start the conversation. So we kept eating.
    â€œPie’s good,” I said.
    â€œCame from the Union Street Bakery. Daisy’s doing a good job with the place.”
    The bakery was located a block south, around the corner on Union Street, in the heart of Old Town Alexandria. I remembered the McCrae sisters and the Union Street Bakery. Daisy and I went head to head over a book. Each of us grabbed one end and yanked. The book ripped in half. “When I left, she was working in Washington, D.C. Some kind of rising star in finance.”
    â€œLost her job. Moved back home.”
    I stabbed a juicy cherry with my fork. “That couldn’t have been fun.”
    â€œShe’s made the best of it. She got married and produced a baby.”
    â€œThat, I cannot picture.”
    â€œShe drools over the kid.”
    That jostled a laugh. “What about Rachel? Pregnant and married as I remember.”
    â€œHer husband died, so she and her twin girls live on the second floor of the bakery.”
    â€œDamn.” I didn’t have a lock on trouble. “And Margaret?”
    â€œBack in town. Drifts from job to job. Helped me a few times last year.”
    â€œAt least some things don’t change.” I couldn’t picture Daisy pushing a stroller with a fresh baked pie in hand. “Daisy wearing a white apron and slinging crust? I’ve lived to see it all.”
    â€œShe does real well. Life’s softened her a little. She came by an hour ago with the pie. I told her about Janet and the baby.”
    I cringed a