Muriel grimaces. “That was painful. And I’m not talking about the therapist working my hip.”
“Oh, stop,” I chastise and move to flop down in the old Queen Anne chair adjacent to the couch. I kick off my heels and curl my legs under me. “Those sweet church ladies are just doing what they do best, and it’sone of the most amazing things about Southern small-town living.”
Muriel harrumphs. “They just want me to get better so I can get back to making biscuits for everyone. Besides, I have to listen to them talk about the Bible before they’ll turn over the cake, and you know I don’t have patience with that.”
I snicker, ducking my head and covering my mouth. Muriel’s a heathen at her core. When I meet her eyes, I chide again. “Just leave them be and let them fuss.”
“What I need is for everybody to stop fussing and for this hip to remember who it works for.” Muriel leans back and the fight fades a fraction. “It was one tray of pies. One. I turned, the rug turned different, and now we’re all eatin’ gas-station biscuits like sinners.”
My heart squeezes because, although she’s trying to make light of her broken hip, I can hear both pain and fear in her voice.
“I passed Central on my way in.” My voice wobbles and I steady it with humor. “I didn’t realize you were closing it.”
Muriel’s mouth tightens. “Got nobody to run it, Penny Bean.”
My mouth curves at the use of my nickname that only a handful of people still call me. “What do you mean? You have a dedicated staff—”
“—that know how to cook and serve people, butthey don’t know how to run the operations. They know how to do their very singular jobs and that’s it.”
I consider that. The only people who could even remotely step in to help run the café would be my parents, but they packed up and moved to southern Florida two years ago. My daddy, Harlan, Muriel’s big brother, swore he’d never scrape ice off a windshield again, and my mama, Ruthie, needed the warmth for her lupus. They’re happy down there, sunning themselves year-round, while Muriel kept the family roots right here in Whynot.
Muriel smiles at me. “I’m so pleased you came to visit but hate that I’m laid up. The good side is we got plenty of time to hang out and c. Tell me everything about life in DC and don’t leave out a single thing. Is work going good?”
I sink deeper into the chair, smiling. “Work’s good. Busy, but the kind of busy that feels like it counts.”
And it does. I lobby for a nonprofit that fights for small farmers and rural communities—people who don’t have corporations or lobbyists of their own to fight back. It’s equal parts policy, persuasion, and mayhem on the Hill. Most days, I’m trying to convince people in suits that the rest of America isn’t just high-rises and highways, that the folks growing our food deserve more than the leftovers of attention.
I love it, even when it chews me up. Every time wesecure funding for sustainable farming or keep a family from losing their land, it feels like proof I’m not shouting into the void. That what I do matters.
It also helps keep some of the guilt I have over leaving Whynot at bay. I do what I do because it helps the very community I grew up in.
Still, there are nights when I leave those marble hallways and wonder if I’m just patching holes in a boat too stubborn to stay afloat. Maybe that’s what makes the work addictive—the illusion that if I push hard enough, I can keep it from sinking.
Muriel’s eyes glint with mischief. “Are you still dating that senator’s aide?”
I wrinkle my nose because he was a pompous ass. “No, I’m not. But let’s turn the attention back to you. What are you going to do about Central?”
She touches her temple as if her brain is working overtime. She’s not as unflappable as she wants to be. I know that tell because it’s the same one my boss does when he wants to “circle back” on a bill that should’ve been dead two committees ago.
Her hesitation has me worried because Muriel is as tough as they come. I add sternly, “Tell me the truth.”
She exhales. “Truth is—” She swallows and looks at her hands. “I’m scared I’m gonna lose the café.”
“What?” I exclaim, my feet kicking out from under me so I can sit straight up in the chair. “I don’t understand.”
Muriel’s gaze drops to her hands. “The orthopedic doctor and therapists say that it’s going to be another eight weeks before I’ll be well enough to get back to my duties. And in eight weeks, there won’t be a Central Café left to worry about.”
“But… but… why?”
“Because I have rent to pay, and employees, and they’re going to leave for other jobs. My rent is due next week, and while I might be able to get by with one month, two would put me under. I won’t be able to catch up. As you well know, that restaurant isn’t a pot of gold. I barely make a living off it and well… maybe I just need to sell it.”
“Oh, hell no!” I say, standing up and starting to pace. “That diner is your life. It’s your legacy.” Not to mention… I doubt she’d have any takers. It’s hard work for low financial reward. Muriel loves that place because it feeds her town and she’s adored by all. Her social outlet is directly tied to the restaurant and the gossip mill that weaves its way through the tables. It brings her joy and my fear is that if she gives it up, she’ll wither.
I spin on her. “What are the pressing problems?”
Muriel’s gaze slides to the window, stubbornness and shame doing a two-step. “Rent’s due next week. Two suppliers need paying, and the light bill came yesterday lookin’ mighty unfriendly. I had to keep paying the staff. Wasn’t fair to them, but after this week, I’ve got nothingelse to give ’em and then they’re going to scatter.”
A slice of anger cuts through me—not at her, but at how quickly a little bad luck can topple a good thing. This is exactly why I do what I do in DC—so small-town lives aren’t so fragile. So hardworking people don’t have to choose between medicine and groceries. Women like Muriel don’t watch a lifetime of work teeter because their hip betrayed them while carrying pies.
