Mentally, Genevieve prepared herself the way she’d prepare herself for a yearlong voyage.
Mom released her hand to take a bite of strawberry. “Talk to me about how things are going with your publisher, the women’s conferences you’ve headlined recently, your friends, your dating life.”
Oy.
“Also, have you been eating enough?” Mom pushed the egg platter closer to her. “Sleeping enough?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Are you managing your loneliness?”
Because Genevieve was single, Mom constantly projected loneliness onto her. “Singleness doesn’t equal loneliness,” she said lightly.
Mom took a sip of coffee. “I want to knoweverything.”
Had any of Sam’s employees ever had the nerve to arrive at his restaurant before he did, he’d have taken it personally.
So far, none had.
The morning after Genevieve Woodward had interrupted his life like an unwelcome news bulletin in the middle of regularly scheduled programming, Sam approached Sugar Maple Kitchen’s front door, keys in hand.
At five in the morning, downtown Misty River was still mostly asleep beneath a comforter of darkness. Only Merrie at the Doughnut Hut down the street clocked in before he did.
In the light of a streetlamp, Sam scanned the sidewalk in front of his restaurant for rubbish. None. With the help of a designer, he’d chosen dark gray paint for Sugar Maple Kitchen’s historic wooden exterior. The gray words stenciled across the two large windows on either side of the front door readCoffee—Baked Goods—Breakfast.
He neared the yellow mums and pale green potato vines he’d planted in tall pots. “How you doing there, lovely?” He tapped a flower, then rubbed one of the vine’s leaves between two fingers. “Good on ya, then.” He moved to the next pot. “Looking beautiful,” he murmured. “Excellent. Everything’s fine. It’s going to be a hot one today, but nothing to worry about. I’ll be back with water later. You’re doing well, all of you. Very well indeed. You’ve made me proud.”
He let himself inside, disabled the security system, and switched on lights.
The Kitchen had once been a pub called The Crow’s Nest, built in 1868. The eighteen foot long bar was the only original item that remained. The wall behind it that had once housed liquor bottles now housed coffee mugs, teacups, small plates, glasses of all sizes, a coffee grinder, and an espresso machine.
He slid behind the bar and began making himself a cup of espresso. The familiar movements of grinding the coffee beans intothe portafilter, applying pressure with the tamper, and locking the portafilter into the espresso machine centered him.
He began every workday this way. For that matter, he executed every day of every week by following the same routine. The Kitchen opened for breakfast at seven o’clock and closed at one o’clock, six days out of seven.
Yesterday, Monday, had been his day off. Genevieve had gotten it off to such a bad start that he’d been on edge for the rest of the day. It had been difficult to relax and even more difficult to get Genevieve out of his head. In part because she stirred up painful memories of Kayden; in part because Genevieve herself wasn’t an easy person to forget. Like a frustrating itch, thoughts of her wouldn’t go away.
He intended to follow his usual schedule to aTtoday in an effort to recover his balance. Wake at 4:10. Put in his hours at The Kitchen. Hit the gym. Arrive home around two-thirty to work on the farm. Stay so busy that sorrow wouldn’t have a chance to swallow him. Avoid questioning what the point of his life was. Convince himself that he could stand to pass all the rest of his days this exact same way.
The first sip of coffee was always the best sip. He took his time tasting his espresso, smelling its rich scent, observing the quiet interior of his restaurant. The espresso was excellent. Everything inside The Kitchen was in order. And still, sadness swept up from the floor and curled around his legs, trying to drag him down. Angrily, he pushed it away and carried his cup to the small office in the back of house. As was his custom, he checked email while he slowly finished his coffee.
A knock sounded on the restaurant’s back door right on time, and he admitted his three sous chefs so they could begin the complicated dance of baking pastries and prepping components for the dishes customers ordered off the menu.
Sam was both The Kitchen’s owner and head chef. He’dpainstakingly created the menu himself and still worked beside his sous chefs in the hours before the restaurant opened for business. After they opened, he’d spend most of his time either expediting orders or working in his office.
Thirty minutes later, he kneaded paleo cinnamon roll dough, the feel of it smooth beneath his hands.
Thirty minutes after that, he answered Mrs. Samuelson’s knock on the restaurant’s front door. She insisted on buying a coffee from him every morning at six-thirty, prior to opening. She always thanked him before placing $1.75 on the bar. Coffee cost $2.50. A fact he never mentioned to her.
Fifteen minutes after that, the waitstaff and baristas arrived.
Star, with the dyed black hair and tattoos on her neck, stopped before him, waiting until she gained his attention. “How was your day off?” she asked.
I had to deal with a long-haired addict who was sleeping inmy guesthouse on a pile of her own clothes.“Pretty good, thanks. Yours?”
As she answered, she regarded him with the sort of frank admiration that communicated romantic interest.
He didn’t reciprocate.
