I poured the cheap filter coffee into two thick ceramic mugs, the steam rising in the quiet morning air of the kitchen. The smell of the dark, bitter roast always filled the room on autumn mornings, a small comfort against the chill that crept through the wooden window frames. Adele sat at the wooden table, her pencil hovering over the invoice from the Oakwood Inn. The yellowed paper duplicate showed a total of four hundred and twelve dollars for the reception hall rental.
“The linen fee is separate,” Adele said.
