“You look excited,” Lynda said.
“I’m excited and nervous,” Susan told her friend. “I didn’t expect to be, but I am. There’s something energizing about the possibility of working with a person who’s run successful restaurants. But I’m also worried. I wanted to step away from catering, but it hasn’t worked out that way.”
Isabel nodded. “At least no one thinks you’re crazy. When I bought the bookstore, my family couldn’t believe I was buying a business in my sixties, let alone in a small town. But it was the best decision I’ve ever made because it was something I chose, not something I had to do.”
“Exactly,” Lynda said. “Retirement isn’t about doing nothing. It’s about doing what matters to you. What fills you up instead of draining you.” She chose a piece of shortbread, studying it thoughtfully before continuing. “I never thought I’d meet a person who understood why I spend hours socializing a scared dog or researching the best nutrition for senior cats. But Matt changed everything.” She paused. “Finding someone who cares about the same things you do is an amazing gift.”
As Susan listened, the truth of her friends’ words sank in, and the kitchen fell silent. She thought about Paul and the way his eyes always lit up when they discussed food. And the way he listened to what she said made her feel valued.
“You’re right,” she said finally. “All of you. I spent years building a business out of necessity, and it was good work. But working with Paul will be different. I’m not doing it to pay bills or build my career.”
Isabel raised her coffee mug. “To taking risks. To new beginnings. And to doing things that excite us, because that’s how we know we’re still alive.”
Kathleen and Lynda lifted their cups, and Susan joined them. Tomorrow she’d meet with Paul. They’d talk about different ingredients and flavor combinations, about what it might mean to work together. The possibilities stretched out before her, full of promise.
And that, Susan realized, was exactly what she’d been waiting for.
Chapter 5
Paul wiped down the kitchen counter for the second time, then caught himself and stopped. The lunch service had ended an hour ago, and Harry had already left to pick up his daughter from daycare. Jenny was at the general store, collecting the order they’d made this morning. Everything was ready for his meeting with Susan, but he was ridiculously nervous.
She was coming to discuss working with him, not to judge his entire life’s work. Still, he checked the dining room one more time, making sure the corner booth he’d selected had good light and a clean table. He’d set out two coffee cups, a French press with his best ground beans, and a small plate of the lemon cookies he’d made that morning.
The bell above the front door chimed at exactly two o’clock.
Susan stepped inside, and Paul felt something in the air shift. She wore black jeans and a rust-colored sweater that made her silver hair look luminous. Under one arm, she carried a leather notebook. When she looked around the restaurant, it was with the type of confidence that he’d always admired in her.
“You’re on time,” he said, moving forward to greet her.
“Old habits.” She smiled, and he noticed the laugh lines around her eyes. “In my catering business, I couldn’t be late for anything.”
“It’s the same in a restaurant.” Paul gestured toward the booth. “I thought we could work here. It’s more comfortable than standing in the kitchen.”
“Sounds great.” Susan slid into the booth and set her notebook on the table. Then her eyes caught on the French press. “Is that your coffee maker? It looks old.”
“It was my dad’s.” The words came out before Paul could second-guess them. “When I was little, he told me it made magic coffee. I believed him for years.”
Susan’s eyes widened. “And now?”
“Now I know it doesn’t make magic coffee.” Paul poured for both of them. “But using it reminds me of Saturday mornings when I’d wake up to my dad and grandmother cooking breakfast together. Before everything got complicated.”
Before his grandmother and parents died. Before he’d decided that caring deeply about anything was too dangerous.
“Would you like cream and sugar?” he asked, pulling himself back from the edge of memories that could swallow him whole.
“Just black, thanks.” Susan wrapped her hands around the cup and inhaled deeply, her eyes closing for a moment. When she opened them, something had softened in her expression. “Oh, that’s good. What blend is it?”
“A Montana roaster out of Missoula makes it. Medium blend with notes of chocolate and hazelnut.” Paul settled into the opposite side of the booth, trying to ignore how right talking to Susan felt. “I’ve been working with them for about a year. Local products matter to my customers.”
He paused, suddenly uncertain. This meeting had seemed straightforward when he’d proposed it. They were two professionals discussing a collaboration. But now, sitting across from Susan, he realized he’d been lying to himself about his motivations.
This wasn’t only about the menu.
“So,” he said, forcing himself to focus on the reason for this meeting, “what would you like to know? About my restaurant and the food we serve, I mean. And...” He met her eyes and saw his own nervousness reflected there. “How do you feel about this? About working together?”
Susan tilted her head as she considered his question. “Honestly? I’m excited and a little nervous. It’s been a while since I’ve worked with another chef on something like this. For most of my career, I was the one who was in charge.”
“Same here,” Paul admitted. Relief washed through him. Susan was nervous too, which meant this mattered to her. “I’m not sure I was very good at working with anyone when I was younger. I was too focused on my own vision and career.”
