At first glance, the Softshoe Diner lived down to Fielding’s expectations. It leaned into the whole diner thing, with a long Formica bar and a series of actual stools down the opposite wall from the entrance, with booths and tables making up the rest of the space. But the longer Fielding looked, the more he had to grudgingly admit it wasn’t as bad as he expected. The chrome and deep blue colour scheme avoided being over-the-top the way a traditional bubblegum pink or cherry red would have and the artwork on the walls seemed to be a mix of abstracts, carved pieces, and other paintings, rather than the expected kitsch. In fact, the whole place avoided being hopelessly dated and came in somewhere closer to retro-cool.
Score one for Hopewell.
It wasn’t packed, but neither was it empty. Most of the people looked like the drivers he’d seen at the downed tree, frankly: jeans, jackets, and work boots. Fielding aimed himself at an empty booth at one end, one hundred percent sure he was standing out in his bright red hoodie.
He put the book down on the table, went to slide into the seat, and came face-to-face with a smiling boy drinking a milkshake from a large glass.
Fielding managed not to yelp. Barely.
The echo of the boy was there and gone before Fielding could even really get a good look, but that didn’t stop his heart from jackhammering around inside his ribcage.
“For fuck’s sake, what is wrong with this town?” Fielding said, taking a few seconds to breathe. Three times in the same day? Crying girls, hot guys, smiling boys—all he needed was some creepy dude in a mirror’s reflection and today could give him the heart attack it seemed determined to deliver.
“Not up to your standards?”
“Jesus!” Fielding jumped again and turned. Behind him, a tall white guy about his age had approached without him noticing, which wasn’t surprising. The guy wore a T-shirt with the Softshoe Diner logo across his chest, jeans, and a little apron-pocket thing around his waist. Also? He was cute. Like, really cute. Broad shoulders, arms clearly capable of lifting heavy things, and wavy dark hair.
“Sorry,” Cute Diner Boy said, without a trace of apology in his voice at all.
“Warn a guy,” Fielding said, sitting down. Cute Diner Boy smiled, revealing he also had nice teeth. Either the guy had won the tooth lottery, or he’d successfully completed braces. Oh, and he had a name tag. Cute Diner Boy’s name was Joshua.
Joshua’s smile was twitching a bit, like he was holding off on laughing.
“You snuck up on me on purpose,” Fielding said.
“Guilty,” Joshua said. “But you hate my town, so it’s only fair.”
“I hate your…” Fielding didn’t follow. “What?”
“So you don’t hate my town? Because you were pretty clear just now.”
“Oh! Oh, no. Your town is fine. Really.” It just seems to be full of insistent history and jump scares. Fielding bit his lip. “I didn’t expect to be here, is all.”
“Unexpected?” Joshua leaned against the bench on the other side of Fielding’s booth, in a move both casual and cool. “Now, that sounds like a story.”
Fielding shrugged. “A tree fell on Highway 11.”
“Okay, so a short story, then. I heard about that. Can I get you some coffee?” Joshua handed him the menu. A single laminated page, one side was completely devoted to breakfast, which it declared was available all day. As were the grilled cheese sandwiches, which took up a whole quarter of the page and came with two complimentary choices from six “secret recipe” condiments.
Unreal.
“I’d love some coffee,” Fielding said. Something moved out of the corner of his eye, and he flinched. Oh good. The boy and his milkshake were back.
“Everything okay?” Joshua said.
“Is it all right if I move to that booth?” Fielding pointed.
“Knock yourself out.” Joshua did a little flourish with one hand, pushing off from where he leaned. “I’ll bring your coffee over. Take your time with the menu. From what I’m told, the Hydro folks are coming from Abitibi, so…” He raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah, that’s what the cop told me,” Fielding said, resolutely ignoring the movement beside him. Whoever that kid was, he freaking loved his milkshakes. Fielding slid out of the booth and moved, putting his back to the memory of milkshake kid. He—it—could do whatever the hell it wanted. Fielding didn’t have to watch.
“Be right back.”
Joshua the Cute Diner Boy also had a nice butt.
Fielding glanced down, catching himself. Open ogling was likely not a good idea. He pulled out his phone and refreshed the Twitter page. The same tweet as before was the most recent from the Hopewell account. Downed tree. Pylon. Wait for updates.
Great.
All things considered, he’d rather be stacking cans of cat food, and if that didn’t sum up the day, nothing could.
God, he hoped the coffee was good.
* * *
One cup of admittedly decent coffee in hand, which Joshua the Cute Diner Boy had dropped off with another one of those nice-teeth smiles, Fielding had ordered the grilled cheese—how could he not?—and settled in to wait. Out of the wind, he unzipped his hoodie.
