24. Ventures Beyond
Ventures Beyond
Micah
T he waitress sets down my coffee, the porcelain cup barely making a sound against its saucer.
I thank her with a nod, maintaining a casual demeanor while tracking her retreat from our table.
She’s young, maybe mid-twenties, with a professional manner that suggests she takes her job seriously.
No visible flaws. No nervous tics. No excessive interest in us.
Just another server working the lunch shift at an upscale resort restaurant.
Not a threat.
I’ve made similar assessments of everyone who’s entered the dining room in the seventeen minutes we’ve been seated.
It’s automatic, this constant cataloging—muscle memory developed through decades operating in environments where momentary inattention can be fatal.
Even here, in this rustic yet elegant restaurant perched on a cliff overlooking Hocking Hills, I can’t fully disengage the instincts that have kept me alive for fifty-four years.
“Micah?”
Naomi’s voice pulls me back to our immediate surroundings. Her green eyes study me with gentle concern, head tilted as she waits for my wandering attention.
“Sorry,” I say, wrapping my weathered hands around the warm cup. “Force of habit.”
“Assessing exits?” Not an ounce of judgment in her tone. In our weeks together, she’s become attuned to my security protocols.
I nod, allowing a smile that few besides her ever see. “Among other things.”
“And what’s your professional assessment?” She leans forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Are we in mortal danger from the elderly couple by the window? Or perhaps that toddler with the crayon is planning an ambush?”
The teasing catches me off guard, and I chuckle. This playful side of Naomi emerges more frequently these days. She’s healing. Safety is gradually replacing constant fear.
“The toddler’s definitely suspicious,” I counter, playing along. “Nobody needs that many crayons unless they’re planning something.”
Her laugh fills me with a satisfaction. Every moment of joy feels like a personal victory against all Lucas took from her.
“This view is incredible,” she says, turning toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase winter-bare trees and rolling landscapes stretching toward the horizon.
The wonder in her expression reminds me of a child discovering something magical for the first time.
“I’ve lived in Ohio my whole life and never knew this was here. ”
I follow her gaze, trying to see the familiar landscape through her eyes.
The Hocking Hills region in winter offers stark beauty—skeletal trees etched against the gray-blue sky, occasional evergreens providing bursts of color, distant hills rising and falling like frozen waves all covered in a blanket of snow.
I’ve always appreciated the place for its isolation, its usefulness as a retreat when Columbus became too complicated. Now, watching Naomi’s unguarded delight, I find new value in its beauty.
Her fingers intertwine with mine, giving a gentle squeeze full of gratitude. It feels more significant than it should.
The server breaks our moment. I withdraw my hand casually, maintaining the appearance of appropriate distance. Though I doubt anyone here would recognize us or understand the complexity of our relationship, discretion remains second nature.
“Have you decided?” The young woman asks, notebook poised.
I notice Naomi’s momentary hesitation, the quick glance in my direction—seeking permission or approval before ordering. Lucas conditioned her to seek approval for every decision, no matter how small. Breaking that pattern is going to require consistent reinforcement of her autonomy.
I deliberately remain silent, offering an encouraging nod but no direction. This is her choice to make.
“I’ll have the roasted butternut squash soup to start,” she says after a beat, her voice growing more confident with each word, “and the pan-seared trout with the winter vegetable medley.”
“Excellent choice.” The server turns to me. “And for you, sir?”
“Same soup to start. Then the venison, medium-rare.” I hand her our menus. “And perhaps another glass of wine for the lady?”
The question is directed to the server, but my eyes focus on Naomi’s for her approval.
“Yes, please. The Pinot Noir was lovely.”
As the server departs, I notice the slight flush on Naomi’s cheeks—pride at navigating the interaction independently combined with pleasure at the small luxury of midday wine. It’s a milestone in her recovery.
“So,” I prompt, settling back in my chair. “Tell me more about these bakery plans. Did you make any new decisions this morning?”
The question transforms her. Excitement animates her features as she leans forward, hands gesturing expressively while she outlines her vision.
The bakery has evolved from a vague dream to a concrete plan, with the start of business projections, menu concepts, and marketing strategies.
