Chapter 29LARK
LARK
“You can do this,” I tell my reflection. “You’ve dealt with harder things. Like childbirth. And tax season.”
The mirror over the sink is too small and lit with that weird yellow bathroom bulb that makes everyone look mildly jaundiced, but I don’t look half as panicked as I feel, so I’ll take the win.
My ponytail’s neat. Clean shirt. No coffee stains.
No mascara smudges. I look fine. Capable, even.
Like someone who can walk into her own damn diner and handle her business.
It’s technically my day off, but I showed up just after six, unlocked the back door like muscle memory, and flipped the lights on before I could talk myself out of it. I told myself it was to catch up on paperwork and make vendor calls, but I know that’s not why I’m here.
Today’s the day I fire Dawn.
She’s not in yet. Won’t be for another thirty minutes. I’ve got her folder sitting on my desk and a backup hire already lined up—a college student named Erica who came in wearing Converse and talked about food safety like it was a religion.
She’s going to be great. She’s not the problem.
The problem is that this place won’t feel like the Bluebell without Dawn yelling from the kitchen about how people who order poached eggs after 10 a.m. deserve to be escorted out.
She’s been part of this diner for years.
Longer than me. Longer than most of the furniture.
She was Alice’s right hand, and whether I wanted her to be or not, she became mine too.
Even when she barked, even when she hovered.
Even when she made me feel like I didn’t quite know what I was doing sometimes.
But she crossed a line, and now there’s no way around it.
I exhale, pressing my palms into the sink. The porcelain is cool beneath my hands. My chest feels tight, like the air is sticking on its way down.
This is what it means to be the one in charge. Sometimes it’s spreadsheets and cinnamon roll orders. Sometimes it’s letting someone go who used to feel like family.
I look at my reflection one last time and force a breath through my nose. “You’re going to do this with professionalism, like the bad bitch that you are. And absolutely no sobbing in the walk-in freezer afterward. Great.”
I push open the door and walk out.
In the past three hours, I’ve balanced the register, confirmed next week’s produce delivery, filled out Erica’s onboarding packet, and sent a reminder to the HVAC guy, who’s conveniently forgotten we still don’t have reliable heat in the back pantry.
I’ve crossed more off my list than I usually do in two days just trying to stay busy, to avoid the inevitable.
Dawn’s already clocked in, standing near the register, one hand resting on the counter as she chats with a couple of locals seated at the front booth by the window. They’re laughing hard—one of them dabs at his eyes with a napkin, the other thumping the table like he can’t take any more.
Dawn’s in her element. Easy. Loud. Funny without trying. She tosses a quick grin over her shoulder, then goes right back to the story, hitting the punchline like she’s been waiting for it all morning.
For a second, I just watch her.
The Bluebell won’t sound the same without her.
“Dawn,” I say, just loud enough to cut through the chatter. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
Her eyes find mine. She tilts her head, curious, then nods and calls over her shoulder, “Josie! Front’s all yours, sweetheart.”
Dawn follows me into the office, calm as ever, like this is any other shift. She closes the door behind her and leans back against it like she’s settling in for a casual chat.
“What’s up, boss?”
I don’t sit this time. I stay standing behind my chair, needing the extra inch of distance between us. “I know what you’ve been doing, Dawn.”
Her brow furrows. “What’re you talking about?”
“With Wendell Tate.”
The name lands between us like a dropped plate. Her arms loosen where they’re crossed over her chest.
“I know you’ve been feeding him information. About the Bluebell. About me. About the inspection. The permits. All of it.”
Dawn doesn’t say anything at first. She just looks at me—really looks—and I watch the fight leave her shoulders.
“Shit,” she whispers.
I nod. “Yeah.”
She pulls in a shaky breath and pushes off the door. “Look Lark, I didn’t mean for it to… I didn’t know it would get so out of hand.”
“You thought giving him what he wanted was harmless?”
“No. I thought…” Her voice catches, and she shakes her head. “He offered me something I didn’t think I could say no to. A place near my daughter. A way to be with my grandbabies.”
“You could’ve come to me,” I say, throat tightening. “You could’ve told me you needed help. You’ve always had a place here. We could’ve figured something out.”
She nods, her eyes glassy now. “I know. I know that. I just didn’t want to feel like a burden. Or maybe my damn ego just got in the way.”
