I take a deep breath, looking around at my coffee shop. Mine. The reality of it still hasn’t fully sunk in. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Here, let’s get these laid out,” she says, setting the boxes on the counter. “I made extra of the maple pecan danishes. They were one of Mac’s best sellers, so you’ll already have a captive audience.”
We work in comfortable silence for a while, arranging pastries in the display case. Catherine has an eye for presentation I’m grateful for—each item placed just so, creating an inviting array of treats.
“You know,” Catherine says as she adjusts a row of muffins, “your mother would be so proud of you.”
The mention of Mom makes my throat tight. “Yeah?”
Catherine pauses, her eyes soft with memory. “Oh yes. This was her dream too, you know.”
I nearly drop the scone I’m holding. “What do you mean?”
“Special Blend.” Catherine gestures around us. “Elena used to talk about it all the time when we were young. She’d say she was going to go away, become a famous singer, make her fortune…” She chuckles softly. “And then she’d come back here and buy Special Blend from Old Mac. She used to have a part-time job here, you know?”
I set down the scone carefully, trying to process this information. “She never told me that.”
“I thought that’s why you bought this place.”
“I wanted a coffee shop to honor her because I always felt she would have been amazing at running one, but I never knew…”
I shake my head as I look around the space with new eyes, imagining my mom as a teenager serving coffee between these same walls. Did she stand where I’m standing now? Did she laugh with customers at this very counter? Suddenly, the coffee shop feels different—more meaningful, more personal. It’s like she’s here with me today, her presence woven into the very fabric of this place.
Maybe that’s why it felt so right to buy Special Blend, why it immediately felt like home. Some part of me recognized what she had loved about it all those years ago.
“Maybe this was always meant to be,” I say softly, running my hand along the polished counter. “Me coming to Maplewood, taking over Special Blend…”
Catherine’s smile turns knowing. “And finding other reasons to stay?”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “Is it that obvious?”
“Oh, sweetheart.” She laughs warmly. “I saw the way my son looked at you at Lottie’s party. And the way you looked at him.” She pauses her arranging to meet my eyes. “I haven’t seen Nate look at anyone like that in a very long time.”
My heart flutters at her words. “I really like him, Catherine.” The admission comes easily, perhaps because she’s Nate’s mom or because she reminds me so much of my mother—warm, understanding, accepting.
“I know you do.” She puts the tongs down and pulls me into a tight hug. “And I couldn’t be happier for both of you.” When she pulls back, her eyes are misty. “If only Elena could see you now…”
“She can,” I say with certainty, feeling the truth in my bones. “She has to. After all, it’s because of her that I’m here in Maplewood at all.”
Catherine cups my face, just like Mom used to. “You’re right. Now, let’s finish up so we can open the doors and welcome all your customers. I have a feeling you’ll need all the help you can get during the morning rush.”
She’s not wrong. The moment I flip theCLOSEDsign toOPEN, it seems like half of Maplewood pours through the door. The bell chimes constantly as people stream in, filling the shop with cheerful chatter and excitement. I love seeing familiar faces that have come in on the days I opened just for a few hours.
I lose myself in the rhythm of making drinks, grateful for my years of barista experience. Catherine proves invaluable, handling the register and keeping the line moving while I craft beverages.
“One maple latte with oat milk,” I call out, setting the drink on the counter. “And a pumpkin spice for Agnes!”
“Thank you, dear,” Agnes says, collecting both drinks. “The Rocktogenarians have become quite addicted to your special blends. We’re having band practice later. These will keep us going.”
It’s nearly noon when there’s finally a lull in the crowd. I’m wiping down the counter when the bell chimes again. I look up to see four men entering—two of them I recognize as Ben and Indy from the other day. The other two are the twins I didn’t get to meet at the grocery store.
“Can I have a hot chocolate, please?” a small voice asks from the other side of the counter, and I spot Bailey bouncing excitedly beside Ben.
“Can I have a cinnamon bun?” another child—this must be Tyler—asks, pressing his face against the display case.
The two men I haven’t met step forward, extending their hands. “I’m Tristan,” the first one says.
“And I’m Tate,” adds the second.
