"Come here often?" I ask Noah as I take the stool next to him at the Diner's bar seating.
He cuts his eyes to me with a dry expression because I say this to him all the time. Noah comes here every morning for a cup of black coffee before going to open up the Pie Shop. I try to meet him here at least once a week.
As far as he's concerned, it's an accidental meetup—but it's actually pretty calculated on my end. I schedule my morning around it because even though Noah will never in a million years admit it to me, he counts on these kinds of intentional hangouts as much as I do.
When his parents died, our friendship became one of the most important relationships in his life. He leaned on me in a way he couldn't with his sisters. I'll always be there for him and he'll always be there for me. Even when we're busy and go long stretches of time without seeing each other, it will never affect our friendship. We're brothers that chose each other, and that bond is stronger than sharing DNA. Believe me.
"You know, I've always wondered . . ." I pause to accept a cup of coffee from the server, who knows I also drink it black. "Thanks, Shirley."
"You're welcome, sweet pea." She winks and walks away. I can't help but think of another server who was friendly like Shirley (but about twenty years younger). Jeanine worked here for years before she went to work for Noah at the Pie Shop.
I used to see her a lot more over there, especially when I'd make weekly deliveries. I was lonely. She was lonely. And it didn't take long for us to start dating.
We kept it going about four months, until we both agreed the relationship wasn't doing what it needed to for either of us. She wanted deep, meaningful love (understandably), and I wanted to wipe Madison from my system.
She never said it outright, but I think she suspected I've always loved Madison. Sort of like how I think she'll eventually get back with her ex. It's why we are still friends—there was just never anything special between us.
"You were saying?" Noah prompts.
"Oh. I've always wondered, why do you come here for coffee when you make and sell your own at the Pie Shop?" I down a big gulp and wince because it's like water compared to mine.
"Because mine doesn't taste as good."
"You brew the same brand of beans."
"Yeah . . ." He takes a drink. "But it doesn't taste the same over there."
"You're telling me the Diner's greasy aroma adds something positive to the flavor of the coffee?"
"It would seem."
"Or maybe Shirley blows kisses into the grounds every morning."
Noah shakes his head, fighting a smile. "What are you doing here? Hiding from Tommy?"
"No, he left yesterday morning, thankfully."
"Who left yesterday morning?" asks Will Griffin while leaning onto the counter as he takes the barstool on the other side of Noah.
He must have a mole somewhere in town, because he's started showing up every morning that I do. He hates to be left out of a hang. I was skeptical about him being happy here in Rome long term when he turned in his bodyguard boots to stay here for Annie. But my skepticism was misplaced. This guy was made for a small town. Made for Annie too. You wouldn't think it by looking at him, with all of his tattoos and brooding, chiseled face, but he's got a heart of gold. Evidence being his dream job is to be a teacher, and he has gone back to school, pursuing a degree in high school education. He'll make a hell of a teacher.
"My brother," I answer Will's question.
He laughs. "I thought there was a noticeable absence of Armani cologne in the air this morning."
Shirley, who also knows Will's order by heart, places a coffee in front of him. She wordlessly slides over a little dish of half-and-half pods and the glass sugar dispenser.
He cuts me and Noah a dirty look as his butterfly-tattooed hand reaches for the sugar. "Don't," he warns because he's always felt insecure about his dislike of black coffee.
Noah raises his palms. "You're touchy about your weak-ass coffee for no reason. We've never said a damn thing about it."
"You just did! You called it weak." Will looks distraught.
"It is weak, though," says Noah.
"It's enhanced."
I squint at him. "Is it, though?"
Another voice enters the mix from behind the three of us. "You need to lean into it like me and start drinking lattes." We glance over our shoulders to see Jack Bennett raise his paper cup from our local coffee shop: the Hot Bean. (I swear it really is a coffee shop.)
He nods toward the large corner booth. "Let's sit at the table like civilized men."
Noah grumbles something about intruding on his alone time as we stand, even though we all know he enjoys this as much as we do.
Once we're all settled into the booth and Jack and Will have ordered food, the conversation turns back to me. "So how long will you get a break from Tommy?" The question comes from Will.
I shrug. "Not long enough now that he's tossing his hat in the ring to date Madison."
I don't realize my poor choice of words until Jack raises his brows. " 'In the ring'? Does that mean there's a ring to toss a hat into?"
I scramble to clarify. "Yeah—only in the sense that every man out there seems to want to date her."
"Not me," states Will.
Jack doesn't help. "Me neither."
"I definitely don't," says Noah as he leans back against the bench, staring at me. "But what about you, Jameson?"
"I don't, either, assholes." And I don't. Even if she found me attractive in my towel—a thought I can't seem to shake. But also . . . it's Madison. She finds most men attractive. This is not exactly a boat-tipping declaration from her. "I just don't want Tommy dating her, and you really shouldn't either, Noah."
He shrugs. "I have no issue with my sister dating who she wants to date. You're the only one who ever has a problem with it, actually."
"Okay, you can go right ahead and fuck off."
"Ooh, he's throwing around the explicit language." Will shivers. "Someone is triggered."
