CHAPTER 1 Bess I bite off a curse and immediately cover another yawn with the back of my hand. Another early morning after yet another sleepless night. One of these days one of my employees are going to come in and find me passed out on the kitchen floor. Unless Chance Tanek finds me first. He’s the town drunk and I swear he watches this place, waiting to see the light go on in my apartment upstairs. He is usually already by the backdoor by the time I make my way downstairs this morning. I usually have a paper bag with the prior day’s leftovers ready for him. He’s such a lost soul, not a particularly friendly one, but I feel for him nonetheless. I figure there’s no harm in giving him some day old baked goods to soak up all the alcohol he consumed in the previous twenty-four hours. Plus, everyone deserves at least one friendly interaction a day. I’d like to think of it as doing a public service, although a couple of people in my circle of friends may not agree with me. This morning I was too tired to even spare him a basic greeting, almost tossing the paper bag at him before slamming the door shut and shuffling into the kitchen. This is getting ridiculous; I can count the hours of sleep I’ve managed to cobble together over the past week on one hand. I’m going to have to ask Dana if there is anything she can prescribe because this is not sustainable. I have a business to run, bills and employees to pay, and I can’t afford to fall down on the job, but that’s exactly what I’ve been doing since that damn phone call last week. So far this morning, I already over-proofed my Chelsea buns, burned a batch of cookies, and now the apple streusel muffins I just pulled from the oven are collapsing. I can’t seem to do anything right, and it’s only a little after six AM. Something’s got to give. As I quickly slide the muffins back in the oven—hoping I can salvage the batch—I hear the backdoor open. Lola, my only full-time employee, pokes her head into the kitchen. She takes one look at the lackluster Chelsea buns, and the discarded tray with my cookies charred remains before turning to me with a sympathetic look on her face. “Let me put my stuff away and I’ll come give you a hand.” I open my mouth to tell her not to bother—she shouldn’t have to pick up my slack like she’s been doing all week—but she’s already disappeared down the hall. Letting my eyes drift around the kitchen, I do some damage assessment. At least the date squares and the bacon and cheese scones came out fine. The Chelsea buns will have to do, and hopefully the muffins will turn out, but I’ll have to redo the cookies and should probably whip up a batch of lemon-poppyseed ones, just in case. Lola grabs an apron off the hook as she walks into the kitchen and ties it on. “What’s next?” she asks, and I swallow against the sudden flood of emotions. Damn, who’d have thought when I took a chance on the rail-thin girl who answered the help-wanted sign in my window six years ago, she’d become the rock I lean on these days. As it turned out, hiring her was not only the best thing that could’ve happened to her, but me as well. She has become invaluable to me and Strange Brew. Lola has shared only bits and pieces of her history with me over the years, but it was enough information for me to realize my own sordid past pales in comparison. The woman has a core of steel, though, and has completely reinvented herself. The pretty, well-put-together woman in front of me is a far cry from the skinny kid who first walked in here. “Lemon-poppyseed muffins and pecan chocolate-chip cookies.” “On it,” she states, checking the wall for the recipes. Every time I add a new item to our weekly rotation, I tack a laminated copy to our recipe wall. I don’t have any secrets, at least not with respect to my baked goods. “Why don’t you take a break, go make yourself a coffee,” Lola suggests, glancing at me over her shoulder. “You look like you could use it.” Ugh. I purposely avoided looking in the mirror this morning. I figured it wouldn’t be an improvement on the pale, haggard reflection staring back at me last night. Guess I was right. I don’t bother arguing; I could use a boost of caffeine if I’m going to make it through today. “Oh, and I’ll take Carson under my wing when he gets here,” she adds when I start out the door. Shoot, Carson. I’d forgotten about him; the kid is supposed to start today. I overheard him talking to his girlfriend, Tatum, when they dropped in after school last week. He’d been complaining he had a hard time finding an after-school job. It just so happened one of my weekend part-timers gave me two-weeks’ notice a few days prior, and I hadn’t started looking yet. I