Before I can ask what he’s going to do today, he’s gone, with Jameson plodding along at his heels. Thankfully, what I wrote was not terrible, and I soon pack up and head out to start another day of learning about the different programs for the vets.
The following night, Topper lets me have my own golf cart to go back and forth. I’m eager to transcribe the notes from my sit-down with Thatcher. Tonight’s opera isMadama Butterfly.
Thatcher Green, former Sergeant First Class with the Army Rangers, runs his kitchen the way he once ran missions—with a kind of focus that leaves no room for chaos. He spent over a decade in the military, serving alongside Duke and Georgia on operations most people will never read about. The military left its marks—faint scars along his forearms, a stiffness in his right shoulder—but it also taught him rhythm, discipline, and calm under pressure.
He’s not an intimidating man so much as a commanding one. Tall, broad through the chest, his dark hair kept hair trimmed and neat. There’s a warmth in his eyes, though—hazel shot through with gold—that softens everything when he smiles.
I asked him what he most enjoys about cooking.
“Cooking’s about precision, routine and structure,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel. “There’s rhythm in it. You prep, you cook, you clean—it’s all motion with purpose. After the Army, I needed that again.”
Watching him teach a class is like watching therapy in motion—steady, deliberate, healing. He’s built a space where the broken learn to create again.
I smile and sip from the bottle of San Pellegrino I brought over.
Not bad, Roxanne. Not bad at all.
The library has become my favorite place to disappear to at night. It’s quiet, but not too quiet. Cozy, but not smothering. The overhead lights are dimmed, casting a warm amber glow over the room. My laptop hums quietly, the cursor blinking beneath a sentence that actually doesn’t make me cringe. It feels so good that my words are coming again. Slowly, but they’re coming.
I’m about to craft a new paragraph about Thatcher Green walking me through how he elevates the breakfast casserole when the familiar scent of cedarwood and soap wafts into the library.
Something warm zings through me when I glance up and my eyes meet Duke’s. I turn down my music as he takes his cap off and fidgets with it. His worn henley is pushed up past his rippled forearms, and there’s the faintest smudge of dirt scattered across his cheek.
Duke steps in slowly and suddenly the air feels heated … charged. Jameson runs to my side, sits and pants with his tongue out, waiting for me to scratch in the special place behind his ear that I find instantly nowadays.
“Missed you at dinner again,” I say.
His eyes bounce around the room before he takes a seat in the chair opposite the desk. “Been working on the fences in the pasture. Did you get another good interview?”
“Yes, Thatcher. He … wow, the stories he has to tell.”
“He is an exceptional human being, and he’s the only one who can make chicken and dumplings the way I like it.”
I lean back and smile. “He said you really worked closely with him to design the menu. Did you have aspirations to be a chef?”
His eyes narrow. “That sounds suspiciously like an interview question to me.”
“It’s not. I’ve been enjoying the food so much and want to also understand what led you to your passion for it.”
Duke fidgets with his cap for a few moments before answering. “I’ve been a little bit of a foodie in my civilian life and when you only eat MREs while deployed, you realize that vets deserve better when they come home. When I hired Thatcher to run the kitchen, I asked if I could help design the menus. He trained me a little in the kitchen and together we brought the food to life.”
“Ahh,” I say. “That makes sense.”
Silence settles on us for a few beats too long. Jameson jumps when Duke rises from his chair. “Anyway, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Oh, you didn’t.”
He nods once and then turns toward the door before stopping.
“I was thinking…” he starts, then clears his throat. “If it’s too difficult to get back and forth from here to the lodge, or if it’s uncomfortable … you don’t have to use this space. We could expand the Wi-Fi to your area of the lodge.”
The air sharpens.
“It’s not uncomfortable for me here,” I say carefully. “Is it for you? That I’m here, I mean.”
His eyes flick to mine, and he hesitates. “No. It’s … I figured maybe you’d want more privacy.”
“I’m absolutely comfortable here as long as I’m not disturbing you.”
