22. Nate
Nate
Iblink in disbelief. “This is it?”
“Yes, sir. Lone Brews Cafe,” my teenage chauffeur confirms. “I hope you enjoyed your ride.”
The ride was all of three minutes, if that. I could have easily walked here. For half a second, I wonder what the hell Marge was thinking, but then it hits me.
“Will, does Marge know about that girl you like?” It’s practically a rhetorical question.
“Yep. Why?”
The pieces fall into place. She probably hired the kid for this ride just to help him make some money.
Marge knows just about everything that goes on in HiLo and takes glee in inserting herself into any situation that she believes she can help, which is most of them. I’m just hoping she has some insight for me as well.
“No reason. Thanks for the ride.” I pass Will a fifty-dollar bill before opening the door.
“The ride is already paid for,” he calls, leaning over.
“A tip for good service, Will. And that girl you like? Treat her right.”
He thanks me again before rolling up his window and pulling out onto High Street.
He seems like a nice kid, and like I told him, I respect the hustle.
I’m not going to rat him out for skipping class.
Hell, when I was his age, my friends and I skipped class plenty of times, and it sure wasn’t for a part-time job.
I look up at the storefront of Lone Brews. Here goes nothing.
I push a hand through my hair, then pull open the door. The bells over the entryway announce my presence.
“Nate!” Marge waves from behind the counter. “Glad you made it okay. What can I get you to drink?”
I stare at her.
“Marge,” I say slowly, “did you hire an Uber to drive me the few blocks from my house to your cafe so you could make me a drink?”
She waves a dismissive hand in the air. “Oh, don’t you worry. Latte?”
This is what I get for trying to humor her.
“Marge,” I say again, slowly. “You won the date auction. I’m supposed to take you on a date. Like, for a meal or something. I don’t think you making me a coffee counts.”
“Oh, pshh.” She takes the towel from her shoulder and wipes the counter.
“Will’s been talking about trying to get business for weeks.
All I did was throw the kid a bone. It’s not like it hurt you to ride the few blocks instead of walking.
And people have coffee dates all the time. Go sit down. I’ll bring over a latte.”
It’s like arguing with a brick wall, and I’m reminded of why I avoid fighting with Marge in the first place. “I appreciate you supporting Will. I just want to make sure you get to have a nice date. You donated a lot for this.”
Marge finally stops wiping down the counter, focuses on me, and rolls her eyes.
She lifts a hand and crooks one finger toward her chest. “Come here, young man.”
I do, holding on to hope that she’ll finally listen to reason.
“Now, Nate,” she says, practically in a whisper as she leans toward me, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news. But while it might surprise you, I didn’t bid so that I could have a romantic date. You’re adorable, but you’re about forty years too young to be my type.”
I snort with laughter, but she’s not done.
“I bid on this date thing to keep those two women from trying to put their claws in you. More for Rory than for you,” she says, almost as an aside.
“I got what I wanted just from seeing their faces. But since the rule was that you have to go on a date with the winner, here we are. Now go sit your ass in a booth, and don’t say another word unless it has to do with your coffee order. ”
I shake my head as I laugh, but I do as she says. Her motivation for this bid wasn’t exactly a mystery. I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s back to bossing me around, either.
As she reaches the espresso machine, I finally find my voice. “Decaf, please.”
“You’ve got it. Vanilla syrup? Hazelnut?” Marge asks, her back to me.
Her tone is back to her usual chipper one.
If someone walked in right now, they’d think I just showed up here to order a latte instead of being vaguely bullied into a low-stakes coffee date by an aggressive do-gooder.
“Vanilla, please.”
“I’ll bring it out for you,” Marge says.
It’s a much nicer way of saying go sit your ass down, I suppose.
I pick a booth toward the front of the cafe, where I can look out the window, and a few minutes later, Marge sets two mugs on the table and slides into the seat across from me.
I lift the one closest to me and take a sip, letting the sweet liquid wash over my tongue.
