The Gilly Salt Sisters by Tiffany Baker

with an abashed look.
    “Five coffees, please,” Claire said, not bothering to look Dee in the eye. “And I take mine with extra cream.” Her voice was deeper than Dee expected, almost chocolate in its smoothness. It wasn’t exactly an order Dee needed to write down, but she did anyway, out of nerves. Face-to-face like this, Claire made her feel like a puppy—all paws and fuzz. Her heart froze as Claire suddenly scowled.
    “What’s this?” The women around the table froze as well, their lipstick smiles stuck halfway between grimaces and grins. Dee looked down to the dish of salt that Claire was pointing at, full to the brim, the gray grains clumped together in irregular clusters. It didn’t look that appetizing, Dee had to admit.
    Claire reached one of her thin arms across the table. The inside of her wrist was paper white and flecked with delicate blue veins. Dee had never seen anyone with hands that white. They reminded her of a Victorian lady’s. She stared, fascinated, as Claire plucked the bowl up with her spindly fingers and transferred it to the tray in Dee’s hand.
    “Take this away,” she said, jutting out her sharp chin. “You know, this stuff is absolute poison. And bring us something sweet. I think the ladies would enjoy a little bite after all.” Gratitude lit up the faces of the women around the table, and the plumpest one of them licked her lips, smearing her raspberry lipstick. Claire raised an eyebrow and Dee recognized it as a signal to hustle. At the counter, however, she lingered, observing the table.
    “What are you doing?” her father said from the kitchen, putting his hands on his hips. “You should be serving, not slacking.” Dee slid the plates he gave her onto her tray and lifted it up onto her shoulder. He was right. Hard work was its own balm. It erased everything else.
    When she returned to Claire’s booth, balancing five mugs andsome plates of coffee cake, she found that the women had spread clipboards and folders out all over the table, so there was nowhere to put the food. She hovered awkwardly, not sure of the best way to interrupt.
    “Do you think the first week of August or the second?” the plump woman was asking, knotting up her forehead like she was doing some kind of advanced science, but no one said anything. Claire had her chin cupped in her hands and was gazing out the window, and when she finally answered, it seemed to Dee that she was so bored she could barely think straight.
    “The first,” she said, but then changed her mind right away. “No, wait. The second.” And all the ladies had to erase what they’d just started penciling into their calendars. By the time they were done, there were little pink eraser shavings littering the table and floor. Only Claire hadn’t made any notes. She didn’t have a single sheet of paper in front of her. She looked up and finally decided to acknowledge Dee’s presence.
    “Oh,” she said. “You’re back.” She waved the flag of her hand. “Just put it anywhere, really.” And Dee knew without a doubt that Claire wasn’t even going to taste the cake her father had risen at dawn to bake. She’d ordered it as a test, to watch what the other ladies would do, to see who would be so weak as to eat a morsel of it and who would close her lips to temptation. Looking around the table, Dee thought she could predict who would pass the trial and who would miserably fail, and she was right. The plump lady sighed and immediately reached for a piece. Claire’s eyes narrowed. “Agnes. My goodness. At least take a fork.”
    The woman turned as pink as her lipstick. She folded her hands in her lap and hung her head. “Oh, I’m not so hungry after all,” she said. “Someone else can have my slice.” Naturally, there weren’t any takers—not after that little display—and so when the ladies got up in unison and left forty minutes later, letting Claire march them out the door in her scarlet coat like she was heading a