4. CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FOUR
FREYA
I’m a little sore at work the next day, but it’s a Monday and we’re slow, so I spend most of my time on something easy—cutting dough and freezing it. Most days, I’m at the café alone. Today, though, Tracy texted me she’s coming in to do some paperwork. She’s had some problems after hip surgery, so I’ve been running the business for the last few years, other than the financial side of things.
A few customers come and go, the usual for an early weekday morning. Around noon, the door pushes open, and Slate walks through, taking off his hat. He’s dusty, like he was out working.
“Hey, Mom. Can I get a coffee?” he says, leaning on the counter. He’s got a dirty line across his forehead where his hat sat.
“Hot?”
“Yeah, black,” he says, grabbing a napkin and dragging it over his face. “Thanks.”
I fill a paper cup and pop the lid on, sliding it over. “You want anything to eat?”
He glances over the pastry cases. “Yeah, if you’ve got any leftovers.”
“Oh, Tracy doesn’t care what you take,” I say, taking a slice of apple-nut cake out and handing it to him. No plate—he’ll eat it in two bites. “What were you out doing today?”
He inhales the cake, chewing and swallowing with difficulty. “Cash and I went down to the Knifley auction, bought a head of shorthorn. We’ve got them going up to Sovereign Mountain this afternoon.”
I nod, leaning on the counter. “I’ll leave you a plate in the microwave.”
“Thanks, but I should be able to make it to dinner,” he says, giving me a soft look. It’s wild how much he’s turning out to be just a slightly more angular version of his father.
“I saw you talking to your dad outside last night,” I say casually, folding a tea towel to give myself something to do with my hands. I turn my back, putting it up on the shelf, and face him. “What were you two talking about?”
He fits his hat on his head. “Nothing.”
I sigh. “Alright, I get it. Just don’t always take your dad’s advice when it comes to women.”
He works his jaw, like he’s thinking. “Why? You two seem pretty happy.”
“You know he stalked me, right?”
Slate’s brows shoot up.
“I mean, it worked out. And I would have gone with him anyway,” I say, backtracking and waving a hand. “But still, he orchestrated our meeting and maybe did a little bit of kidnapping. I will say...that wasn’t without cause.”
“What the fuck?”
“Honey, watch your language.”
“Dad said you guys met in a bar,” he says.
I can’t help but laugh. “Oh, is that what he’s been telling you boys? He probably thinks I don’t want you to know, but…please, it’s your dad.”
He nods, eyes round. “Yeah, that’s true.”
“Also, when have you ever seen me go to a bar?”
He stares, chewing at something. He’d better not have slipped some tobacco in there while my back was turned. An occasional cigarette is one thing, but I can’t handle chew. “Huh, well, I always thought you had a one-night stand or something. I know you weren’t married when you had me.”
Telling my son his father knocked me up on purpose, without my explicit permission, is a step over my line. I just shake my head.
“Nope. He just won me over with his craziness,” I say. “But don’t do what he did. You be nice to any girls you go out with. And wear a condom.”
“Jesus, Mom. I’m getting out of here,” he says, grabbing his coffee. “You need a ride home tonight?”
I have my own truck now, but I don’t take it out much. Deacon taught me how to drive after Slate was born, just so I had the freedom, but turns out, I didn’t like it much, so I rarely drive myself. Deacon drops me off most mornings. If he’s busy, Slate will pop by and pick me up on his way back from Sovereign Mountain or South Platte.
“I thought you were out with the head of shorthorn?”
“I can be back in time if you need a ride.”
“Yeah, that’d be nice,” I say.
“Sounds good,” he says, pulling open the door, coffee in hand. “See you later.”
I smile as I watch him cross the street. My heart is warm, full of pride. I’d be lying if I said raising four boys didn’t intimidate me. After all, I spent my life prior to Deacon being terrorized by men. But slowly, with Deacon’s help, I’ve come to believe that, with care, I can raise good people.
I do worry. But I also trust Deacon, and I trust myself.
It’s around four, right as I’m closing up for the night, when Tracy appears. She’s fully gray now, but she’s still got those signature leopard print glasses balanced on her nose. I hold the door for her as she trundles through with a bag of groceries and a yellow envelope tucked under her arm.
“Good day or bad day?” she says, setting the plastic bag on the counter.
“Good day,” I say, locking the door and flipping the sign. “Slow, but we still turned a profit.”
She nods, starting to take out butter and flour and stack it. “Listen, I’ve got a city hall meeting tomorrow I can’t get out of. God, if I could get back all the time I’ve spent in meetings, I could live twice. Anyway, can you come in for a few hours in the afternoon?”
Mentally, I check my calendar. “I think so,” I say.
She nods, holding out the yellow envelope. “Oh, and this is for you.”
I take it, opening the top. She heads into the back room, humming as she turns on her computer. Frowning, I slide the papers inside onto the counter. There’s a lot of print on the page, but up top runs an obvious line of black ink. It’s a deed for a building downtown.
