Page 8 of Sweet Beloved

I can’t help but laugh. “Oh, is that what he’s been telling you boys? He probably thinks I don’t want you to know, but…please, it’s your dad.”

He nods, eyes round. “Yeah, that’s true.”

“Also, when have you ever seen me go to a bar?”

He stares, chewing at something. He’d better not have slipped some tobacco in there while my back was turned. An occasional cigarette is one thing, but I can’t handle chew. “Huh, well, I always thought you had a one-night stand or something. I know you weren’t married when you had me.”

Telling my son his father knocked me up on purpose, without my explicit permission, is a step over my line. I just shake my head.

“Nope. He just won me over with his craziness,” I say. “But don’t do what he did. You be nice to any girls you go out with. And wear a condom.”

“Jesus, Mom. I’m getting out of here,” he says, grabbing his coffee. “You need a ride home tonight?”

I have my own truck now, but I don’t take it out much. Deacon taught me how to drive after Slate was born, just so I had the freedom, but turns out, I didn’t like it much, so I rarely drive myself. Deacon drops me off most mornings. If he’s busy, Slate will pop by and pick me up on his way back from Sovereign Mountain or South Platte.

“I thought you were out with the head of shorthorn?”

“I can be back in time if you need a ride.”

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” I say.

“Sounds good,” he says, pulling open the door, coffee in hand. “See you later.”

I smile as I watch him cross the street. My heart is warm, full of pride. I’d be lying if I said raising four boys didn’t intimidate me. After all, I spent my life prior to Deacon being terrorized bymen. But slowly, with Deacon’s help, I’ve come to believe that, with care, I can raise good people.

I do worry. But I also trust Deacon, and I trust myself.

It’s around four, right as I’m closing up for the night, when Tracy appears. She’s fully gray now, but she’s still got those signature leopard print glasses balanced on her nose. I hold the door for her as she trundles through with a bag of groceries and a yellow envelope tucked under her arm.

“Good day or bad day?” she says, setting the plastic bag on the counter.

“Good day,” I say, locking the door and flipping the sign. “Slow, but we still turned a profit.”

She nods, starting to take out butter and flour and stack it. “Listen, I’ve got a city hall meeting tomorrow I can’t get out of. God, if I could get back all the time I’ve spent in meetings, I could live twice. Anyway, can you come in for a few hours in the afternoon?”

Mentally, I check my calendar. “I think so,” I say.

She nods, holding out the yellow envelope. “Oh, and this is for you.”

I take it, opening the top. She heads into the back room, humming as she turns on her computer. Frowning, I slide the papers inside onto the counter. There’s a lot of print on the page, but up top runs an obvious line of black ink. It’s a deed for a building downtown.

“Tracy? What do you want me to do with this paperwork?” I call.

She puts her head out. “I want you to keep it.”

“For what?”

“Jesus, honey, it’s the deed for the café,” she says, disappearing again. “It’s yours now. We just have to go down to city hall and get everything set up. I’ll have my lawyer give Jay Reed a call.”

Shock runs like electricity through my entire body. I think I say something, but I can’t hear myself. Tracy and I have worked closely together on this business for years, but she never once said anything about wanting me to take it over. Honestly, the thought never crossed my mind that I, Freya Hatfield, who came from nothing, would ever get to be a business owner.

It’s one of those moments where the world goes a little bit still and I see everything in perspective.

All the fears I had that seemed so big are resolved.

“Tracy,” I call.

There’s a short silence. Then, she appears with her purse over her shoulder again, her brows raised. There’s a bittersweet lump in my throat. I hold out the paper, unable to speak for a second. Then, I sniff, trying to pretend my lashes aren’t wet.

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