Chapter Eighteen
EIGHTEEN
ADRENALINE THRUMS BENEATH my skin. A poor substitute for sleep.
It’s residue from last night, kicked into higher gear by this morning’s coffee, but it’s the only thing keeping me functional.
Standing beside my desk, I run my thumb almost reverently over the crisp edge of a freshly printed petition sheet.
“We urge the property owner, Harold Bancroft to recognize the immense community support for this café and to work in good faith with Amy Beckett to find a fair and sustainable solution that allows Maddy’s Place to continue serving us all for years to come.”
Matthew’s statement…
Transcribed late last night from the single sheet he’d filled with his strong, decisive script.
He’d captured the soul of Maddy’s Place, Mary’s legacy, and the community’s heart with an effortless precision that had completely eluded me.
The memory of the encounter still swirls in my mind, a chaotic rush of Matthew’s intensity, his departure, and the sharp sting of regret over my outburst.
But regret is a luxury I can’t afford.
I glance at the neat, thick stack of petition sheets on the corner of my desk.
They’re ready as promised.
I take a deep, steadying breath, placing the sheet I’m holding carefully on top of the stack.
“Alright, let’s see what you’ve put together,” Lou’s excited voice floats in right before his slightly stooped figure appears in the open doorway.
He steps inside, his gaze bypassing me to land on the stack of papers. “I knew you’d get it done,” he says, picking up the top sheet and adjusting his glasses.
He reads, his brow furrowed in concentration, before smoothing out into a look of approval.
“This is superb, Amy,” he says, letting out an appreciative hum.
“What’s superb? What’d I miss?” Helen enters, balancing a tray with three steaming mugs. She kicks the door shut behind her.
“Lou’s reading the petition statement,” I tell her.
“Nice.” Her face lights up. She hands me one of the mugs after placing the tray beside my computer. “Let me see this.” She snatches the paper right out of Lou’s hand.
He sighs in fond exasperation, shaking his head. “Is one of those for me?”
“Help yourself,” Helen replies without looking up, already plopping onto the worn sofa, her eyes scanning the page.
Lou takes a mug and settles beside her.
I watch Helen over the rim of my mug. After a night swimming in caffeine, my system is too saturated for another drop to matter.
“Sí,” Helen nods slowly, her gaze flicking back and forth, across the page. “?Sí, exacto!” She slaps the paper onto her knee. “This is exactly what we need. Strong, clear. This is impressive writing, Ames!”
“Yes, that it is,” Lou agrees, resting his mug in his lap.
“Well,” I start, hesitant. “I had some help—a lot of help, if I’m being honest.”
Helen frowns. “But yesterday when I left, you were all alone scratching at that blond head of yours.”
“Matthew dropped by,” I confess, taking a longer-than-necessary swig of coffee.
“Matthew?” Lou sounds confused.
“The lawyer, Matthew?” Helen’s question is more of an exclamation.
“Yes. The lawyer, Matthew.” My face heats up.
Helen leans forward with a knowing smile. “So… you and him… here alone, all night…”
“No, stop!” I groan.
“Come on, Helen,” Lou interjects, and I couldn’t be more grateful. “Clearly, they were busy drafting this perfect statement.”
Helen tilts her head at him, eyebrows raised. “Clearly, you’ve been out of the game too long, old man.”
“I’m just saying a statement like this takes time and focus,” Lou defends.
“H-he actually wrote it all in two minutes while I watched. Stared would be more accurate,” I confess with a timid grimace.
Helen preens triumphantly. “You were saying?” She directs her question at Lou.
“I stand corrected,” Lou shrugs, drinking from his mug.
“It doesn’t matter,” I snap, needing to shut this down. “What matters is that we have a solid petition ready to go.”
“And,” Helen adds, “we now have a real chance against that greedy bastard.”
“Oh, definitely.”
“Exactly.”
Lou and I chime in agreement at the same time.
“And,” Helen continues, “with Matthew now in the picture, that so-called fiancé of yours will be out. And we all live happily ever after, as you Americans like to say.”