“You’re not a burden. You were family.” The words scrape on their way out. “You were here when Alice passed. You stayed after hours without me asking. You were in this with me. Or at least I thought you were.”
“I was,” she says. “I still am. I didn’t think he’d actually be able to shut the place down. I didn’t think he’d—God, Lark, I was so stupid. ”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “You were.”
She covers her face with both hands for a second. Then lets them fall. “I didn’t get the place, you know. The apartment in California. Turns out that part wasn’t so guaranteed.”
“Of course it wasn’t. He was using you.”
Her chin wobbles. “I’ve made some shitty choices in my life, but this one…this one hurts.”
I believe her. That’s the worst part.
“I don’t hate you,” I say. “But I can’t have you here anymore. I need people that I can trust on my staff.”
She sniffles and nods. “Yeah. I figured.”
Neither of us says anything for a beat.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“I know.”
The silence between us stretches—full of what used to be and what never can be again. My throat burns and I press a hand against the desk, just to stay upright.
“I’ll finish out the morning,” she says softly.
“No,” I say. “Take your things. I’ll pay out the rest of the week.”
Dawn swallows hard, blinking quickly. “Okay.”
She lingers by the door for a moment before opening it. “You’re gonna be alright, you know. You were always tougher than you looked. Got a lot of Alice in you. Your daddy, too.”
I don’t answer.
Dawn doesn’t say anything else. Just nods once, mouth pressed in a hard line, and walks out the door.
I don’t move right away. The sound of her footsteps fading into the hallway hits me harder than I expect, like something in my chest is shifting out of place, like the silence she leaves behind is louder than her voice ever was.
I let out a breath—tight, shaking—and press my hand to my mouth to keep the cry from escaping.
God, this hurts .
This is the part no one tells you about when they talk about running your own business. They talk about freedom and building something and chasing a dream. Not about how it feels to cut out someone who’s been part of the bones of a place. Someone you loved. Someone who let you down.
My eyes sting. I wipe them fast, fingertips swiping away the wetness before it can fall. I grab my purse and keys off the hook, slip out the back door before anyone can ask me where I’m going, and slide into the car.
The second the door shuts, the quiet swells.
I sit there for a second, hands gripping the wheel, my forehead resting lightly against it. What I want, more than anything, is Boone.
His voice. His arms. The steadiness in him that always finds me when I can’t find myself.
My chest aches with it—how badly I want to see him, to feel him, to know I’m not carrying this alone. He has this way of making the worst things feel survivable just by being nearby. Like nothing’s too big when he’s around.
I shift into drive and head toward the ranch.
That place feels like mine now. Not out of nostalgia or memory, but because of what it holds—my son’s laughter echoing through the barn, the smell of Molly’s cookies drifting out the kitchen window, Boone’s work boots by the door next to mine.
The way Hudson leans into Boone when he’s tired, how he runs through the fields like the world is brand new and his for the taking.
It’s not just land and fences and livestock anymore.
It’s late dinners on the porch. It’s watching Hudson pitch in the front yard with Boone. It’s riding Moose until my thighs ache, then sitting in the grass and letting the sun kiss the back of my neck while Boone leans over me and says something quiet that makes me laugh.
It’s home. Not because I grew up near it, but because I grew into it.
And today, when everything feels just a little too heavy, it’s the only place I want to be.
******* *
By the time I pull up to the main house, my chest feels like it’s been scraped raw.
I sit there for a second, hands still gripping the steering wheel, trying to decide if I want to cry, sleep, or crawl under the covers and stay there until next spring.
Instead, I take a breath, push the door open, and step into the quiet.
The second I cross the threshold, something hits me hard enough to stop me in my tracks.
It smells like Molly’s chicken and dumplings.
My stomach turns with something that’s not quite hunger. Maybe relief. Maybe disbelief. The house is still, no voices echoing down the hallway, no boots stomping around the porch. Everyone’s probably out on the ranch or having lunch at Loretta’s. Which makes the timing of this even more—
I step into the kitchen and stop cold.
The table is covered in a soft, cream-colored tablecloth I didn’t even know Molly owned.
Two tall candles burn at the center, little flickers of gold dancing in the daylight.
The plates are the nice ones—real china with pale blue flowers around the rim—and next to each of them sits a glass of wine and a can of Diet Coke.