5. Grace
Grace
It was five o’clock, and the bell above the door jingled its usual bright tune as Kirk pushed it open, ushering in a breath of late afternoon air.
The sound always made me think of Didi—her voice, full of certainty, declaring a coffee shop needed ‘personality, sweetie, not just caffeine.’ She’d chosen the bell herself, and it was one more piece of her woven into the fabric of this place.
She’d also chosen the little metal tables and chairs I kept outside during the day.
Kirk stepped onto the sidewalk, holding the door with his body as I approached. “You’ve got that look again.”
I blinked. “What look?”
“The one where you’re somewhere else. And don’t try to say you’re spiraling about closing procedures.”
I sighed, leaning against the doorframe. “Maybe I was thinking about closing procedures.”
“Liar.” He worked part-time for me when his schedule at Michigan State allowed. Just my luck, I’d hired a psych major who liked to practice on his coworkers. He tapped his temple knowingly. “Your brain’s doing the thing where it spins itself in circles. Let me guess. London?”
If only London were the thing on my mind. “Speaking of which, you’re sure about taking on the extra shifts while I’m gone? It won’t interfere with classes?”
“I’m only in two for summer. They’re a little rough, but I’m good.”
“I appreciate it.”
“And it gives me more time to practice my latte art. Vanessa’s gotten serious about it.”
“She’s aiming for swan level now.”
“Please.” He clipped his backpack buckle. “I did a cat in a cup this afternoon. Nailed it.”
I arched a brow. “Oh, really?”
“Flawless.” He hooked his thumbs around his backpack’s straps. “And yeah, I’ll take the hours. Need the cash for the new bike.”
“Are you still saving up for the Kawasaki?”
“I’m pretty sure that says something about my early childhood, but I’m not about to dig into it any further.” He flipped his wrist over to see his smartwatch. Likely a notification about his ride. “Plus, someone’s gotta keep this place running while you’re off playing tourist.”
I slid a hand into the pocket of my apron to touch the photograph. “Right. Tourist.”
Kirk’s gaze sharpened. “There it is again.”
“There what is again?”
“That look. Like you’re carrying the weight of the world.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Kirk had been working for me for two years. He’d started as a summer hire after his first year and had become part of my Velvet Bean family. But this—the photograph, the Russian, the gnawing knot of uncertainty about Didi—wasn’t something I was handing over.
So I forced a smile. “If Vanessa talks you into competing in the barista showdown in Portland, I’m not covering for you.”
“Too late.” He grinned. “Already signed up.”
“Kirk!”
“Kidding.” He took a step back, craning his neck to look down the road. “I can swing time for some extra shifts with the light load from school, but I can’t take a vacation, too.”
I shook my head. “Get out of here before I change my mind about those shifts.”
“Yes, boss.” He tossed me a lazy salute. “See you tomorrow.”
The little red Honda that picked him up every day came to a stop in front of the café, and he hopped in. The driver, a guy he’d been living with for the past year, waved, and they were off.
Everything was so normal. So routine. The kind of moment that should have been comforting.
Instead, my skin prickled.
I shut the door, settled the ‘CLOSED’ sign, which had begun swinging with the door’s movement, and flicked the deadbolt. Somehow, the shop was quieter than usual. Emptier.
What did people say about the sound of empty buildings?
They were quiet when the place was full, but as loud as a jet engine when they were empty?
Every click and whoosh of the air conditioner reminded me of the Russian and the way he’d grabbed my wrist. My steps on the floor reminded me of the argument Tristan and Garrett had had with him.
Garrett.
Part of me had hoped he’d come back all on his own. His hulking figure would have been a welcome distraction from the memories and the questions I hadn’t been able to release all day.
I stood at the front windows, looking up and down Cedar Street. A few people strolled along the sidewalks, someone was leaving the pharmacy, and nothing was happening around Mason’s Gallery down the road, where Izzy worked.
My feet carried me to the wall by the counter before I even registered I was moving.
Didi had suggested a photo wall to showcase The Velvet Bean’s history. I ran my fingers along the edge of the largest frame, where my grandmother’s face smiled back at me.
“You were quite the storyteller,” I whispered to her. “But I’m starting to wonder which stories were real.”
I pulled the worn image out and held it beside the framed one.
Same velvet jacket. Same bright eyes. Same effortlessly charming smile.
Everything else—wrong. The war-torn backdrop, rubble spilling into the streets, buildings shattered and covered in a layer of dust. The weathered sign, half-obscured but unmistakably French.
She’d shown me pictures of the trip she and Grampy took to Paris for their thirtieth anniversary.
She’d said that was her first time in France, but this photo told a very different story.
“What’s the truth, Didi?” My throat tightened. “And who or what is Delphine?”
Silence answered.
In the year before her death, she’d started so many stories she didn’t finish. About people I suspected weren’t real, her brain blurring faces and names from TV shows with her past. Or maybe they were real, and she’d had more secrets than I’d expected.
The photo had no date, no location, no explanation about what she was doing there. Just the one word: Delphine.
I slid my phone out and called Dad.
“Hey, sweetheart. What’s up?” His voice was warm but distracted. Papers shuffled in the background, likely from essays he was grading. He never could leave work at work.
I hesitated. How much did I want to tell him when I didn’t know what it was all about yet? Would it stress him out too much? Would he worry I was in danger when I really wasn’t? “I have a quick question. About Didi.”
“What about her?”