I don't like this. If the guys find out how I feel about Madison, she'll know too. They'll blab to their partners and then their partners will blab to Madison. It won't take more than twenty-four hours for our working relationship to go to hell.
She needs a safe place to get her feet on the ground, one without my unrequited feelings getting in the way. I came to terms a long time ago with the fact that Madison will never think of me the way she does other men, so the last thing I need is for these idiots to start something up that doesn't exist.
And judging by whatever happened yesterday in the kitchen, Madison needs all the support she can get right now. I still don't understand what happened. She went from totally fine to a full-blown panic attack in a second, like she'd seen a ghost when she stepped foot in the kitchen. She seemed better by the time I got her back into the cottage and sat her at the table with a glass of water. But she didn't offer much explanation other than saying she wanted to rest for a bit. I got the feeling I shouldn't push her, so I made sure she was okay and then gave her space.
It's hard not to ask Noah if he knows any more about her experience in New York, but I don't want to say something behind Madison's back that she might not want spread around. And the same principle applies here that applied to them knowing my feelings. They'll blab the second they get the chance.
Our attention momentarily goes to the diner door when we hear the bell jingle (because in a small town, we're perpetually nosy). The door opens, and if you didn't live around here, you'd think a ghost floated inside, because there is no head visible over the five-foot-tall booth back. And that's how we know exactly who just came through the door.
A pair of wisdom-filled eyes framed by dark, softly wrinkled skin peeks up over the booth's wall. She's definitely standing on her tiptoes. "Oh good, you're all together," comes the voice of our favorite midseventies town matriarch, Mrs. Mabel.
Mabel is everyone's grandma, and she was best friends with Silvie Walker (Noah's grandma who raised them) until the day she died last year. Mabel is frighteningly all-knowing, does not possess a filter, and would step in front of a moving bus for any of us. And we would do the same for her.
Without invitation, she rounds the booth and scoots in beside me, her yellow capri pants contrasting nicely with my jeans. It's a tight squeeze, but she doesn't seem to mind as she picks up her menu. Mabel has historically been a very guarded person, but she's started opening up more about her life. Last week she recounted a painful memory from her younger years, before the civil rights movement, when this diner refused to serve her.
I want to hear everything she has to tell me, but a huge part of my heart clenches at the realization that she's probably sharing now because her husband died six years ago, because her best friend recently died of dementia, because aging is happening to her too and she doesn't want these stories to go forever untold. I should have been terrified of loss when Noah's parents died, but it didn't really sink in until about two years ago. When I almost lost my dad.
Now it's a terror I'm constantly hiding from.
"I'll cut right to it, children," says Mabel. "I'm sure you're all aware of the town's summer display competition coming up in a few weeks?"
"Ah, yes. My favorite town event. I have a calendar on my fridge, counting down to the beloved day," says Noah dryly.
Mabel rolls her eyes and waves him off. "Fine. Be a scrooge and don't decorate the Pie Shop. Less competition for me that way."
I lean toward Mabel. "He's surly because we intruded on his alone time."
"Fooey nonsense. Quit acting high-and-mighty, Noah, or I'll bring out the picture of you running around town in your Batman undies and frame it over this damn table."
He shrugs. "You've been threatening me with that for years, but I've never seen any evidence. I think you're full of hot air."
She grins. "Care to try me?"
They have a stare-down for a few chilling moments and then Noah's expression softens. "How can we help you with your display, Mabel?"
"That's more like it." She looks pleased as punch. "I need a few muscular people—I'm not picky on the gender—to help me move a few hay bales onto my front porch sometime over the next couple weeks."
"And where . . . ?" I begin, already knowing the answer. "May I ask, where are you getting the hay bales from?"
She looks me dead in the eye. "Your farm. I need three. And now I won't be paying you either, so don't ask for it because I'm just a broke old lady."
"You're rich as hell, Mabel, and everyone knows it," says Will, tossing a sugar packet at her.
She flutters her lashes in his direction. "Rich in beauty."
We all look up as a chilling shadow that could only belong to one person falls over the table. Harriet, owner of the Market and Mabel's number one enemy. Harriet is the complete opposite of Mabel. She wears her silver hair pulled back into a severe bun that tugs at the nearly translucent skin of her face. She rarely wears anything with color and delights in proving she owns the moral high ground. They're around the same age, both grew up in this town, and I will be forever curious what their history is like. But I'll likely never know.
"Mabel, what are you doing interrupting their get-together? You are not one of the boys. Leave them be."
"I can be one of the boys if I want to."
Harriet stares her down. "You never can tell when you're not wanted."
Mabel lifts her chin. "You're just jealous because people like me everywhere I go, meanwhile they duck and cover to avoid your sermonizing."
"Actually," says Jack, sliding out of the booth, "I do have to get going. But let the record show it has nothing to do with your sermonizing, Harriet. And I think you both could stand to be a little nicer to each other."
They both wince. He's still too new to the town to fully understand.
A sudden thought strikes Harriet. "Wait. This is about the summer display, isn't it? That's cheating if you get their help."
"I haven't seen a sheet of rules." Mabel's nose goes into the air. "Appreciate you stopping by to pee in our Cheerios, but you can be on your way now."