“Tracy? What do you want me to do with this paperwork?” I call.
She puts her head out. “I want you to keep it.”
“For what?”
“Jesus, honey, it’s the deed for the café,” she says, disappearing again. “It’s yours now. We just have to go down to city hall and get everything set up. I’ll have my lawyer give Jay Reed a call.”
Shock runs like electricity through my entire body. I think I say something, but I can’t hear myself. Tracy and I have worked closely together on this business for years, but she never once said anything about wanting me to take it over. Honestly, the thought never crossed my mind that I, Freya Hatfield, who came from nothing, would ever get to be a business owner.
It’s one of those moments where the world goes a little bit still and I see everything in perspective.
All the fears I had that seemed so big are resolved.
“Tracy,” I call.
There’s a short silence. Then, she appears with her purse over her shoulder again, her brows raised. There’s a bittersweet lump in my throat. I hold out the paper, unable to speak for a second. Then, I sniff, trying to pretend my lashes aren’t wet.
“What does this mean?” I ask.
Her face softens, reminding me of the day she hired me on. I was nothing but a scared girl, desperate for a place to go that wasn’t my abusive home. Now I know she saw that, and she gave me a safe haven out of more than just the need for hired help.
“I don’t want to hear any nonsense about you not wanting this old place,” Tracy says, her voice gentle. She pushes her leopard glasses up the bridge of her nose. Maybe her eyes glitter. It’s hard to tell. “You love the café, and I’m stretched pretty thin these days.”
I’m silent, the paper still in my hand.
“Go home and talk to Deacon about it,” she says. “But don’t go telling me no.”
My hand comes back, pressing the paper to my chest. “What does this mean for you?”
She considers the question, head tilted. “I think it means I get to rest. I’ve been working nonstop for years. It’s time.”
My smile is shaky. “You’ve been talking about slowing down for as long as I’ve known you. I just…never thought you’d actually do it.”
“I wasn’t ready then.” She tucks a bit of hair behind her ear. “I am now.”
I open my mouth to reply, but she wraps me up in a hug. We stand there for a second, both trying not to cry. It’s clear this is the end of something important and the beginning of something new. When she lets me go, she sniffs briskly and bustles to the door.
“You talk about it with Deacon, think it over,” she says.
Before I can reply, she’s out the door and disappearing down the street. Tracy isn’t usually like this, so I know this means a lot to her. She has probably been thinking about this decision for weeks, maybe years. It is just like her to spring it on me though. She never holds back when she makes up her mind about something. A little bit of that trait rubbed off on me, and thank goodness, because I needed some assertiveness way back when.
Sober, my head heavy with thoughts of the last seventeen years, I lock up the shop. It’s dusky but not dark. The sun hangs over the mountains behind Knifely. The air is pleasantly warm. The faint scent of coffee wafts across the street. There’s a food truck a few blocks down, and I can smell churros.
My stomach rumbles. It’s so strange to me how far I’ve come. I stood on these streets years ago, and I had nothing—no money, not even a reliable way to get home. Now, my son is on his way to pick me up. I have money in my pocket, and I’m going to buy a sugar donut and sit on a bench to watch the sun go down, just because I can.
My heart is light, despite the bomb Tracy just dropped on me. I talk to the man who rolls my donut in wax paper about the weather. He makes a joke, I laugh. He asks if I want the last of the coffee for the day, on the house. Of course I do. I drop a tip in the jar and cross the street to sink down on the bench.
I’m so happy, it almost breaks my heart sometimes. There are no words for it, even now. Golden light cuts through the store fronts. I sink my teeth into sugar and cinnamon and take a sip. I love the combination of the sweetness, wrapped up in the bitterness of the coffee.
One of the café’s regulars walks by on the other side of the street. He waves, I wave back.
This is peace.
The sky is a slightly deeper blue when Slate pulls up. I brush off my hands and put the paper and cup into the trash. Then, I climb up into the passenger side of his truck and settle down.
“Thanks for picking me up, honey,” I say.
He nods, backing out onto the street. I glance over, my heart about to burst with pride. We get on the road, heading towards the highway to take us home. There’s a long silence, and then he glances at me.
“Hey, are you okay?” he asks.
I sniff, wiping my eyes. “Yeah, I’m perfect.”
His brow furrows. “Somebody mean to you at work?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m just proud of you. You’ll get it when you’re older and you have kids.”
He shrugs, shaking his head. “Alright, it’s just one of those things. How was work?”
My mind filters through everything that happened since I saw him just hours ago. Over it all hovers the realization that my life might just change. Taking on the café would mean I’d be at work a lot more often. It would mean my boys would have to learn to make their own meals on days Ginny wasn’t around. That’s probably a good thing. After all, even their father can cook.
We pull up over the incline, the sign for Ryder Ranch looming overhead. I watch the green, scrubby hills sail by as we crest the hill to the driveway. Slate parks and cuts the engine. I pick up my purse and the folder with the deed inside.
“It was a good day. Not much happened,” I say. “Let’s go inside and have some dinner.”