4. Zara
ZARA
Jessica walks into the kitchen as I’m dicing a tomato. Her golden-brown hair is pulled up under a hairnet, and her mouth curves into a crooked smile. The thick, diagonal scar from the corner of her mouth to her jaw fights a full smile, but it doesn’t distract from the happy glow in her eyes.
“Looks like someone recently got some.” Keshia chuckles, measuring flour and pouring it into the industrial mixer.
“Maybe I’m just having a great day,” Jess singsongs.
I laugh, the sound a low rumble in my throat. “No, you definitely had a little action before coming here. And I bet if I visited Troy, I’d find him humming.”
Jess grabs an apron from the hook on the wall and loops it over her head. “ Hmm . I don’t think I’ve ever heard him hum.”
“She’s deflecting.” Keshia puts her hands on her hips, her smug look almost comical.
“Yep. She definitely is.” I grin at my friend who has lived in Maple Ridge for a little more than a year. When I first met Jess, she was struggling with complex PTSD. She’s far from fully healed yet, but she is doing a lot better. Thanks to Troy—one of Garrett’s brothers.
“That boyfriend of yours must be doing something right.” Keshia laughs, a wistfulness in her expression I don’t want to examine given my own sorry sex life.
“I just spoke with Sabrina Duncan,” Jess tells us, clearly wanting to change the direction of our conversation. “Did you know she’s selling her store?”
“She is? Why?” I put my knife on the butcher block.
“She wants to move to Texas, where her grandbabies live.”
“I do know she misses seeing them every day.” Speaking with them on Zoom is just not the same as doing so in person. “I wonder if she has anyone interested in the store?”
Jess walks to the island counter. “We didn’t exactly get into that. She started showing me photos of her adorable grandkids.”
The square footage of Mountain Lore would be perfect for Picnic & Treats. Lord, the things I would do if I could expand the café. But for that to happen, it means the space has to become available for lease. And that won’t happen if someone buys the business from Sabrina.
I tap my finger on my leg as I contemplate the possibilities. “I think I’ll ask Sabrina before I go home about her plans. I’m curious what they are.”
“Curious for any reason?” Jess scoops the steamed jasmine rice into a bowl for the order she’s working on.
Eyebrows raised, Keshia looks over her shoulder at me, the same question echoed in her delicate features.
“I might have been thinking lately about what I would do if I could expand Picnic & Treats.”
Jess stops ladling the rice into the bowl and turns to me. “You have?”
“Yes. Hypothetically.”
“The café certainly is busy enough for you to expand.”
“I agree. But like I said, it’s all hypothetical. First, the store next door needs to be vacant. If someone buys Sabrina’s business, the dream of expanding will remain just that. A dream.”
“If no one buys it, would you then go ahead with your goal?”
“If the hypothetical became reality? Possibly. It depends on what expenses the building’s landlord would cover. He might not want to deal with the hassle of converting the two business spaces into one—unless the business owner pays out of pocket for the renovations.”
I would need to review my contract for starters. There might also be a clause that prevents me from knocking down walls. “But if I could make my dream a reality, I would do some of the renovations myself.” To save money.
The ever-present pain in my neck and shoulder hollers, The hell with that. I ignore it, like I do most of the time. Thanks to the ibuprofen I took two hours ago, the pain isn’t screaming as loudly as it might have been. It’s currently a dull roar.
I pick up my knife and resume dicing tomatoes to keep from rubbing my aching joints. That would only draw Keshia’s and Jess’s attention to the pain, which I’d rather avoid.
If I could grow Picnic & Treats, however, I could earn more money and maybe even take on more staff.
Then I’d have more time to focus on my health since I’d have more people to cover me when I wasn’t at the café.
Plus, I could do more for this community—especially the women-owned businesses in the area.
Excitement buzzes beneath my skin the more I think about the idea of expanding P&T. “Of course, this is all hypothetical,” I remind Keshia and Jess. I need to talk to Sabrina first, before I get too ahead of myself.
Anastasia rushes into the kitchen a short time later. “Zara!”
A man’s loud voice follows my head server through the open door, the heat in it enough to scorch anyone in his path. “I work my ass off all day while you sit around doing nothin’.”
Shit. I race into the main part of the café, Anastasia right behind me, and stop at the counter.
The usually noisy café is unnaturally quiet, everyone’s attention turned to a man standing next to a table by the windows. He’s towering over a seventeen-year-old girl, her eyes wide, face pale. Her two friends appear equally terrified, ready to bolt, yet unwilling to abandon her .
“Get your ass out of here.” Spittle flies from his mouth and hits her face.
She recoils as if the droplets sizzled through her skin but doesn’t say anything or make an attempt to stand. The friend next to her moves her hand under the table—possibly in a gesture of support. I can’t see it from where I’m standing.
No one else moves or speaks. Worried gazes dart to the exit.
It’s not unusual to see men in the café at this time of day, grabbing food here with their friends instead of at Barside Brewery. But right now, the only males present are a group of teenage boys who don’t look any older than fifteen. Too young to stand up to the man. Too young to protect the girl.
“ Get up .” The man sways on his feet, alcohol no doubt pumping through his veins.
“Call nine-one-one.” My words are spoken softly so only Anastasia can hear them. “Tell them we have a potentially violent customer.”
Hopefully, there’s a cop nearby who can get here before things escalate. Before the girl or someone else gets hurt.
In the meantime…
I rush past stunned customers sitting at the other tables. All seem frozen, unsure how to proceed.