Her research is thorough, her planning meticulous.
“I’m thinking Brewery District,” she says, naming a trendy area of Columbus undergoing revitalization. “The demographic is perfect—young professionals with disposable income, families on weekends, and enough foot traffic to generate walk-ins alongside regulars.”
I nod, mentally reviewing the properties I know in that area. “Commercial rents are climbing there. Might stretch your initial capital.”
“True, but I’d rather start with the right location and build a solid customer base than save on rent somewhere with less visibility.
” Her business acumen surprises me—another aspect of herself she must have suppressed around Lucas.
“Besides, I have my trust fund. My parents can’t block access now that I’m over twenty-five. ”
The mention of her family brings a momentary shadow.
Like mine, Naomi’s family relationships are complicated—wealthy parents who prioritized appearances over their daughter’s welfare, who encouraged her marriage to Lucas despite early warning signs, who dismissed her dreams as frivolous hobbies unworthy of serious investment.
Their failure to protect or support her ranks just below Lucas’s abuse in factors that shaped her vulnerability.
“The Brewery District makes sense,” I concede. “Good parking options, visibility from major thoroughfares, potential for outdoor seating during warmer months.”
“Exactly.” Her enthusiasm returns full force. “And I was thinking about offering more than just pastries and bread. Maybe a small lunch menu with seasonal soups and sandwiches. Create reasons for people to visit throughout the day.”
“Smart. Diversified revenue streams provide stability.”
She tilts her head, studying me with renewed interest. “You know a lot about business operations for a…”
The unfinished sentence hangs between us—a reminder of my complicated profession.
Though we’ve developed remarkable honesty in most aspects of our relationship, my work remains a carefully edited subject.
I refuse to give her information that could make her legally vulnerable.
It’s bad enough she had to experience my world first-hand with the shooting.
“I’ve picked up a few things over the years,” I say. “Observing various enterprises. Some legitimate, some less so.”
She nods, accepting this partial truth with the same grace she’s shown toward other complicated aspects of my life.
“I need to develop accurate cost projections for equipment,” she continues, steering us back to safer territory. “Industrial mixers, ovens, refrigeration—it adds up quickly.”
“I know someone who specializes in restaurant equipment.” I hesitate before adding, “Legitimate sources, though he occasionally handles liquidations from establishments that didn’t comply with various regulations.”
“Would he give me a fair price?”
“He would give you an exceptional price,” I assure her, “especially once he tastes your baking.”
This draws another smile, the genuine kind that reaches her eyes and creates delicate crinkles at the corners. “You’re very confident in my skills, considering you’ve only tasted a fraction of my repertoire.”
“I’m a good judge of quality.”
The arrival of our soups provides welcome distraction from the sudden heat in her gaze. The server places steaming bowls before us, each garnished with a swirl of crème fra?che and toasted pumpkin seeds. The presentation is elegant without being pretentious—rustic refinement that suits the setting.
I watch Naomi’s assessment with amusement. Her baker’s eye evaluates the dish critically, noting texture, color, arrangement. She inhales the aromatic steam before taking a careful taste, then closes her eyes briefly in appreciation.
“Nutmeg and a hint of apple,” she murmurs, more to herself than me. “Clever addition. Cuts the sweetness of the squash.”
“Good?” I ask though I already know the answer from her expression.
“Very.” She takes another spoonful. “Though I might use a touch more black pepper. And perhaps ginger instead of nutmeg.”
I hide my smile behind my own spoon. Her competitive edge shows her ambition. Every glimpse of her untamed spirit reinforces my determination to ensure she never faces suppression again.
Our meal progresses with comfortable conversation interspersed with companionable silence. Unlike many people, Naomi never feels compelled to fill quiet moments with nervous chatter. She seems content to simply exist in shared space—a quality I’ve always valued but rarely found in others.
As we dig into our entrées, I study her with greater attention.
The winter sunlight streaming through the windows highlights auburn undertones in her red curls, some strands glowing like burnished copper.
Her features have softened since she came into my protection, the perpetual tension around her eyes gradually relaxing.