Page 60 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
He manages not to grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
Outside the room, I press the back of my head to the cool wall and breathe until my heart believes me. Asher stands close without crowding, the photo already a little beacon in his camera.
“We’ll print it,” he says. “And we’ll look in the cedar chest.”
I nod. “We will.”
And for once, the future doesn’t feel like a cliff. It feels like a map with one more mark.
***
Outside, all I do is look up at Asher. He smiles and says: “You want to go to the diner now, right?” How does this man always know the right thing to say? How does he know what’s in my head?
“Actually yes, Asher. I need to know what mom left for me. And thank you for always being you.”
The diner is dark when we slip in through the back door, the smell of coffee and flour lingering in the air like memories. Chairs are flipped on tables. Only the hum of the old cooler breaks the hush.
Asher sweeps his phone flashlight in a slow arc. “Are you sure you’re up for this tonight?”
I nod. My throat is still raw from goodbyes and from holding myself together in Mom’s room. But her words—false bottom, recipes that matter, a letter maybe—have been echoing in my head all evening. I can’t let them turn to ghosts.
We step into the little office, and I flip on the overhead light. The cedar chest sits under the window, smaller than I remember but somehow sturdier, like it’s been keeping vigil. I kneel, brush dust off the brass latch, and ease it open.
Inside are stacks of handwritten recipe cards, their edges butter-soft from decades of floury fingers. Clippings from the town paper. A photograph of Mom in her twenties, laughing behind the counter with a tray of pies. And there is another one of mom and dad together, pointing up to the outside sign with huge grins on their faces. I wonder if that was taken on the day they took it over from grandpa.
I run my hand along the base until my fingertips find a narrow ridge. My heart skips. I press. A thin board lifts with a quiet snap.
Hidden beneath: a neat bundle wrapped in string. My breath catches as I untie it.
On top is a single, butter-stained recipe card.Grandma June’s Original Sconesscrawled across the top in Mom’s bold handwriting; the edges darkened from years of use. I can almost smell the vanilla and orange peel that made the kitchen smell like a holiday morning.
Beneath it, letters folded and refolded until the paper feels like fabric. The first is addressed simply:For Jasmine, when you’re ready.
My throat tightens. I skim the first lines—Mom’s words written years ago, a note about how some recipes aren’t just food, they’re love disguised as flour and sugar; about how running the diner isn’t only survival, it’s memory.
Tears sting before I can stop them.
Asher crouches beside me, quiet, steady. “Hey,” he says softly.
I shake my head, smiling through the blur. “It’s just… Mom. Even back then she was thinking of me. Of this place.”
“She knows you,” he says, voice low. “She knew you’d need this one day.”
I trace the handwriting on the scone card with my thumb. I remember standing on a stool while Mom taught me to cut cold butter into flour, her voice sayingdon’t overwork it or they’ll be tough.I didn’t know she’d kept the original, tucked away like a secret blessing.
“I thought I was just keeping the diner afloat,” I whisper. “Turns out I’ve been carrying more than bills and menus.”
“Looks like you’ve been carrying a whole story.” His shoulder brushes mine, warm and grounding. “And now you’ve got proof.”
I slip the bundle back carefully to read later. But I keep the scone card in my hand. It feels like permission, like a quiet inheritance.
For a long minute we just sit on the floor in the dim light, surrounded by recipes and memories and the faint hum of the cooler. My heart feels heavier and steadier at once.
“Thank you for coming with me,” I say.
“Wouldn’t let you do this alone,” he murmurs. Then, after a beat: “You gonna bake me those scones?”
A laugh breaks through my tears—small, real. “Yeah. I think I can do that for you.”