“Hi, is there something I can do to help?” My voice is surprisingly calm, the direct opposite of the fast-thumping pulse in my ears. My gaze rests briefly on the girl, hopefully making it clear to her that I’m on her side.
“This is none of your business.” The man’s voice is a sharp whip, and he straightens to his full height. He’s a good four inches taller than me. Slightly intimidating? Yes. But his height doesn’t completely faze me.
Garrett insisted a few years ago that I learn self-defense. I haven’t practiced the moves in a while, but I’m sure they’ll come to me if I’m pushed too far.
“Actually, it is my business. The café’s my business.
Ensuring my customers’ safety is my business.
” I’m standing a few feet from him, but the reek of booze on his breath rolls over me in nauseating waves.
“I could get you a coffee. And maybe we can sit down and talk.” A large thermos of coffee wouldn’t be enough to sober him, but it would buy me time until the cops arrive.
Please be on the way.
“I don’t need coffee. And she doesn’t need to be here.” He points to the girl with a mean jab of his finger. “She needs to be home, cookin’ dinner and cleanin’ the house.”
The girl picks up her backpack from the floor, her hands shaking. The leather is well-worn, the bag once expensive and stylish. The fabric of her top and jeans are also well-worn, but not in the intentional way designers charge a lot for. Nor are her clothes, from the looks of it, a cheap brand.
Stall them. Stall them till the cops get here.
I casually step between the man and the girl. In my periphery, I note several phone cameras directed our way. I release a slow, steadying breath. Hopefully, he won’t try anything foolish, knowing his every action is being recorded.
The man snatches up the chair next to him, holding it up like a baseball bat.
And a sharp, collective gasp falls over the room.
Air leaves my lungs in quick, shallow breaths, and my heartbeat is a loud, rhythmic boom-boom-boom in my chest.
I slowly shake my head, warning the man not to do something stupid. Careful not to make a sudden move and risk him lashing out at me or someone else.
He leans past me. “Sarah. Now.”
“Yes, Papa.” Held-back tears quiver her voice, the volume barely louder than a whisper. “I’m sorry, Papa.”
Shit . What do I do? I shift to the side, blocking her again from his view. “You’re not sober. And you’re not in the right state of mind for her to go anywhere with you.” I bolster the words with a bravery I don’t feel. A bravery I hope he’s too inebriated to see through.
“You don’t get a say in what I can and can’t do. I’m her father.” He slams the chair on the edge of the table. Large pieces of the chair go flying, and several people shriek .
The ceramic vase on the table topples onto its side. I don’t try to save it, and the vase rolls off the edge and smashes on the floor.
I avoid glancing down to check the damage. I’m focused on the man in front of me, who is now holding what looks like a deadly weapon. A stake.
The sound of rustling clothes, clicking of shoes against tile, jingling of bells above the door hints that some customers are escaping to safety. I don’t turn to see how many remain.
My body is shaking—either from fear or the surge of adrenaline—but hopefully not hard enough for him to notice. I refuse to let him think he has the upper hand or for him to believe I’m easily intimidated.
“You don’t want to hurt anyone,” I say, praying it’s true. Praying the alcohol is dictating his actions, and I can talk sense into him before it’s too late.
Shit. Where are the cops?
Not a single siren breaks through the fear in the café, letting us know help is on the way. The sour taste of dismay and concern sits in the back of my throat.
Someone behind me whimpers. Possibly one of the girl’s friends.
“Move it, Sarah!”
Spittle hits the side of my face. I don’t so much as flinch, my body rigid, muscles taut.
“No—you can’t go with him.” The faux bravery in my voice softens to a plea.
“Whatever you do, don’t leave with him.” I can’t protect you if you do.
“He’s in no state to drive.” My next words are directed at the man, gentled so as not to anger him further.
“You could get in an accident and get you both killed. You don’t want that, do you? ” Please tell me you’re not suicidal.
“I’m fine,” he snaps.
“No, you’re not. You’re barely standing upright. You’re drunk.” My tone remains steady, designed to lull him into compliance. Or ideally lull him to sleep.
“I’m not drunk. I only had one beer.”
A keg of beer, more like it .
“Please, if you leave like this, you might end up doing something you’ll later regret.”
He lifts the splintered piece of wood, as if to strike me over the head. I step out of his reach. The edge of the table behind me lightly presses into the backs of my thighs.
He mutters something I can’t make out, the red of his face darkening.
Jess. Is she still in the kitchen? She spent five years married to an abusive husband—a marriage that left her struggling with complex PTSD. What if seeing this triggers a flashback, which she gets from time to time?
Sirens wail from down the street. Thank God.
I almost slump in relief, but now’s not the time to let my guard drop.
The man doesn’t seem to notice the sirens or doesn’t care. He remains in front of me, the anger in his face going nowhere.
The sirens stop with a half-gurgled yip outside Picnic & Treats. I don’t dare shift my attention from the assailant to glance out the window. Don’t dare to check if the cops are here responding to Anastasia’s 9-1-1 call, or if they’re outside the building for some other reason.
Murmured voices surround me, but I can’t hear what’s being said. The tapping of fingers on phone screens accompanies the voices—the soft music before all hell breaks loose in a movie.
The door chime jingles again, and two officers enter the café. The man turns to them, his makeshift weapon drawn and ready.
I briefly register one of the cops is Noah, a friend of mine. Then I turn to the girls and gesture for them to get down. The four of us duck under the table. We aren’t the only ones. Chairs scrape across the floor as people scramble to get out of the way.
Lord , please tell me we’ll make it out of here unharmed.