Wow, what a high. This is why I love what I do. This is what Ilivefor. Making customers happy, especially the most difficult ones.
Ethan and I are still beaming at each other, over the miracle that we both witnessed, when the bell above the door chimes behind me, the cold gust of air as it opens making me shiver.
My stomach drops, dread washing over me. Maryann must be back. She’s taken a few more sips and she hates it. We’re back at square one. I ready myself to face her, schooling my expression from one of pure elation to professional pleasantry, and I spin on my heel.
A mix of relief and newly budding anxiety war inside me when I see that it’s not Maryann standing in the door, but a man in an ill-fitting grey suit.
His thin, wispy comb-over sticks up when he takes off his hat and approaches the counter. I recognize him from somewhere, though I can’t quite place him.
“Poppy Thorne?” He asks, his voice wary and shaky.
“That’s me,” I answer. And suddenly at the sound of his voice, I remember how I know him.
“We’ve met once before, I’m Craig.” He holds out a sweaty palm for me to shake. “I’m the lawyer taking care of your aunt’s will.”
“Craig, right,” I squeak out.
I never committed his name to memory, my grief too fresh at the will reading to pay attention to anything else.
There was never a doubt in my mind that I’d get the café, my aunt had raised me, after all. My father was only present for the day I was conceived, and my mother realized not long after that she wasn’t cut out for motherhood.
My parents’ absence should have affected me more. I should have more of a complex that comes with abandonment as a child. But the truth is, my aunt made sure that my childhood was never lacking in love. I grew up in the apartment above Thistle + Thorne, always welcomed home with a hug and a hot cup of cocoa.
I try to think of somewhere private to go and talk, since I don’t know the nature of his visit, and I don’t exactly want to discuss matters regarding the café in front of any customers. But my apartment has been in complete disarray from the last few days—my most recent arthritis flare up was nearly debilitating, and I still have piles of laundry and dishes waiting to be done.
I’m used to it by now. I was diagnosed with Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis as a pre-teen, and suffered the symptoms long before anyone ever knew what it was.
My doctors tell me I’m special. A special case, that is, where the juvenile part of my diagnosis doesn’t really mean anything, and my arthritis has continued to attack my body well into adulthood.
Which means occasionally, everything piles up, andbetween managing the café and the plant shop next door, I’m also catching up on the household chores that didn’t get done. I’ve been putting them off, so any amount of energy I do have, I can use for work.
The small table by the window of the café will have to do.
Craig is rifling through the black leather briefcase he brought with him and pulling out an assortment of loose papers when I take the seat across from him, and set down two cups of fresh coffee between us.
I chew my bottom lip as I wait for him to fill me in on why he’s here. I thought we’d settled Aunt Dahlia’s will weeks ago, so my nerves are roiling around in my gut.
It had been fairly cut and dry, her will was straight forward and to the point. Aunt Dahlia never had any children, and I know she saw me as one, so virtually everything came to me.
We had a special relationship, her and I. She was larger than life, a force to be reckoned with. And while I was often misunderstood for my quirky interests and strange hobbies, Aunt Dahlia embraced my love of horror movies, my obsession with knitting, and she never made me feel like I had to be anyone but myself.
I loved her so much, and grief stabs at my chest when I think about her now. I’m honoured to carry on her legacy with the café. All I’ve been waiting on is the official transfer of the deed.
So now, my hands are clammy at the fact that Craig has come here, weeks after everything was settled.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here, Ms. Thorne,” Craig says, now that he’s finally organized and ready to get down tobusiness.
I nod, waiting for him to elaborate.
“As you know, we’ve been in the final stages of transferring over the estate.”
I nod again, this time a little more impatiently.
“There was a small oversight when we reviewed your aunt’s will. One small issue to resolve before everything can go through.” His tone is hesitant, as if he’s not sure how to explain the dilemma.
“Sure, what do I need to do?” I ask. I don’t care what it will take at this point; I just want to see the deed to Thistle + Thorne with my name on it.
“You’ll need to get married.”