He picked up the book again and flipped open the front cover. The writing on the inside of the dust jacket made it clear Sense and Sensibility was a classic, which was not a plus, then declared it also a romance, which was. But Fielding only got a few paragraphs in before he decided his first instinct had been right. He wasn’t going to read this book. Who had time for books about straight people?
Flipping to the middle of the book, he checked the envelope. The name, Elinor L. Kelly, in impossibly perfect penmanship meant nothing to him, but the memory of the girl’s tears imbued it with something far too familiar.
Heartbreak, maybe. But definitely loneliness.
He blew out a breath and gave the envelope a good long stare, but nothing happened. Annoyed with himself, he flipped it over.
The flap came open. Fielding pressed it with one finger to see if it would reseal itself.
It came open again.
“At this point, it would be shirking my duty not to read you,” Fielding said.
It didn’t reply.
Despite his completely founded and objectively reasonable responsibility to read what was inside, Fielding couldn’t help himself from checking the diner to make sure no one was looking at him, not that he was doing anything wrong, then he undid the flap all the way and pulled out the paper.
It was one piece, folded into thirds, with no writing on the outside.
He unfolded it and stared.
16-3-13, 16-4-35, 16-4-67… Most of the page was full, but it was all the same: a series of handwritten numbers.
“What the hell?”
He smoothed out the page and scanned up and down the lines of numbers, but nothing changed. It was a piece of paper covered in numbers grouped in sets of three.
Why would this make the girl cry?
“Math homework?”
Fielding jumped again, trying not to glare at Joshua the Cute Diner Boy. “Oh my God, please stop doing that.”
“You’re too easy,” Joshua said. The guy had zero guilt on display. It should be annoying, but it wasn’t, which in itself was annoying. He held up the plated grilled cheese and smiled. “Here you go.”
Fielding moved the book and letter. The numbers caught his eye again. “It’s not math homework,” he said. He was sure of that. For one thing, it didn’t make sense as math homework. Sixteen minus three minus thirteen? No one needed that much practice at subtraction.
“What is it, then?” Joshua leaned over Fielding a bit to see the letter, and Fielding tried not to react to how close the guy was. Who knew the smell of coffee and toast could be attractive?
“I actually don’t know,” Fielding said. Then he remembered the envelope. “Hey, have you ever heard of an Elinor Kelly?”
Joshua shook his head. “No. Sorry.”
Fielding exhaled. “That’s okay.”
“Well, enjoy. You said I should pick your condiments, and they are both our own special recipes. I recommend dipping into the sweet and spicy ketchup between bites. The dill mustard mayo is also a popular choice, but less of a town favourite.” Joshua took a step back. “I’m going to walk away now. I’ll try and stomp my feet and whistle when I come back.”
“Oh, you’re funny.”
“That’s what my boyfriend tells me,” Joshua said. “Enjoy decoding your whatever-that-is.” A moment later, he was gone.
Fielding sat there, napkin in hand, processing for a second. Did he just…? Boyfriend. Huh. Conflicting feelings battled briefly in Fielding’s stomach. Joshua the Cute Diner Boy was gay or bi, or pan! Hurray! And also had a boyfriend. Boo. Why had he mentioned it to Fielding? Fielding had crappy gaydar, but he also didn’t think he projected gay boy out into the world. Nerd, yes. Gay boy, no. How had Joshua known he could mention his boyfriend to him?
Or did he do that with everyone?
Fielding tried to imagine that being the case. Places like Hopewell? Not likely. Heck, even when places like this were actively trying to be decent, Fielding couldn’t imagine it. Never mind decent, it’d have to be amazing. But outing yourself to random strangers? He tried to imagine doing that back home at the pet store. There was that guy who worked at the Second Cup. Would Fielding ever casually drop a hint to him while he was getting his coffee?
Probably not.
No. Joshua the Cute Diner Boy must have great gaydar. It probably came as a package deal with nice smiles and dented chins or something.
Still, it was nice to be included, even in such a small way. He hadn’t felt included in much of anything this year.
He picked up the first triangle of grilled cheese, which honestly smelled pretty good. It was crispy and gooey all at the same time. He took a bite, then had to stop because holy flying crap, the sandwich was amazing. He chewed and swallowed while his eyebrows rose to the stratosphere, and couldn’t help but shake his head. Grilled cheese. Who knew? He looked down at his plate and eyed the two little silver cups, then gave in and dipped the sandwich into the whatever-it-was ketchup.