Harriet levels a glare at Mabel. "I'm going to find that list of rules, and when I do you'll be disqualified."
"Then you can get a pity win by default." She taps her temple mockingly. "Smart thinking." Mabel is a genius at outmaneuvering Harriet.
But Harriet can also hold her own. Before walking away, she leaves Mabel with a closing remark. "At least the trophy will only say "winner."
To Harriet's rigid retreating back, Mabel shouts, "I thought Christians weren't supposed to idolize things!" Harriet grabs her to-go bag and walks out the door without ever looking back. "Dammit, that sounded desperate, didn't it?" Mabel asks our table.
We all mumble a version of yep.
A few minutes later, Noah and Will tell us they have to leave. Noah nods a goodbye to Mabel because he's not one to show affection even though she's definitely his favorite person on earth other than Amelia. Will, on the other hand, goes around the booth, bends to wrap his tattooed arms around Mabel's frame with a big squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. She pats his face and tells him to have a good day. His smug ass assumes he's Mabel's favorite. Wrong. It's me.
"And now it's just us and we can finally get to the good stuff . . ." she says, proving my point and twisting toward me in the booth.
"Gossip time?"
"I have tons for you today." Her eyes drop to my wallet, resting on the table. "Oh, are you leaving already?" Mabel looks gutted by the prospect, which is odd because normally she's the last person to let her feelings show. She has sad puppy eyes, pleading that I don't leave yet. And now I wonder if Mabel hasn't been sharing her stories not out of fear of death but out of loneliness. Maybe she hasn't had anyone else to talk to.
I pocket my wallet. "Listen, I've been cooped up at the farm too much this week, and my supply of juicy gossip is running dangerously low. I'm not going anywhere until I hear what the hell happened with Clara and that woman at the salon last week."
"That's a good story." Mabel's eyes brighten.
"But we've gotta hurry because I have an appointment to get to in a bit."
She nods. "Go get yourself another cup of this shit they call coffee and we'll get to it."
Before I slide out of the booth, I meet her eyes. "Mabel . . . I'm your favorite, right?"
She pats my hand several times. "Sure."
"And how often have you been experiencing the dizzy spells?" asks Dr. Macky while pressing the stethoscope to my chest.
"Oh . . . you know . . . here and there. Nothing too bad."
"And how are you sleeping?"
I situate, hating the way the paper under my ass crinkles as I do. "Like a baby."
"Mm-hmm. And what about the headaches?"
"They come and go." The fluorescent lights in this damn doctor's office definitely won't do me any favors, though. I hate it in here. It gives me the heebie-jeebies.
"James." Dr. Macky stares into my eyes, right through my soul.
"Yes?"
Her right eyebrow arches. "You are aware that I'm your doctor, right?"
"I figured. The white coat gave you away."
"And you're aware that you scheduled this appointment because you were concerned about your dizzy spells, headaches, sleeplessness, and fatigue? Right? I didn't break into your house and abduct you, throw you into a van and force you to sit on the crinkle paper you've hated since you were ten years old while I examine you."
I tip forward. "That statement taught me a lot about your TV viewing preferences."
"James!"
I hold up my hands in surrender. "Okay, okay!"
"Are you ready to cooperate? Because this is serious and I need your honest answers. Based on your elevated blood pressure reading, something is going on, and I can't get to the bottom of it if you don't answer my questions honestly."
I look toward the pamphlet rack, filled with terrifying information about how you might die one day, and let out a breath. "My dad had a heart attack."
I don't need to say this to her; she has been our family doctor for decades. Sometimes I wonder if she's actually immortal, because for as long as I've known her she's been in her fifties.
"I know," she says softly. "And as his doctor, I can say with certainty that if he had been seeing me regularly before the heart attack, it might not have happened at all. Which is why it's good you're here now."
My dad always seemed so healthy to me. So strong and capable. Until a random Wednesday two years ago when he suddenly wasn't. We almost lost him to that heart attack, but he pulled through. It was a wake-up call, one that came with a congestive heart failure diagnosis.
I really had no choice after that but to step up and take over the farm for him. My mom didn't even have to beg him to release it—that was the wildest part. He had been partially "retired" for two years before that but couldn't stay away from the farm. The heart attack shook him so badly that he said he was ready to sign the whole thing over to me. Said he'd trust me to keep the legacy alive while he and Mom embraced retirement in sunny Florida.
And now here I am, facing financial ruin and putting all my faith in a new restaurant to revive it. Without the investor deal that Tommy snagged, I wouldn't have even been able to open the restaurant. Everything is hinging on it—a fact that I'll continue to absorb the weight of so Madison doesn't have to carry it.
"I don't . . . I can't have a heart attack right now. There are too many people relying on me."
Dr. Macky's head tilts empathetically. "James, if I can speak frankly, a heart attack doesn't give a shit about your schedule or how many people depend on you. It's time to take care of yourself and get your blood pressure under control before it becomes a long-term problem like it has for your dad." She pauses, letting those words soak in. When she seems satisfied that she's thoroughly shaken me, she adds, "Now. Let's start from the top with my questions and then we'll discuss next steps."