Page 72 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“It was a gift from Jessica,” Michelle says immediately, apparently reading my expression with uncomfortable accuracy. “I can’t throw it away without offending her.”
“I wasn’t judging the mat.”
“You were definitely judging the mat.”
“I was appreciating the mat. There’s a difference.”
She’s changed out of her coffee shop uniform into jeans and a soft gray sweater that makes her eyes look more gold than brown. Her hair is down, falling in waves around her shoulders, and seeing her in civilian clothes in her own space creates an intimacy that makes my carefully prepared apology speech evaporate completely.
“Are those for me?” She nods toward the daisies.
“These are for you.” I hand them over with the same ceremony I’d use to present architectural blueprints. “I remembered you mentioning them.”
“When?”
“Three years ago. Community center committee meeting. Mrs. Daniels was arguing about seasonal flower appropriateness.”
Michelle stares at me with an expression I can’t interpret. “You remembered a comment I made about flowers three years ago.”
“I remember everything you say. It’s becoming a professional liability.”
She steps back to let me enter, and I follow her into an apartment that immediately explains everything I never knew I wanted to understand about Michelle Lawson.
The space is warm and slightly chaotic in the way that suggests she actually lives here. Books are everywhere—shelves lining the walls, stacks on the coffee table, a paperback splayed open on the couch with reading glasses perched on top. The kitchen is tiny but efficient, with vintage appliances.
But what stops me completely are the photographs covering nearly every available surface.
“This is...” I pause, trying to find words that don’t sound like a home inspection report. “This is beautiful.”
“It’s small. And the heating is temperamental. And sometimes the espresso machine downstairs makes the whole building shake.” She’s fidgeting with the daisy stems, not quite meeting my eyes. “But it’s home.”
I move toward the gallery wall, drawn by the evidence of Michelle’s life spread out in frames. Family photos showing her with people who share her smile and her laugh lines. Beach pictures with friends, arms around each other with the kind of casual affection that speaks to years of friendship. And then...
“Is this your dog?” I stop in front of a photo showing Michelle with a Golden Retriever whose expression suggests he believes he’s actually a small human who just happens to be covered in fur.
“That was Biscuit.” Her voice softens. “He passed away two years ago.”
“He looks like he had opinions.”
“So many opinions. He disapproved of early morning deliveries, anyone who didn’t appreciate his greeting style, and the postal service in general.” She joins me in front of the photo, close enough that I can smell her shampoo—something floral that makes concentration extremely difficult. “He also believed that coffee shops should have a canine quality control department.”
“Naturally.”
“He would sit right behind the counter every morning, supervising my espresso technique. Customers loved him.”
“I’m sure they did.” I study the photo, noting how Michelle’s smile is completely unguarded, how she’s looking at the camerabut her hand is resting on Biscuit’s head with unconscious affection. “You look happy.”
“I was happy. Biscuit made everything better.” She moves away from the photo wall, toward the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Wine? Water from the tap that sometimes tastes funny?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
She opens a bottle of red wine that looks more expensive than my usual beer selection, pouring two glasses with the same precision she applies to espresso measurements.
“So,” she says, handing me a glass. “Flowers and apologies. This sounds like a significant conversation.”
“I owe you full disclosure about Miranda.”
“Your ex-wife.”