The second bite was even better.
By the time he’d finished the first triangle, Fielding agreed with Joshua’s take. The mayo was also tasty, but the whatever it was in the ketchup was the best thing that ever happened to a tomato. He took a second to wipe his hands. He hadn’t been particularly hungry when he sat down, but he was totally going to destroy the other half.
Fielding noticed the letter again, off to the side where he’d left it.
Good luck decoding your whatever-that-is.
Decoding.
He pulled out his phone. The Hopewell social media was still telling him to wait for updates, but he closed it and opened a search window.
He typed in “three number codes” and then picked up the other half of his grilled cheese while the results loaded.
* * *
At first, it looked pretty hopeless. Three-number codes were plentiful, but none of the ones that showed up on the first few pages of his search seemed to be the key to the letter. He tried a few different combinations and earned a few more failures, but when he remembered the way the crying girl had tucked the envelope into the book with such purpose, Fielding tried a search for “three number code” and “novel.” With that, he hit the jackpot.
Book ciphers.
Two similar book-related methods of encryption, book ciphers and book codes, have been used often in history and continue to be of considerable strength as a method of encrypted communication. Both require both the sender and the receiver to have copies of not only the same book, but the same printed edition, and both use numbers to point the reader to specific words (book ciphers) or letters (book codes).
The simpler version, the book cipher, involves locating a particular word one at a time in the text, and is therefore limited to the vocabulary included in the original book itself. A starting position can be encoded in a number of ways, or the book can be used as a whole. In the latter case, this often means the use of three numbers: a page, a line (or alternatively, a paragraph or sentence), and then a particular word. In this case, 3-3-9 would be the third page, third paragraph, and ninth word.
Fielding turned to the letter and eyed the numbers. The first number of the various sets of three tended to go up and up, though not always, and started at sixteen. Could the girl have tucked the letter in the book it was coded with? He picked up the book, eyed the first trio of numbers, and turned to page sixteen.
16-3-13 was “I.”
16-4-35 was “do.”
16-4-67 was “not.”
17-7-4 was “wish.”
16-2-14 was “to.”
17-2-5 was “be.”
17-3-29 was “parted.”
Fielding stopped, staring at the letter, then eyeing what he’d tapped out on his phone as he went. He wished he’d brought his sketchbook inside with him. Counting out sixty-seven words was tedious, and the screen kept going dark in between words.
I do not wish to be parted.
Tell me about it, book girl.
“You doing okay?”
Fielding turned to see Joshua there, holding up the glass jug of coffee and offering the same bright smile. At least this time he hadn’t scared the crap out of him.
“I am,” Fielding said, though he had to clear his throat. What were the damn chances? He looked down at the letter, which still had quite a bit more to go, and then his phone, which had gone dark again. He should have brought his sketchbook. “Hey, could I maybe borrow a pen and a piece of paper?”
“Sure,” Joshua said. “More coffee?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Good book?” Joshua asked as he poured.
“Not really my thing.” Fielding closed it to show him the cover.
“Sense and Sensibility isn’t your thing? But it’s a classic,” Joshua said.
Fielding stared at him.
“Okay, fine.” Joshua laughed. “I’ve never read it. But I’ve seen the movies.”
“Would you believe it’s not a book at all, but a key?”
“Sorry?”
“You were right,” Fielding tapped the letter. “It’s a code.”
“Huh.” Joshua tilted his head. “Check me out. I’m a genius. Your plate is bare, so I’m assuming the grilled cheese was okay?”
“Life-changing.”
“See? I don’t lead you astray. I’ll be right back with the pen and paper.”
Fielding watched him go—not openly ogling, what with Joshua having a boyfriend, but a glance was still nice—and caught another glimpse of the milkshake kid. He watched the boy laugh silently, nod in agreement to someone who hadn’t been there in years, most likely, and then take another long pull on his straw. The kid looked happy. It was a strong echo, and kept repeating.
I do not wish to be parted.
Such a formal turn of phrase, but like the website said, you had to use the words in whatever book you had. He wondered why the person the girl was writing to had to go or if it was the girl herself who was leaving. But for some reason it wouldn’t take his therapist long to point out, he was sure the crying girl was being left behind.
Joshua returned with the pen and a kids’ paper place mat. A cartoon grilled cheese triangle needed help getting through a maze. Fielding blinked at it until Joshua turned it over to the blank side.
“When you’re done, I can bring you crayons so you can colour.”
“Thanks,” Fielding said, voice heavy with sarcasm.
Joshua laughed as he left, but Fielding turned his attention back to the letter and got to work.