Chapter 30
THIRTY
A RHYTHMIC CLATTER followed by a loud whoosh wrenches me from sleep. Mugs clinking, water running, punctuated by Helen’s familiar off-key humming, filter clearly under my office door.
She’s already here.
Already working.
Panic slices through the grogginess.
Helen.
My eyes fly open to the lamplit confines of the office. Every muscle screams in protest as I bolt upright. My neck is stiff, my back aches, and there’s a dull pounding behind my eyes.
Helen has clearly begun prepping.
Sunday is our busiest day, and she cannot find me like this.
Adrenaline fuels my clumsy movements. I scramble off the couch, bare feet hitting the cold floor.
I snatch up my wool coat, stuffing it back into my open suitcase.
My gaze darting to the locked office door, I pull out the first clothes my fingers land on: jeans and a plain grey sweater.
I kick off the striped pajama bottoms, pull the top over my head, and change fast, my skin prickling with the fear of discovery.
The jeans feel rough after the soft cotton, the sweater familiar but offering little warmth.
I dart across the short hallway into the staff washroom. The face staring back from the mirror is puffy-eyed, but it no longer surprises me. I splash icy water on my skin, hoping to shock some color into my cheeks. I dab them with the rough paper towel before hurrying back to my office.
I run shaky hands through my hair, a desperate attempt to smooth it out, before tying it back into a ponytail. A quick glance at my phone confirms the café is officially open. I take a deep, silent breath, listening to the bustling sounds beyond the door.
All I have to do is time my exit. Wait until she’s distracted. Act normal.
The sounds from the café floor grow louder.
The steady hiss and grind of the espresso machine, the rising murmur of customer chatter, Helen calling out an order.
Taking a steadying breath, I ease the door open and slip out.
Hugging the wall, I creep halfway down the hallway.
When I a line forming at the counter, I straighten my spine and stride the rest of the way, as if I just arrived.
Reaching the bustling counter, I step behind it, grabbing a cloth to wipe the already clean steel surface near the pastry display.
Anything to look busy.
“Oh, hey!” Helen glances over her shoulder as she tamps down espresso grounds, offering a quick smile. “Didn’t see you come in.”
“Morning,” I reply, forcing a small smile. I busy myself with arranging the croissants in the display case.
Helen finishes pulling shots and starts steaming milk, the hiss filling the space. She glances my way again, her eyes lingering a quick, assessing sweep.
“Rough night?” she asks over the machine’s noise, brow furrowed. “You don’t exactly look rested after your day off, mija.”
Heat climbs my neck, but I keep my eyes on the pastries. “Still tired,” I murmur, fiddling with the tongs. “Didn’t sleep great.” I grab an order slip, turning towards the register just as the next customer steps up.
For now, the Sunday rush is my shield.
And it holds, for the next hour at least. The café doors revolve constantly, letting in bursts of fresh air and caffeine-deprived weekenders. The gurgle of the espresso machine blends with the rumble of the grinder, the clatter of mugs, and the rising buzz of talk.
Helen and I fall into the familiar dance of service. A blur of steaming milk, pulling shots, calling out names, and bagging pastries. My hands move automatically, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought fails.
Pour, tamp, pull, steam, pour, wipe, repeat.
Keep moving.
Don’t think.
“Need more oat milk up here!” Helen calls, not looking up, frothing milk.
“Got it,” I answer, ducking into the back fridge.
When I return, she’s handing off the cappuccinos and taking the next order, but her eyes flick toward me as I restock the fridge behind the counter.
“Seriously, Ames,” she murmurs, leaning closer. “Did something happen after our call yesterday?”
Only everything.
“Ended up running some errands and got very little sleep,” I say, reciting my rehearsed answer. I turn away to grab another order slip, forcing brightness into my tone. “Anyway, busy, busy. What’s next?”
Helen exhales sharply, but the next customer is already ordering. She gives me one last worried look before turning back to the register, her professional smile snapping into place.
The shield holds, barely.
But I can feel her eyes on me whenever there’s a lull, her concern a quiet weight in the bustling space.
Finally, the Sunday morning wave crests and recedes. The queue dwindles to one person, then none. The frantic pace slows to a manageable rhythm. Helen wipes down the espresso machine, humming again, but I still feel her occasional glances.
Near the register, I spot the petition clipboard. Helen leans over and points it out to a customer, who nods, picks up the pen, and fills in his information. That small act of support sparks a warmth in my chest.
My gaze sweeps over the regulars chatting at their tables, and lands on Lou. He’s tucked into his usual corner, newspaper spread out, glasses perched on his nose.
