Chapter One.
The building sat on a corner most people ignored. Too small, they said. Bad spot. Nothing ever lasted there. The rent was cheap enough that Constance didn’t ask questions, just signed the lease and brought in a folding table and a used fridge she’d purchased at a dinged and dented store.
She registered the business as a nonprofit food bank, stocked with whatever the bigger stores couldn’t sell but wouldn’t throw away.
Three years ago she would have never thought this was what she’d be doing. Wouldn’t have even considered coming back to Texas. But three years ago she hadn’t thought when her husband of thirty-four years left for work, she’d be a widow within the hour.
After a year, the casseroles stopped coming.
Friends moved on. The city kept moving whether she was ready or not.
Even her job left her wanting more, something more meaningful.
Being an attorney with a large firm that handled nonprofits mainly to help hide big corporate money she was sick of watching the rich get richer and the poor staying hungry.
She’d walked into her boss’s office, handed him her letter of resignation, shook his hand, packed her desk, and left without looking back.
Constance had laughed when the realtor called her four days after listing her house saying she got a full cash offer.
A full cash offer. She called the realtor immediately and asked for a ninety-day closing.
She needed time to sell, pack, and donate everything in the five thousand square foot mansion that she and her husband lived in.
God, how she had hated that house the entire time they lived there. Not all of it she told herself but most of it. Peter had said “we’ll fill it with kids and then grandkids.”
Sadly, that had never happened. He was always traveling with work, and she was always busy at work. They kept saying next year until all the years were gone and all they had was an empty house that echoed from loneliness.
As much as she disliked the house, she made it home and admired how much her husband had loved the place. So, here she was, sitting in a metal folding chair with her long legs stretched out in front of her wondering if she was doing enough for the community.
Everything had been going great—well good.
She did the leg work, she set up relationships with both local grocery stores and big box stores in the next city an hour away.
Talked to farmers at the local farmers market and had donations of produce that was about to go bad.
She used it for bagged meals where people could grab and go.
Then she did what southerners do—she went to the churches, met with the ministers, pastors, deacons, and priests .
She explained what her non-profit was about.
Word got around and people started stopping by only getting what they needed.
Those that needed a meal got one. No forms, no questions, just pick up a bag and go.
But fewer people had shown up lately. She didn’t need to guess why.
Word had gotten around she was having trouble with some local thugs, and it was only getting worse.
Week by week, they were coming around more often, trying to force her to pay them.
And the cops? She knew better than to bring them into the equation.
If she’d known about gangs running protection schemes in the area, she would have found a different way to help the community.
She let out a sharp, tired sigh. Standing, she folded the chair and loaded it onto the cart with the others.
It was ridiculous. She was scared to be in the building after dark.
Constance was sure if she was on the Main Street she wouldn’t have this issue. But she was on the back street which was good for the people. Bad for her.
Grabbing her messenger bag, she slung the strap over her shoulder. Keys in hand, she headed for the door and froze for a heartbeat at the familiar sound of the cat calls and whistles.
She locked up and quickly rushed to her car, sliding into the driver’s seat.
Fingers tight on the key, she turned it in the ignition.
The 1970 Pontiac GTO Judge growled to life, its engine echoing off the brick facades of the buildings.
She shoved it into gear and shifted through the streets, weaving through side streets heading for the main road through town.
Her car made her too easy to spot, too flashy for a small town. The pearl-over-silver finish practically shouted in the night. Maybe she should have gone with something basic, like blue.
She’d have to park it for a while and go back to the granny wagon, as her friends called her minivan. Just until her unwanted attention givers moved on.
She’d blend in, keep a low profile. But she doubted they’d leave her alone, bullies never gave up until the smaller person put them in their place.
Maybe it was time she did exactly that. There was a time she didn’t back down, not from cops, addicts, and men who thought fear would work.
But now the gangs were bolder, rougher, and the cops dirtier.
Yet, backing down, stepping aside, and all-around running didn’t set well with her. It was times like this she thought about what her husband would’ve told her. Peter would’ve told her to stop being a weeny. Well, he’d have said pussy, but she didn’t like that word.
Turning back onto the main road that ran through Broken Bow, Constance glanced at some of the businesses. A few she hoped to visit soon. Like The Dirty Laundry clothing boutique and Southern Sweets bakery.
She’d been living there for the past year, since coming back to her roots. When she met Peter while in college, she’d left everything behind for him. Once he passed away, nothing felt the same, nothing felt like hers or even things she was interested in.
She often sat on the front porch of the house she rented and wondered if it was true that women lost their identities when they got married. Constance thought yes, it was true. She liked everything Peter did, from movies and music to his favorite food.
The sad truth was, she hated classic rock, Mexican food, and war films. She was learning who she was again, like she loved country music, romantic comedies, and pizza with a side of ice cream.
Although loving pizza and ice cream had forced her to join a gym after gaining ten pounds.
She chose to keep the weight just to turn it into toned muscle.
Once in her driveway Constance gathered her things then got out of the car. Today had been another disappointing day. “Maybe tomorrow will be better.”
By the time she reached her front door, the day felt heavy in her bones.
The porch light hummed softly overhead as she fumbled for her keys, shoulders tight from her thoughts on the drive.
Her breath fogged slightly in the quiet evening air.
The lock gave with a familiar click, and Constance pushed inside, letting the door shut behind her with a muted thud.
The house was dim and still, carrying the faint, comforting scent of home.
She crossed straight to the kitchen, moving on muscle memory alone.
Her keys hit the island first with a sharp clatter, followed by her purse, which she dropped without care.
She shrugged out of her jacket last, letting it slide from her arms and landed on a stool in a loose heap.
For a moment she just stood there, before kicking off her shoes.
One shoe thudded against the wall while the other skidded across the floor, forgotten like yesterday’s news as she padded fully into the kitchen.
The refrigerator door opened with a soft push of cold air. She stared inside longer than necessary, not sure what she was looking for. Reaching in she grabbed her comfort food. Taking the pizza box over to the counter she pulled slices out and placed them on a tray.
Sliding it into the air fryer, she punched in the time, the quiet beep echoing in the quiet room. Before it could even start to hum, Constance was already turning away.
Across the house, she stripped out of her work clothes piece by piece, letting them fall where they may, and slipped into something soft and worn—comfy enough to feel like a promise that the day was finally over.
Constance drifted back to the kitchen as the air fryer chimed, the sound grabbing her attention long enough for her to keep her moving. Grabbing a plate from the rack she opened the air fryer; the pizza was hot when she pulled it out. Cheese bubbling with crispy edges, just how she liked it.
From the fridge she snagged a canned soda and hip bumped the door closed.
Tucking the roll of paper towels under her arm she carried the plate in one hand, drink in the other as she headed over to the living room and sank down onto the sofa.
Setting the plate down next to her she pulled back the tab on the can popping it open with a sharp hiss then took a sip.
Tucking her legs beneath her Constance picked up the remote and hit the power button. The TV flickered to life; a movie she’d seen a dozen times filled the room with familiar noise. Picking up a slice of pizza she snuggled into the cushions enjoying her leftovers.
She’d barely finished the pizza when the first yawn hit her. Tipping her head back she closed her eyes letting the glow of the screen and the murmur of the movie wash away the rest of her stress.