I swallow, then take another sip before setting the mug down. “Your coffee is the best, Marge.”
She winks at me over her own mug as she sips.
“Of course it is,” she says.
She wraps her hands around the mug as she brings it down to rest on the table.
It appears handmade from the letters carved into the base, but whoever made it is talented, to say the least. It’s beautiful, the clay perfectly symmetric and the colors an ombre of greens, blues, and purples.
“Who made that mug?” I ask, unsure where else to take the conversation. “It’s beautiful.”
Marge lifts it, studying the mug as though she’s seeing it for the first time. “Ah, it is, isn’t it? My niece made this one for me. I’ll let her know that you liked it.”
I take another sip of my latte. Marge has a niece?
This is news to me. I know she was married and that her husband died young and that she never remarried, because everyone in town knows.
From the gossip, I also know that people tried for years to set her up with their friends and cousins and sons, but she was never interested.
It never occurred to me that she had any other family, but I’m realizing that there’s a lot I don’t know.
“Does your niece live in town?”
Marge smiles, still gazing at the ceramic mug. “Oh, no. She visited once and hated the snow. She lives in Florida.”
“Do you have other family?”
Am I prying? Maybe, but we’re on a date, aren’t we?
“I—” Marge turns at the sound of the bells announcing a customer. “We’re closed for now unless you need a sandwich. For that, help yourself.”
“Eh, just looking for some caffeine. I’ll stop by later.” The mayor waves, then heads back out the way he came.
“Gotta love small towns, huh?” I chuckle.
Marge laughs along with me. “Exactly. Now, to answer your question, I have a smattering of nieces and nephews. I had two sisters who have both passed on. One had three kids, and one had six, believe it or not. I like to think they hit our family’s quota for reproducing and let me off the hook.”
“You never wanted kids of your own?”
Marge shrugs. “It was never really an option for me. We tried for a little bit, but nothing came of it, and then Gary died, and…” She spreads her arms wide. “This became my family. The shop. The community.”
“That’s really sweet.” I lift my mug. “The town is lucky to have you, Marge.”
She snorts. “For the coffee, maybe. I’m sure some folk could do without my meddling and need to know everything. But they’re stuck with me for now.”
I nearly spit out my latte as I try to hold back my laugh with a mouthful of coffee. I press a napkin to my mouth and manage to swallow most of it.
“Aw, Marge, you know we love having you around,” I say when I catch my breath.
“Eh. I thrive on being a nosy old coot. When you’re old, you can do whatever you want because people think you’re going to die soon.” She nods, lifting her brows as though she’s delivering some ancient wisdom.
I set the mug down in front of me. It’s delicious, but if Marge keeps delivering these one-liners, chances are that she’ll time it right so that I spit a mouthful all over the table.
Off-handedly, I wonder if that’s her goal. I wouldn’t put it past her.
I open my mouth, but before I can speak, my phone vibrates in my pocket with a call.
I ignore it—I’m on a date, after all—but as soon as it stops, the vibration starts again.
“Sorry, Marge,” I say, pulling the phone from my pocket. “Let me make sure this isn’t something important.”
“Taking a call during our date,” she huffs, giving me a wink to show that she doesn’t really mind.
I look at the screen, my pulse kicking into high gear when I see who’s calling.
It’s Mandy. Rory’s boss.
If she’s calling me, something must be wrong.
I force myself to breathe.
Don’t panic yet.
Maybe Rory’s phone died, and she’s using Mandy’s. That would make sense.
But I can’t calm my racing heart or ignore the flash of fear that shoots through me.
I swipe to answer the call and press the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Nate?” It’s a woman’s voice. Not Rory.
I focus on the mug in front of me, the edges of my vision going blurry.
“This is Nate. Is everything okay?”
“Nate, it’s Mandy. From the barn.” Her voice catches on the last word, and every nerve in my body is on high alert.
“Is Rory okay?” Visions of her being bucked off a horse, being kicked by a massive hoof, falling from the hayloft, flash through my mind.
