Page 44 of The Promise Of You

They further press that, actually, most men, including Justin, have high romantic potential and all sorts of bonus attributes. They seem to speak from experience. “You just caught him on a real bad day.”

Moving on.

On Friday, Cass, aka Cassandra, the woman with the blue-streaked hair, joins our little circle at Easy Monday. She’s some sort of business leader in Emerald Creek, being the owner of a famous lingerie shop in the back of which she hosts Game Nights. She broaches the topic of an upcoming town fair in which she strongly suggests the restaurant participate. “It would be great exposure for you.”

I glance at what I consider my team. “We always told Kevin he should do it,” Abby ventures. Corine nods.

I turn to Cassandra. “Done.”

“Fantastic! The Events Committee will be meeting about this. You’ll need to come. Details will be in Echoes.”

This is when I learn that Echoes is Emerald Creek’s own Social Media platform. Cassandra blushes when she realizes I haven’t been invited yet. This is remedied within minutes, and I am now flooded with notifications of the latest gossip as well as important news such as, Daisy has been sighted next to the covered bridge. Please slow down.

I’m informed Daisy is a cow with wandering tendencies.

On Sunday, to my surprise, Chef does show up at our work meeting. I ask him for his menu costing, which he doesn’t have. I ask him for his recipes, so we can start working on costing. He points to his head. “All in here.”

“That needs to be written down. Standardized. I need this by Tuesday. And Wednesday we’ll do some menu training. Abby and David need to be able to upsell.”

He clenches his jaw, again, but he knows I’m right. There’s always a lot of jaw clenching where Samuel is concerned.

Then I broach menu changes, and he pushes back. I let it go for now. Until I have the menu costing, that is.

We manage to part amicably.

I’ll call it a win.

It’s the middle of the day Sunday when I walk into the antique shop.

It’s hours later when I walk out, squint in the dipping sun, and smile like a goof.

I found a pine chest and two night tables for the bedroom. A small farmhouse table and four adorably mismatched chairs to go around it with little flat cushions in sage green attached to them with bows. Two cozy armchairs for the living room and a boho throw for the couch. Two fat tree stumps polished to a shine that are almost free and will be perfect as side tables. A set of four plates with a hand-painted, red covered bridge and three matching mugs. Seven silver-plated spoons and five stem glasses.

With no rent to pay since it’s included in the restaurant lease, and a cushy severance package, I can afford the indulgence.

Also, I deserve it.

My little cottage is going to be so cozy!

I’ve already returned the U-Haul, but the owner of the antique shop offers to deliver everything for free that very afternoon. “Autumn, my daughter, will help me. You go on and relax. I know exactly where you’re at,” he tells me just by seeing my name on the credit card. “We close at five. We’ll be at your place around six.”

I spend the rest of the afternoon exploring. I eat ice cream, dip my toes in the river, and promise myself to always have a bathing suit with me this summer.

I drive back home, take a shower, and wear cutoff shorts and a tank top. The antique shop owner and his daughter arrive, as promised, at six. Autumn is in her twenties, with a mass of copper curls cut to her shoulders and beautiful freckles all over her porcelain skin. She compliments me on my choices while I help them unload the truck.

“A little welcome gift for you,” Autumn says, setting three wooden candle holders and three natural wax candles on the farmhouse table. She steps back to look at the space. “Amazing what a little furniture can do!”

My cottage does look more and more like a home. My home.

We did good work, and it’s the end of the day. This calls for something. I open the fridge. “A beer?”

They exchange a glance. “We need to be somewhere,” Autumn says. “Next time? We might have just the right wicker furniture set for your porch.”

“Next time, for sure.”

After they leave, I sit on a plastic chair on the porch, drink a beer alone, mesmerized by the view on the rolling hills set ablaze by the setting sun. Porch furniture would be nice, but this is close to perfect already. I’m having a slice of quiche from Easy Monday when Moose ambles up the driveway, to my porch, and lies with his head on his paws, tongue to the floor.

I bring him a bowl of water and pet him. He drinks and flops himself on his back for a belly rub.

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