I stared at the photograph, with its bombed-out street. “Did she ever mention France?”
“France?” Dad laughed, and the rustling on his end stopped. “She and Grampy visited several times. Always said she loved Marseille best. I’ve got...” He paused and let out a grunt. “I’ve got photos somewhere of the two of them.”
“What about earlier? Before they met?” I compared the photos for the hundredth time. Didi was younger in the Russian’s photograph than in the one on the wall. Late teens, maybe? She’d married my grandfather when she was twenty-two. “During the war?”
“Definitely not during the war.” The sound of boxes moving came from his side. “She talked every once in a while about the Blitz, the nights in the Tube stations. She used to say she was lucky that was all she witnessed. And France would have been much closer to the action.”
“You’re sure?”
“Grace.” His tone shifted, and the background noises stopped. “Where is this coming from?”
“I just…” I swallowed. “With the London trip, I was thinking about her stories.”
“She’d like this.” He chuckled. “You, visiting her old haunts.”
I touched the framed photo. She’d talked about the two of us going there someday. About showing me Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, and taking the train to Europe to explore. “She would.”
“You okay? You sound?—”
“I’m fine,” I cut in. “I miss her. The shop feels... empty sometimes.”
“She’d be proud of what you’ve built.”
“Thanks, Dad.” The lump that had been stuck in my throat all day grew a bit bigger. “Tell Mom I love her.”
We said our goodbyes, and I slipped the phone into my pocket.
If Didi didn’t go to France during the war, how did this exist? And why did the man have it?
Questions churned as I gathered my things, getting ready to leave. Close up. Lock the register. Go home.
Normal tasks. Simple.
I was reaching for the last light switch when movement at the front door caught my eye.
A man tried the handle despite the ‘CLOSED’ sign clearly displayed. Tall, dressed in a charcoal suit that fit so well it was obviously bespoke. His hair was dark and elegant, reminding me more of the bankers I’d worked with in Detroit than most people who strolled the streets of Brenton.
I pointed at the sign and mouthed, “We’re closed.”
He didn’t nod and walk away like a regular person would. No, this guy knocked on the glass. He didn’t smile, didn’t frown, didn’t give any indication of his mood at all, but something about his dark eyes sent a chill down my spine.
I shook my head again, gesturing at my watch.
He knocked harder this time and yelled so I could hear him through the door. “Ms. Laurent, I wish to speak with you.”
How did he know my name?
“We’re closed,” I called back, staying behind the counter. “You can come back tomorrow morning. We open at six.”
“This won’t wait until tomorrow.”
My fingers twitched toward my phone. Garrett had said to call if the Russian came back, but this wasn’t the same guy. The feeling like ants skittering up my neck was the same, though.
“My employer is interested in acquiring the egg,” he said, his volume rising. “We need to discuss terms.”
My heart stuttered. The egg. How could he possibly know about the egg?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, loud enough he could hear me, but hopefully appearing calmer than I felt. “Please leave, or I’ll call the police.”
His lips curled into an almost-smile, but there was no warmth in it. “We know about your trip to London. It would be simpler to resolve this here.”
I could count the people who knew about my trip on two hands... and somehow, this stranger was one of them.
He tried the door, harder this time, rattling the glass.
My stomach dropped. I was alone, and the only thing protecting me was a pane of glass. I yanked my phone out and found Garrett’s name at the top of my contacts. But what if making a call would set the man off? What if he broke in while I was talking?
Move, Grace!
I grabbed my bag and backed toward the kitchen. From there, it would be a straight shot to the rear exit.
“This doesn’t have to be difficult!” he hollered, slamming a palm against the door.
I pushed through the swinging kitchen door and ran for the back.
I peeked through the small window into the alley.
No one was there. Either the man was alone, or someone was waiting in the shadows.
Please be alone. Please be alone. I fumbled with the deadbolt, locked up behind myself, and hurried to my car.
Seconds later, I was peeling out of the narrow space behind the café.
But as I pulled onto the side street, I spotted him rounding the corner.
I hit the accelerator and sped off. My hands trembled as I drove, and I checked the mirrors over and over, half-expecting to see him following me.
I pressed the voice command button on my steering wheel. “Call...”
Who?
Garrett?
What are you doing? You are not calling a man who barely spoke to you.
It hadn’t been the Russian. But was it connected to him? Had he been after the egg, too?
“Call Isabella.”
The line rang, and Tristan answered. “Hello?”
“Is Izzy home?” Slow down, Grace. You’re talking too fast. I zipped through an intersection, the light switching to red before I was all the way through.
“She’s—” He cut off, his formerly pleasant tone darkening. “You okay?”
“I think...” I checked the rear-view mirror. It was a busy hour. Lots of cars on the road. How would I know if he’d gotten into a car and was behind me?
“What happened?”
“A man came to the café. Not the Russian, but someone else. He knew my name. He knew about my trip to London. He knew about…” My grip tightened around the wheel, but it didn’t stop the shaking.
“Hold on.” He had a brief, muffled conversation and came back to me right away. “Isabella says you should come over. She cooked too much.”
“I’m probably overreacting?—”
“Grace. Come. Here.” It wasn’t a request. It was a command. Like Garrett’s had been when he told me to call him if the guy came back. “Now.”
I exhaled slowly. “Okay.”
Maybe it was nothing. Maybe there was a reason he knew so much. Old client, maybe? Someone else who knew Didi, like the Russian apparently had? But I still took the next corner too fast.