Page 67 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
"He's working from The Haven." I focus on preparing her usual, grateful for the familiar routine.
"Seems a shame, when he was so comfortable here." Eleanor accepts her mug with a thoughtful expression. "Especially with so little time remaining in his stay."
My hands falter slightly. "We had a disagreement."
"About that article, I presume." Eleanor's directness shouldn't surprise me after all this time, but it still catches me off guard.
I nod, unable to form words.
"Lily." Eleanor's weathered hand covers mine, stopping my nervous wiping of the already clean counter. "Did you think we'd believe some tabloid gossip over what we know of you?"
"I don't know what I thought," I admit. "I've spent two years hiding that part of my life. And now..."
"And now the sky hasn't fallen." Eleanor's eyes crinkle with gentle amusement. "Though I imagine it feels that way to you."
"Everyone's being so... normal."
"What did you expect? Pitchforks and torches?" She sips her coffee, studying me over the rim. "This morning at Margie's, we all agreed—whatever happened in your past is your business. Though I will say, if you'd trusted us sooner, you might have saved yourself a great deal of unnecessary worry."
"Ruth said something similar."
"Ruth Fletcher may be the most aggravating woman in three counties, but she's rarely wrong about people." Eleanor sets her cup down with a decisive click. "You know, when my Charles died, I sealed off his study. Kept it exactly as he left it for nearly two years. Couldn't bear to disturb a single paper or book."
The apparent non sequitur throws me. "I'm sorry for your loss, but I don't see?—"
"Grief takes many forms, Lily." Her weathered hand covers mine briefly. "Some of us lose people. Some lose dreams, reputations, futures we thought were certain. The pain is different, but the protective instincts are the same."
Something loosens in my chest at the unexpected understanding.
"What changed? With the study?"
A smile touches her lips, gentle with memory. "My granddaughter needed a quiet place to study. I realized Charles would have hated knowing that room sat empty when it could be serving someone he loved." Her eyes hold mine steadily, wisdom accumulated over decades. "Sometimes our protective barriersoutlive their usefulness. They harden from shelter to prison without us noticing the transformation."
"I built a life here." The defense emerges softer than intended. "A good life."
"Yes, you did." Eleanor nods approvingly. "The question is whether it's the full life you're capable of building." She stands, gathering her things. "Fear makes excellent armor but poor foundation material."
After she leaves, her words linger like the scent of fresh coffee, impossible to dismiss. The rest of the day passes in mechanical motions, muscle memory carrying me through tasks while my thoughts spiral around the uncomfortable truths Max and Eleanor have forced me to confront.
Darlene from the diner stops by late afternoon, ordering her usual double espresso to go.
"I've been meaning to tell you," she says, leaning casually against the counter, "that cinnamon maple latte you made for my son's birthday party was perfect. His friends are still talking about it."
I smile, grateful for the normal conversation. "I'm glad it was a hit."
"It was." She hesitates, then adds, "Look, I know everyone's probably tiptoeing around that stupid article, but I just wanted to say—we all have pasts, Lily. What matters is who you choose to be now." She accepts her espresso with a wink. "And you chose to be the person who makes the best damn coffee in Colorado, so as far as I'm concerned, you're golden."
The simple acceptance in her words nearly undoes me. "Thank you, Darlene."
"Nothing to thank me for." She echoes Ruth's earlier dismissal. "Though if you want to show your appreciation, maybe consider a discount on my next order?"
The joke breaks the tension, and I find myself laughing genuinely for the first time all day. "Nice try."
At four, the typical mid-afternoon lull settles over the shop. I take advantage of the quiet to begin preparations for closing, eager to retreat to my cottage despite knowing its emptiness will only amplify my loneliness.
The bell chimes. I look up automatically, prepared for disappointment.
Max stands in the doorway, holding a small potted cactus with a single vibrant pink bloom.