ended up offering him the job, provided his father approved. I’m sure working at the local coffeeshop wasn’t Carson’s first choice, but the promise of free baked goods had been enough of an enticement for him to accept. I’d all but forgotten he’s supposed to start today, “I need him to fill in a few forms for me first, but after that, yes. If he could shadow you for a bit during the rush, that would be great.” The rush is usually between seven—when we open—and nine. After that things slow down a bit until noon, when it picks up again for the lunch crowd. Our menu isn’t big, since we’re supposed to be a coffeeshop and not a restaurant, but especially on the weekends people have a tendency to pop in here for a quick bite while they run their errands. We offer sandwiches and a daily soup or stew during the winter months, but it’s all pretty basic. When I get here at around four in the morning, baking is the first thing I tackle. Usually by the time the doors open, most of the pastries are done, and I start prepping for lunch. When I started, I was very ambitious and baked all my own breads as well, but that proved to be too labor intensive. I ended up ordering in from Crumbs, a local, artisan bakery with whom I was able to negotiate a great deal. It leaves me more time to spend on salads for the sandwiches and whatever special I am serving that day. Then after lunch, I normally do my ordering and administration, and when I close the doors at five, I’m dead on my feet. I haven’t had much of a life since I opened Strange Brew eight years ago, working thirteen- or fourteen-hour days, but it has been a labor of love building this place in to what it is now. At least these days, with Lola running things so I can take a day, sometimes two, off every week, I have some downtime. Tomorrow is Sunday, my standard day off. Normally I’d be looking forward to the break, but at the moment I’d rather be busy. Less time to think and worry. I’ve barely booted up the computer in my office when I hear the back door fall shut. It sounds like Lola is intercepting whoever walked in, but a few moments later I hear footsteps coming down the hall. “Hey.” Hugo Alexander, Carson’s dad, pokes his head in the door. “Hi.” I’m annoyed I sound breathless whenever I talk to him. It’s ridiculous. Sure, the man looks more like a reincarnated viking the older he gets, but I’ve known him forever, and he’s not the only handsome man in town. He just appears to be the only one who affects my vocal cords. It’s aggravating. “Are you sure about this?” he asks, obviously referring to his offspring working here. “Positive. He’s a good kid, Hugo, he’ll do fine.” He runs a hand through his unruly, straw-colored hair laced with a decent amount of silver. “I know, it’s just…we’re friends, and I’d hate to see him fuck up and—” “And what?” I interrupt sharply, for some reason extra annoyed by the friend label I’m slapped with. “You really think I’d be so petty, I’d take that out on you? Please, you should know me better.” He looks appropriately sheepish and maybe a little surprised at the edge in my voice. “No, I just meant…” He stalls before continuing with, “I don’t want things awkward.” I snort before getting up from my chair so I’m not looking up at him. Well, I guess I’m still looking up at him, since he’s a towering six foot three to my modest five two, but standing makes me feel taller. “Things would only be awkward if you make them so,” I return pointedly. He narrows his eyes on me, scanning my body down and up again. “Are you okay?” Instantly self-conscious at his question, I run my hands down my flour-dusted apron. “I’m fine, why?” “You don’t look fine.” ***** Hugo Smooth. Her sharp, “Thanks for sharing that observation. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do,” served as an effective dismissal. Apparently, I’d already put both my feet in my mouth and I figured my safest bet would be to make myself scarce and try again another time. I don’t know why, but I seem to making an art out of saying the wrong thing to her lately. To my recollection, this was never an issue before, but the past several months I can’t seem to say the right thing. After a quick goodbye for my son with a warning to behave, I walk out to my cruiser, frustrated and brooding. Funny, because I was in the best of moods when I pulled in here five minutes ago. I’d planned to beat the crowd and score a couple of coffees and some pastries to bring to the station, but I’m empty-handed when I slide behind the wheel. I highly doubt Bess would be willing to serve me early after I pissed her off. “Who the hell pissed in your Wheaties this early?” Brenda Silvari, our office manager, asks as I walk into the small office kitchen, looking for a hit of caffeine. