A/N: I do not own Glee nor its characters.
She fell in love with the diner the minute she saw it. It sat on the corner of a poorly-lit street, a few blocks away from her dorm. Oddly, none of the kids Rachel Berry knew at NYADA ever mentioned it, probably because it wasn't fashionable enough: just a counter with stools, no booths, and big silver coffee urns along the back. But it was perfect for her needs.
Two in the morning, and Rachel couldn't sleep: her need to always be ahead of her assignments and Finn's ghost had conspired to give her recurring insomnia, something she had never suffered from, at least on a regular basis, in high school. There was an espresso maker in her room, but it was noisy and would disturb Bianca, her roommate. So she hit the street, looking for a place with caffeine where she could study. Might as well put the sleeplessness to use. Besides, it was Friday morning and her two classes that day were both in the afternoon; she could try and sleep later.
The Starbucks was crowded with noisy students, none of whom Rachel particularly liked, so she passed it by. Soon she was walking down a side street, and saw The Arabica. It had large glass windows, and its friendly, bright lights flooded the corner. Inside, the only visible person was a tall, lanky waitress of indeterminate age, with a mass of reddish, curly hair and a once-pretty face with impossibly red lipstick. Her nameplate said "Marge". Rachel bet she called everybody 'hun'.
"Need a menu, hun?" It was a surprisingly low, expressive voice. Rachel set her bag down and took off her coat.
"Just some black coffee, please, "she ordered, watching Marge draw from the huge silver urn behind her into a chipped beige mug. She sipped, and raised her eyebrows. It was excellent, with a bright, complex flavor. It smelled wonderfully rich.
"This is delicious," Rachel said. Marge smiled.
"Thanks. I'll tell the owner. He has family in the coffee business in Kenya, and gets East African coffee ridiculously cheap. That's Kenya AA you're drinking."
"Do you sell the beans?" Rachel asked hopefully. Even Bianca would like this.
"Sure. I'll get you a pound when you're ready to leave. I take it you're here to study?" Marge looked interested.
"Yes. I'm at NYADA, and I have to read this play for next week". Marge picked up the book, The Collected Plays of Harold Pinter.
"Which one?" Marge glanced through the book.
"The Homecoming." Have you read it?" Maybe Marge could give her some pointers!
"No," Marge said, putting down the book, "But I did see the film he did the screenplay for, the one with Dirk Bogarde, The Servant, and the one with Peter Finch and Anne Bancroft , The Pumpkin Eater. Both films are amazing."
Rachel scribbled the names down. Seeing them might help her understand the play. She smiled at Marge.
"Thank you so much! Were you a student at NYADA?"
Marge laughed. "No, I was at Tisch. I even married an NYU professor." She filled Rachel's cup. "NYADA kids don't come here. It's not trendy enough. We get some NYU rats, though."
Rachel looked at her own engagement ring, and looked at Marge's empty left hand. "What happened?" she asked gently, "With the professor, if you don't mind my asking?"
Marge's eyes glistened over. "He died," she said simply, adjusting her apron. "He was a lovely Englishman, from Devon. We were going to retire to a farm he owned there. He called me the next Tallulah Bankhead." And then she laughed, easily. Rachel smiled. "Do you have somebody?" Marge asked, noticing her ring.
"I thought I did, "she replied sadly, and ended up telling her story as Marge listened. Telling it physically hurt.
"You haven't communicated with him since you left?" Marge looked thoughtful. Rachel shook her head.
"Then he must really love you."
Rachel just looked at her. "What?"
Marge stopped polishing the cutlery.
"Listen, hun. You're at NYADA, with one of the most cutthroat student bodies in the country. Over at Tisch we used to make jokes about you guys selling each other's organs to the Mob to get ahead." Rachel giggled ; it wasn't far from the truth.
"Your Finn knows he would be nothing but a distraction at a time when you least needed it. Can you imagine getting to know a new husband in the middle of all you have to do now?"
Rachel remembered that first silly fight on Valentine's Day. Marge had a point.
"Hun, he gave up being your husband to ensure you reached your dream, the dream you had long before meeting him. And he's probably out there wondering how he can live without you-it must have cut him to the quick to give you up- but I bet he never regretted making that decision. And I bet he will come back to claim you when you accomplish what he set you free to achieve. But you guys need to communicate somehow. Just let each other know you're okay."
"I just wonder if I can wait," Rachel said, crying. "I don't know if I'm that strong."
Marge scoffed. "You had the strength to leave him for New York. You have the strength to wait for him, believe me." Then she leaned over the counter, and took Rachel's hands in hers. "If you find yourself faltering, you know where I am, hun. I'll talk you down with the best coffee in the city. Now get to reading that play, and bounce stuff off me while I get ready for the breakfast shift change. We have two and a half good hours."
Rachel brushed back a tear of gratitude. Marge just might be the first real friend she had made here. But she had to know something.
"Marge? Are you going to be able to retire to the farm? And why are you here? "
"I sold the farm, Rachel," she said. "It wouldn't have been the same without my Nigel. He was a sweet, gentle Englishman who loved Devon- almost as much as he loved me." She managed a sad, but still saucy grin. "As for here, I really don't have to work. But I've had bad insomnia for years, since Nigel died." She paused for a moment. "We were connected, you know? Ever since he first saw me on stage at that crummy little theatre. We always knew when the other was sad, for instance. He used to call it the silver cord. But now, I don't know. He's been gone ten years, and the cord is still there. At night it chafes my heart and I can't sleep. The owner of this diner is a friend of mine, and he offered the graveyard shift to me. I get to keep my mind off of Nigel, and meet interesting people. Like you."
Rachel felt her heart clench in her chest. "Finn and I have a connection," she whispered, "We called it the tether. I think it's why I can't sleep, too."
"Well then," said Marge, "That makes us a couple of nighthawks with something in common."
Rachel laughed.
"Are you on stage anymore?"
Marge shook her head. "Not since I lost him. He was my muse, I guess. And he came to every performance of mine he could. I can't imagine doing Ibsen again without him. "
"I'd come to see you." Rachel threw her a meaningful glance as she sipped her coffee. "Nigel would be there, too, I know it."
Marge gave her a long look. She suddenly wiped her hands on her apron. "I'll think about it." Seeing Rachel's expression, she laughed. "Something tells me you're gonna nag me if I don't go back."
"Finn could tell you tales about me that would curl your hair," Rachel said with a grin, and suddenly realized she was able to talk about him easily again without it hurting so bad she couldn't breathe. "Maybe the cord won't chafe as much if you go back to the stage."
"Let's get some studying done, young lady," Marge was gruff now, but had a lightness to her overall demeanor that warmed Rachel's heart. Maybe she could get through this after all.
But first things first: she pulled out her phone, and sent a text:
*I love you, you big lug.*
It would probably be some time before he would be able to respond, if he did respond at all. That was okay with her, now. At least he would know she was fine. And suddenly she had a craving.
"Could I get some banana bread with this, please, Marge?"
She started reading. Banana bread never tasted as good.