Watching him, the frantic edges of my fear smooth away. In its place, something hard, clear, and definite forms.
Purpose.
Grabbing two mugs, I turn to the Bunn brewer. I fill one with the dark roast I know Lou prefers and pour myself another, needing the caffeine.
“Looks like it’s easing up a bit,” I say to Helen. “I’m gonna take five to check in with Lou about those signatures.” I lift the mugs. “I’ll take him a refill too.”
Helen pauses. There’s a flicker of worry, but she masks it with a sigh and a nod. “Go ahead, mija,” she says, forcing a smile.
“Thanks.”
Balancing the two steaming mugs, I navigate around the counter. Lou lowers his newspaper as I approach, folding it neatly beside his empty mug. His kind eyes crinkle above the rim of his glasses.
“Looked like you might need a refill, Lou,” I say, offering a weary smile as I place the fresh coffee in front of him.
“Amy, my dear, thank you,” he replies, his voice warm as a hug. “Ever so thoughtful.”
I gesture to the empty chair. “Mind if I join you?”
“Nothing would make me happier.”
I sink into the chair, setting my mug down.
Lou’s expression shifts from welcoming to gently concerned. “So,” he begins, picking up his fresh coffee. “Did you get some rest yesterday?”
Rest.
The word pulls me back to the sunlit path at Picnic Point. The vast blue shimmer of the lake. The warmth of Matthew’s hand guiding me over the gnarled tree root. The steady beat of his heart beneath my ear.
It was a pocket of peace, like finding an island when I felt like I was drowning.
Focusing on that small island of peace feels less like a lie and more like a necessary omission. Lou doesn’t need the full, ugly truth right now, and honestly, I don’t think I could bear to tell it.
I meet his caring gaze, offering a small smile that feels less forced this time, warmed by the memory. “Yes, actually,” I say, my voice steadier. “I did. It was good to get away for a bit.”
Lou takes a slow sip of his fresh coffee, his gaze thoughtful over the rim.
He sets it down gently. There’s a knowing softness in his eyes.
Something tells me he sees right through my answer, sensing the turmoil beneath the calm I’m clinging to.
But thankfully, he doesn’t push. Instead, he leans forward slightly, his expression full of empathy.
“I know times are challenging, dear,” he says, his voice calm. “And sometimes it might very well seem like it’s the end of the world.” He pauses, letting the acknowledgment sink in. “But trust me,”—his eyes hold mine with quiet conviction—“it’s not. It never is.”
My eyes sting suddenly, blurring his kind face. I lift my mug, needing a second to gather myself, to push back the tears his kind wisdom stirs. I take a long sip, focusing on the bitterness of the dark roast, using the mug as a shield while I compose myself.
Finally, I lower the mug back to the table. “I want to believe that,” I manage, my voice still a little thick. “I really do.”
“Then believe it, because I’m certain there will come a time soon where I will get the pleasure of reminding you I told you so,” he says with confidence, patting my shoulder.
His teasing coaxes a fragile bubble of laughter past my lips.
He smiles warmly in return, the lines around his eyes crinkling. Then his expression shifts, becoming more earnest.
“Speaking of challenging times,” Lou says, his tone turning gently purposeful. “I wanted to update you on the petition front. Because that is going remarkably well.”
I lean forward, hope flickering nervously, even despite knowing now that this petition hasn’t affected Bancroft the way Matthew thought it might.
“I spent a good part of yesterday circulating it, talking to people both inside here and around the neighborhood,” he continues. “Amy, there was not one person I approached who didn’t fill it out immediately. People were eager to help.”
“Wow,” I breathe, my coming up to my chest. “Really?”
“Yes.” Lou nods, his smile returning. “It’s abundantly clear that your coffee shop matters deeply to this community.” He leans back slightly. “I would’ve brought them with me today, but I wasn’t sure you’d be in.”
Hearing him confirm how much Maddy’s Place matters, seeing the genuine enthusiasm in his eyes, raises conflicting emotions. Gratitude warring with the bleak knowledge that this all might not make a difference.
“I can’t thank you enough, Lou,” I say sincerely.
“Oh, there’s no need to thank me, my dear,” Lou says, waving a hand. “It’s the least I can do. Plus, this community needs this—”
He breaks off. His attention snags on someone walking towards us. Surprise widens his eyes before melting into recognition. “And here’s the man of the hour.”
My brow furrows. I follow his nod toward the front of the café.
My heart gives a hard thump.