Page 147 of Cooking Up My Comeback
“You say that about everything,” I point out, refreshing everyone’s drinks while trying not to think about the legal envelope that arrived with today’s mail. “Last month you said the same thing about the billionaire baker romance.”
“Because I was right! That man’s emotional unavailability was practically a character study in unresolved daddy issues and flour-based metaphors.”
Hazel waves her hand dismissively. “The point is, enemies-to-lovers works because it forces characters to see past their assumptions. You can’t fake chemistry when you’re actively trying to hate someone.”
“Speaking of chemistry,” Jessica says with the kind of casual tone that suggests she’s about to drop a conversational bomb, “has anyone noticed that Michelle’s regular customer has been lingering longer lately? Yesterday he actually commented on the fall decorations.”
All eyes turn to me with the focused intensity of women who’ve made other people’s love lives their personal mission. I’ve been dreading this moment for weeks, ever since my regular started asking about my weekend plans and complimenting my seasonal menu choices.
“He’s just being polite,” I say, which is the same thing I’ve been telling myself every morning when he shows up with his storm-gray eyes and his quietly devastating smile.
“Polite is ‘nice weather we’re having,’” Amber says. “Asking if you need help hanging garland is basically a declaration of romantic intent in small-town speak.”
“Maybe he’s just community-minded.”
“Michelle Marie Lawson,” Hazel says, using my full name with the authority of someone who’s known me since I was young enough to think love was simple, “that man has been drinking your coffee for seven years. Seven. Years. That’s longer than most Hollywood marriages.”
“That’s customer loyalty, not romantic interest.”
“Customer loyalty is coming back when the service is good,” Jessica points out. “What your regular does is borderline devotional.”
Before I can deflect with more coffee-related tasks, someone knocks on my door with the kind of determined rhythm that suggests official business. My stomach drops, because unexpected visitors on Sunday afternoons rarely bring good news.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell them, heading downstairs with growing dread.
The mail carrier stands on my doorstep holding an official-looking envelope like it might explode if handled incorrectly. “Special delivery for Michelle Lawson. Needs a signature.”
I sign for it with hands that suddenly feel disconnected from my brain, because legal documents requiring signatures on Sunday afternoons are never about winning the lottery or inheriting distant relatives’ vacation homes.
Back upstairs, I stare at the envelope while my friends continue debating the finer points of romantic tension and whether Josh fromThe Hating Gamecould take Rhett Butler in a fight.
“Everything okay?” Amber asks, noticing my extended silence and probable deer-in-headlights expression.
“Probably,” I lie, tearing open the envelope before I lose my nerve entirely.
The legal language is dense enough to require an advanced degree in bureaucratic torture, but certain phrases jump out with devastating clarity:
Notice of Planned Development.Sixty days to vacate.Demolition scheduled.
“Oh,” I say quietly, because apparently my vocabulary has abandoned me in favor of single-syllable expressions of doom.
“What kind of ‘oh?’” Jessica asks, setting down her book with the careful movements of someone preparing for bad news. “Good oh or bad oh?”
“Apocalyptic oh,” I manage, holding up the demolition notice like evidence of cosmic injustice. “Someone wants to tear down the coffee shop.”
The silence that follows could probably be measured with geological instruments. Four sets of eyes stare at me with expressions ranging from confusion to horror to the kind of righteous indignation that suggests someone’s about to get strongly worded letters.
“What do you mean, tear down?” Hazel asks with dangerous calm.
“A development corporation wants to demolish the entire waterfront block for a luxury resort development. Sixty-days’ notice.”
“What are you going to do?” Hazel asks.
“I have no idea. Fight it, I guess? Though I’m not exactly equipped for legal battles against development corporations with better lawyers than I have seasonal menu items.”
“You’re not fighting this alone,” Jessica says with the kind of fierce loyalty that comes from twenty-seven years of friendship and knowing exactly which battles are worth fighting. “We’ve got skills.”
“What kind of skills?” I ask, because I’m pretty sure book club expertise doesn’t translate to corporate law.
