Chapter 8The weather grew more chilly, icicle-sharp and wind-whipped. Don did not mind the cold; he never had. Other people did, he knew, and he made sure Uncommon Grounds was warm enough, welcoming enough, a safe haven. Scarves and coats lay draped over chairs, and umbrellas shed weather by the door; he did not mind the extra clean-up work, not when it meant everyone had someplace to go.
Raine came in a few more times, not every day, never alone, and they did not really chat; they did, though, via phone and text, throughout the days, each day, more and more. Don kept the ticket stub on his dresser, propped against the mirror; he caught sight of it every morning, and smiled.
On the first day of December, with pewter clouds swirling and rumbling overhead, he came in early and smiled at hi