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I grumble, reaching for the pot of black tar Brenda manages to brew every morning. I swear, she adds engine oil to the coffee grinds to create the dark sludge she serves us, but it does the trick when in need of caffeine, and right now, I need that jolt to my system. “Let’s just say, you don’t look particularly cheerful this morning,” she responds. “And this conversation is not helping,” I point out. But that doesn’t deter Brenda, who is more like a den mother than an office manager some days. She puts a hand on my arm. “That boy giving you trouble?” She’s referring to Carson, who hit a rough patch there for a while after his mom died and got himself into some trouble. Having two teenage boys herself, I found myself sometimes confiding my struggles with him to Brenda. “No, it’s not Carson. He’s fine, he starts his part-time job at Strange Brew today. I just dropped him off.” “Ahhhh.” She nods with a smirk. “You didn’t run into Bess by chance, did you?” I have no idea how she manages to zoom in on the sore spot every time. Like I said; den mother. “Bess?” I feign ignorance, an effort I know is wasted anyway. “Barely. I was in and out of there in minutes.” “Hmmm,” she hums, making it clear she’s not buying what I’m trying to sell. I quickly toss a few spoonfuls of sugar in my coffee in hopes of killing the bitter taste, and dart out the door before she has a chance to dig her claws in deeper. The woman is a terrier. Once at my desk, I can’t help but replay my conversation with Bess to try and figure out where I may have messed up. Even under her usual ivory complexion, she’d looked pale, almost gaunt, with dark circles under her eyes. She’d also noticeably lost weight. Even being a small woman, she’s always been sturdy. This morning she looked like a stiff wind could blow her over. There’s definitely something wrong with her, but in my attempt to get to the bottom of it, maybe I was a bit too blunt. The radio on my desk crackles with with an incoming message, interrupting my trailing thoughts. “Dispatch to all units, structure fire reported at 217 Main Street. It’s Main Street Mechanics, risk for explosion. All units, acknowledge.” Jesus, that’s Clem Tanek’s auto shop. I just drove past it on my way here and didn’t notice a thing. I snatch up my radio and check for my keys in my pocket as I respond. “Unit 42 acknowledges. En route.” I rush down the hall and out the doors to my cruiser, as more calls come through from the fire department and two of our sheriff’s units. Engine one of Silence’s Fire Department is already on scene when I pull up in front of the building. Smoke is pouring from one of the partially opened bay doors and an orange glow can be seen from within the shop. I don’t interfere with the work of the fire department, which is well in the hands of fire chief Randy Nichols, who is already barking out orders at his crew. “Is anyone inside?” I ask him quickly. “Not as far as I know; the place doesn’t open until eight.” I leave him to it and turn to the crowd forming on the sidewalk and street. Crowd control is my main concern, and I need to get these people back and out of the way. Tons of hazardous and potentially explosive materials inside which could go off at any time. “Hey!” I holler, trying to draw attention as I wave my arms. “I need everyone to back the hell up!” A few listen and move out of the way, but there still some folks trying to get closer, getting in the way of firefighters doing their job. But as I try to block their path, I’m knocked to the ground by a massive blast from behind. My ears ring and I’m disoriented, my vision is obscured by a thick cloud of dust and smoke, as debris rains down around me. A hand lands on my shoulder and when I look back, I see Deputy KC Kingma standing over me. His mouth is moving, but I can’t hear a damn thing. He grabs me under my arms and hauls me to my feet. “You okay?” he mouths. Other than that damn ringing in my ears and a slight stinging at the back of my head, I seem to be in one piece. “I’m fine.” Then I look around me to find chaos. Some of the people I was trying to push back are lying or sitting down, appearing injured by debris from the blast. When I look back at the auto shop, almost the entire front of the building is gone.
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Late-night chats
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Grief, healing, and second chances
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Grumpy/Sunshine
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