Chapter Thirteen
Ace
The Broken Spokehad never hit noise levels like this on a Saturday morning -- vendors calling out raffle numbers, kids darting between tables, sticky palms grabbing everything within reach, donated goods clattering into boxes near the register.I leaned behind the bar, coffee cooling in my hand, taking in a place that had shifted from bar to community center since we’d reopened.Locals trusted us enough to have their fundraisers and spend Saturday mornings under this roof.
Marci cut through the chaos like she owned every inch.She stopped at a vendor table, angled the sign advertising homemade preserves, laughed at whatever the woman said, then moved toward the kitchen -- efficient, confident, already solving the next problem before anyone else saw it coming.The auxiliary jacket sat perfectly on her shoulders,Property of Acebold enough to stand out even in a crowd.A familiar surge hit my chest -- possession, pride -- and I watched her navigate the floor without hesitation, not a single ounce of fear left in her posture.
Kane appeared at her elbow, notepad already open.She pointed toward the kitchen, said something I couldn’t make out over the noise, and he nodded fast while scribbling.The kid had shadowed her for two months now, learning the business side of running a bar, and she’d taken on the role of teacher through sheer instinct and patience he didn’t deserve yet.
“Another batch of sandwiches in twenty minutes,” she called toward the kitchen, her voice carrying across the room without effort.“Someone check the donation box -- overflow starting.”
I watched her direct traffic through hand signals and short instructions.Kane hustled to carry out every order.The entire operation ran smoothly because she’d designed the flow from the ground up.Before, she’d taken orders instead of giving them, jumped at every sharp noise, and kept her back against walls to protect herself.Now she stood in the center of controlled chaos and commanded the room without a hint of strain.
The shift happened slow enough I couldn’t mark the exact moment she stopped being the woman I shielded from the world and became the woman running half my business.Somewhere between nightmares fading and laughter arriving more often, she claimed authority no one even thought to challenge.Not staff.Not patrons.Not brothers who stopped by alongside their families and somehow ended up rearranging furniture under her direction.
I set my coffee aside and stepped over to unload a delivery of donated chairs for the raffle seating area.But my attention stayed locked on Marci as she worked the room.She crouched near a little girl searching for a dropped raffle ticket, spotted the slip under a table, and guided the kid toward it.When Marci straightened again, her smile hit me square in the chest.Unguarded.Easy.A smile born from someone who no longer expected pain to follow joy.
“Ace,” she called, spotting me across the room.“Can you grab more folding chairs from storage?”
I nodded and headed for the back.Months of working together had shaped a rhythm neither of us needed to discuss -- she handled the front, I handled logistics, both of us moving before problems formed.No planning sessions.No drawn-out conversations.Just seamless execution born from living side-by-side and memorizing each other’s patterns.
By the time I returned carrying six more chairs, she had adjusted food traffic and talked through the raffle system for an elderly couple looking overwhelmed.I placed the chairs exactly where her earlier gesture had pointed, no verbal confirmation required.A quick nod from her as she passed told me everything -- saw me, trusted me, counted on me.
The morning blurred into efficient motion.I jumped on the register when the line stretched too far.Marci coordinated food service, and Kane kept kids from turning the donated items into a jungle gym.By eleven, the fundraiser had already doubled the original goal, and the donation box beside the register overflowed from cash and checks stuffed into every corner.
“Mr.Ardis!”A regular I recognized from Tuesday nights waved from a vendor table.“This your lady’s doing?”
“She coordinated it,” I confirmed, moving closer.
“Tell her it’s the best organized event we’ve had in years.Woman’s got a gift for this.”
I found Marci near the kitchen reviewing the afternoon schedule with Kane, her finger tracing times on his notepad while she talked through coverage needs.The kid was nodding like his life depended on remembering every word.When she finished, he hurried off toward the storage room, and she turned to find me watching her.
“What?”She touched her face like she was checking for smudges.
“Nothing.Just thinking about how far we’ve come.”
Something softened in her expression.She closed the distance between us, her hand finding my forearm.“We have, haven’t we?”
The touch came casual and familiar, completely unconscious -- the sort of contact she never would have initiated when she’d first arrived.I laid my hand over hers, and the simple connection steadied something deep inside me, a feeling words never seemed to cover.
“Need to head out soon,” I said, keeping my voice low under the surrounding noise.“Want to show you something.”
Curiosity flickered across her face.“The house?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re terrible at surprises.”
“Never claimed otherwise.”
She laughed, the sound easy and bright, then squeezed my arm before turning back toward the bar.“Let me make sure Kane has the afternoon locked down.”
I watched her conferring alongside the Prospect, pointing out potential issues and backup solutions, planning contingencies through the same thoroughness she poured into everything now.When she finally nodded and stepped away, Kane looked relieved and determined at the same time.
We headed toward the door, pausing for goodbyes and thank-yous from patrons who had become familiar faces during months of rebuilding.Mrs.Hendriks from the diner hugged Marci like family.The veterans who played poker every Thursday shook my hand in gruff approval.A little boy asked whether we’d return for his birthday party next month, and Marci promised we would without a second of doubt.
The community had claimed us.Had decided we belonged.Had proven through fundraisers, birthday parties, and Tuesday-night regulars that we had become woven into the fabric of Bryson Corners in a way Mercer could never grasp or destroy.
