Page 9 of Sweet Beloved

“What does this mean?” I ask.

Her face softens, reminding me of the day she hired me on. I was nothing but a scared girl, desperate for a place to go that wasn’t my abusive home. Now I know she saw that, and she gave me a safe haven out of more than just the need for hired help.

“I don’t want to hear any nonsense about you not wanting this old place,” Tracy says, her voice gentle. She pushes her leopard glasses up the bridge of her nose. Maybe her eyes glitter. It’s hard to tell. “You love the café, and I’m stretched pretty thin these days.”

I’m silent, the paper still in my hand.

“Go home and talk to Deacon about it,” she says. “But don’t go telling me no.”

My hand comes back, pressing the paper to my chest. “What does this mean for you?”

She considers the question, head tilted. “I think it means I get to rest. I’ve been working nonstop for years. It’s time.”

My smile is shaky. “You’ve been talking about slowing down for as long as I’ve known you. I just…never thought you’d actually do it.”

“I wasn’t ready then.” She tucks a bit of hair behind her ear. “I am now.”

I open my mouth to reply, but she wraps me up in a hug. We stand there for a second, both trying not to cry. It’s clear this is the end of something important and the beginning of something new. When she lets me go, she sniffs briskly and bustles to the door.

“You talk about it with Deacon, think it over,” she says.

Before I can reply, she’s out the door and disappearing down the street. Tracy isn’t usually like this, so I know this means a lot to her. She has probably been thinking about this decision for weeks, maybe years. It is just like her to spring it on me though. She never holds back when she makes up her mind about something. A little bit of that trait rubbed off on me, and thank goodness, because I needed some assertiveness way back when.

Sober, my head heavy with thoughts of the last seventeen years, I lock up the shop. It’s dusky but not dark. The sun hangs over the mountains behind Knifely. The air is pleasantly warm. The faint scent of coffee wafts across the street. There’s a food truck a few blocks down, and I can smell churros.

My stomach rumbles. It’s so strange to me how far I’ve come. I stood on these streets years ago, and I had nothing—no money, not even a reliable way to get home. Now, my son is on his way to pick me up. I have money in my pocket, and I’m going to buy a sugar donut and sit on a bench to watch the sun go down, just because I can.

My heart is light, despite the bomb Tracy just dropped on me. I talk to the man who rolls my donut in wax paper about the weather. He makes a joke, I laugh. He asks if I want the last ofthe coffee for the day, on the house. Of course I do. I drop a tip in the jar and cross the street to sink down on the bench.

I’m so happy, it almost breaks my heart sometimes. There are no words for it, even now. Golden light cuts through the store fronts. I sink my teeth into sugar and cinnamon and take a sip. I love the combination of the sweetness, wrapped up in the bitterness of the coffee.

One of the café’s regulars walks by on the other side of the street. He waves, I wave back.

This is peace.

The sky is a slightly deeper blue when Slate pulls up. I brush off my hands and put the paper and cup into the trash. Then, I climb up into the passenger side of his truck and settle down.

“Thanks for picking me up, honey,” I say.

He nods, backing out onto the street. I glance over, my heart about to burst with pride. We get on the road, heading towards the highway to take us home. There’s a long silence, and then he glances at me.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asks.

I sniff, wiping my eyes. “Yeah, I’m perfect.”

His brow furrows. “Somebody mean to you at work?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m just proud of you. You’ll get it when you’re older and you have kids.”

He shrugs, shaking his head. “Alright, it’s just one of those things. How was work?”

My mind filters through everything that happened since I saw him just hours ago. Over it all hovers the realization that my life might just change. Taking on the café would mean I’d be at work a lot more often. It would mean my boys would have to learn to make their own meals on days Ginny wasn’t around. That’s probably a good thing. After all, even their father can cook.

We pull up over the incline, the sign for Ryder Ranch looming overhead. I watch the green, scrubby hills sail by as we crest thehill to the driveway. Slate parks and cuts the engine. I pick up my purse and the folder with the deed inside.

“It was a good day. Not much happened,” I say. “Let’s go inside and have some dinner.”

CHAPTER FIVE

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