Rolling my eyes, I place the mug on the tray beside me and stand. “I can’t,” I say, raising my hands in resignation as I round my desk.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” Helen insists, ignoring my discomfort.
“Now, now, ladies,” Lou intervenes. “We have our work cut out for us, Helen. So let’s stop badgering Amy and get to it.”
“Vale, vale,” Helen replies, rising. “?Vámonos! Let’s get those signatures!”
“Thank you,” I say with relief, dividing the pile in two. “This one is for you, sir.” I extend the stack to Lou with a smile.
“I will get started right away, my dear. Don’t you worry about a thing,” he reassures me, pressing the papers to his chest.
“Thanks, Lou, you’re the best,” I reply, meaning every word.
“Yeah, yeah, he’s the best because he’s a man,” Helen says, grabbing her pile with a scowl. “Men don’t give a shit about romance.”
“That’s because, unlike business, romance always has a way of taking care of itself,” Lou counters easily.
“Sure, whatever you say,” she draws out.
“You,” I warn, my tone playful. “I need you to divide that pile in two. One you attach to a clipboard and leave by the cash register, and the other is for you to take home for your neighbors.”
“Don’t you worry, Ames, I’ll make sure you and Matthew come on, come on top, how do you say…?” Helen struggles.
“Please leave.” I groan, bracing my palms on my desk to lean forward, pointing dramatically at the door. “Please have mercy on me and leave.”
“Let’s go, Helen, time’s a-wasting,” Lou coaxes, holding the door open.
“Yeah, I’ll tell you what’s wasting, and it ain’t time,” she retorts, following him out. “Come with me. I’ll give you an envelope for those papers.”
Her voice fades down the hallway as I fall back into my chair.
I let out a long sigh.
The silence in the office no longer feels oppressive. It is charged with purpose.
A plan.
Helpers.
Hope.
It’s a start.
A proper start.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of productivity.
Buoyed by the petition and the unwavering support of Lou and Helen, I manage the café with a focus I haven’t felt in weeks.
For the first time since the fallout with James, since the threat from Bancroft began, I feel less like a victim backed into a corner and more like a fighter preparing for the ring.
By five-thirty, the pre-dinner lull settles over the café.
Time to go.
Time for my other fight: facing James at The Sterling.
And for that, I need to change. These functional jeans and sweater won’t do.
Leaving Helen in charge, I lock my office, grab my purse, and head out.
I let myself into the apartment. The silence feels different.
A pre-confrontation quiet.
I ignore the lingering evidence of James’s brief, disruptive presence: his empty mug on the coffee table, a blazer hanging haphazardly on a dining chair, a pair of stray socks on the floor.
We haven’t crossed paths since yesterday morning.
Shaking off the faint trace of disgust, I walk into the bedroom. Standing before the closet, the contrast is unavoidable. Wednesday night, getting ready for Matthew, was a whirlwind. A rush of outfits, nervous energy, a confusing flutter of anticipation…
Tonight, preparing to meet James, feels utterly different. There’s no turmoil. My hand moves decisively, bypassing the silks and sequins James prefers, settling instead on a simple, comfortable olive-green knit sweater dress.
Respectable and unremarkable.
I pull it on and opt for my neutral beige ankle boots.
A quick glance in the mirror confirms the image. I look composed, serious. Maybe a little tired, but ready. There’s no flutter of nerves, no desire to impress. This isn’t about playing a part in James’s world tonight.
It’s about ending my role in it.
This is a business transaction. A dissolution of a partnership.
Tonight is pure, stark efficiency.
I scrape my hair back from my face, twisting it into a tight, severe knot at the nape of my neck. I secure it without looking up. No makeup today. Just a quick swipe of clear lip balm.
There’s no point.
I have only a steely resolve to see this through.
My thoughts flicker to Matthew. His meeting with Bancroft was this morning.
How did it go?
Worry twists, but I push it aside.
One fire at a time.
Tonight’s fire is mine to face.
Taking a final, fortifying breath, I grab my beige purse and walk out, pulling the door shut with quiet finality.
Toward The Sterling.
Toward James.
Toward our end.