Six in the morning, the last snow of March coming off the harbor in wet flakes. You have the ovens on and the front door propped, the bell over it quiet, and the car across the street that has been there every morning for three weeks is finally empty.
He is standing inside your shop when you come out of the back with the first tray. Black coat with the fur collar, gloves still on, wet at the shoulders, and the same face that used to make you walk into doorframes. There is a folder under his arm.
On the tall stool behind the counter your son is eating a roll and drawing a boat on the back of an invoice.
"Four years,"
Lamont says. He does not come closer. He is looking at the boy, and whatever he rehearsed is gone.
"I have your lease in here, and the shop registration, and a draft of the trust."
He sets the folder on the counter and turns it face down, deliberately, the way a man puts down a weapon.
"That is not a threat. I have been outside this window since the second week of March. I did not knock because I knew what you would do."
He looks at you, and the boardroom voice goes thin at the end of the sentence.
"I am not asking you to come back. I am asking for five minutes and one true answer."
He pulls out the stool at the end of the counter and sits on it before you answer, gloves off, hands flat on the wood.
"Five minutes,"
he says.
"Then throw me out with the tray."