I knew horses were bad news. I knew it. I should have convinced Rory to take a job at Lone Brews or at Hanna’s Market. Anywhere but at a barn. She loves it, but it’s too dangerous.
“She’s—”
“Is she okay?” I demand, more harshly than I intend, but this is Rory. She’s my life. My everything. “Tell me she’s okay.”
“Nate.” Mandy’s voice is stern, level. “Sit down.”
“Fuck that. Tell me what’s going on.” I do exactly the opposite, standing from my chair to pace back and forth in front of the table.
“Sit the fuck down,” she instructs.
Her tone makes it clear that she knows exactly what I’m doing, and that I’d better obey if I want any information.
I slump into the chair, every cop instinct in me screaming to push her for information. I’ve known Mandy for a long time, though, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that her stubbornness outweighs mine.
“Fine, I’m sitting. Now tell me what the hell is going on.”
My heartbeat is in overdrive. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. If something is going on with Rory, I’m going to fucking fix it.
Mandy clears her throat. “Rory passed out while she was working.”
“The fuck?” I exclaim, louder than I intend to.
Marge lifts an eyebrow from across the table.
I don’t have time to explain this to her, though. Hell, I never should have agreed to this date, if that’s really what you can call this.
Rory is my everything. Anything else in my life is just a distraction.
“Nate. Calm down.” Mandy’s voice through the phone is too level, too calm, too everything.
Rory passed out. That’s what she said. How is any of this okay? Why is she on the phone with me at all? She should be taking Rory to the hospital. I should head out there right now.
I stand, my palms on the table. The phone is tucked between my shoulder and my ear, both hands ready in case of…anything. Whatever she needs.
“I’m not going to calm down, Mandy. Is Rory okay? Where is she?”
I pace across the floor. One hand holds the phone to my ear; the other pushes through my hair as I try to figure out where I need to be.
At a minimum, it’s clear that there’s no way I can sit right now. Rory needs me.
I need to know where she is, how she is, and how I can get to her.
“I called the ambulance, and they took her to the hospital,” Mandy says finally. “But Nate—”
“Okay. Thanks.” I end the call.
I need to get to Rory.
Why did she pass out? Did she not eat? No, I ate breakfast with her before she went to the barn today. She went in late.
Did she get heat stroke? It’s not exactly hot. If anything, it’s the opposite, and passing out wouldn’t be anywhere close to the first sign of hypothermia.
Fuck, what could it be? I jam my phone back into my pocket and shove both hands into my hair.
“What do you need?” Marge asks.
She doesn’t demand details, and I’m eternally grateful for her right now.
“A ride to the hospital. My car is at my house. Can you—”
My phone vibrates in my hand again. Mandy. I swipe to answer the call.
“What?” I bark.
I don’t have time to chat.
The hospital isn’t that far away. Maybe ten minutes from here. But every minute I’m away from Rory feels like torture.
“Nate, I know you’re worried. I get it,” Mandy says through the phone, her voice still way too damn calm for the situation.
“Do you get it?” I demand. “Do you get it? Because if you understood how I feel about this woman, you’d understand why I’m freaking out. Rory is my entire fucking world.”
“I know,” she says, and the way her voice softens makes me pause. “I know, Nate.”
I swallow hard against the lump that rises in my throat.
“Thank you,” I manage. I take a deep breath. “Please…please tell me she’ll be okay.”
Please let her be okay.
“She’s in good hands, Nate,” Mandy says. “I’ll hang on to Spam for now. Go be with your girl. And…she loves you, too, you know.”
“Thank you,” I say, my voice tight.
As I end the call, Marge points to the entrance, where Will the Teenage Uber Driver is waiting in his Prius.
“Thank you,” I say, this time to Marge.
I should explain or apologize for cutting our “date” short, but all I can think about is Rory.
Marge seems to understand, though.
“Go,” she says, shooing me toward the door, and I do.
I need to get to Rory.
She has to be okay.