Daniel looked at her.
Then he looked at the sign.
Above my head. On the porch wall. In Harold’s wood-burned letters.
He read it.
I watched him read it.
I watched his lips move.
Just like when he was six.
Ev-er-y house needs a porch for the sec-ond cup.
His face changed.
“Dad’s sign,” he whispered.
“Your father’s sign,” I said. “It hung on our porch on Linden Street for thirty-seven years. You read it every Saturday from the time you were six until you were eighteen.”
I looked at him.
“Then it sat on a metal shelf in your garage for eighteen months,” I said. “Between the Christmas decorations and the bottled water. And you never once noticed it was there.”
Daniel didn’t say anything.
“Second Cup Holdings,” I said. “You’ve seen that name a thousand times, Daniel. You just never paid attention.”
Renee walked up the front walk.
