Page 5 of Almost Ours
Behind the counter, Benny was halfway through a conversation with a woman in a bright red knit scarf. He handed her a white pastry box tied with twine. She laughed at something he said, tucking the box under her arm like it held something far more precious than baked goods.
Even after a year in town, I still wasn’t used to this–the way everyone seemed to know each other, the way people genuinely cared. Benny didn’t just take orders; he remembered them. He’d already poured the lady’s coffee… before she even asked. It was a far cry from the life I’d known before, where everyone was too busy to notice much beyond their own needs. Here, things were different. Slower. Kinder.
I stepped forward, tugging off my toque and shaking out the cold. Snowflakes scattered to the floor as my fingers ran through my hair, which was getting long enough now to fall into my eyes. Another mental note to get it cut.
“Morning, Benny,” I said, my voice echoing slightly in the cozy space as the lady in the red scarf gave me a polite nod on her way out.
Benny glanced up, already grinning. “Ryan! Hair’s getting dangerously close to ‘broody musician’ levels. Planning to start a band or just brooding professionally these days?”
I smirked. “Haven’t decided yet.”
“Mmhmm,” he said, already reaching for the coffee pot. “Let me guess–coffee, black, and a croissant?”
“You’re a mind reader,” I said, stepping closer to the counter and tucking the toque into my coat pocket.
“Nah, just a guy who knows how to keep his regulars happy,” he replied with a wink, sliding my coffee across the counter.
As I reached for my wallet, my eyes scanned the cozy space, taking in the early morning crowd. A couple of older women sat by the fireplace, chatting quietly over steaming cups of tea. A group of teenagers, bundled in winter coats, laughed loudly by the door.
“So, what’s on the agenda today, Mr. Handyman? Saving the town one leaky faucet at a time?”
I chuckled, taking a sip of the steaming coffee. “Something like that. Busy morning working on a project for the Taylors’ new place just outside of town, then this afternoon, it’s over to Mrs. Nickols place. She’s got a light fixture giving her trouble.”
Benny leaned on the counter, his grin widening. “Mrs. Nickols, huh? How is she these days? Still trying to sweet-talk you into fixing half her house for free?’
“She’s not subtle about it, Benny. Last week she offered to bake me a whole apple pie if I’d ‘take a peek’ at her boiler. And by ‘peek,’ she meant dismantle it and rebuild it from scratch.”
Benny barked out a laugh. “She’s a sharp one, that Mrs. Nickols. Knows exactly how to get her way.”
“Yeah, well, I’m starting to think she’s playing the long game. First it’s pie. Next thing I know, I’ll be mowing her lawn and signing adoption papers.”
“Careful, buddy,” Benny warned, waving a finger. “You joke about that, but she may take you up on it. Move you into her guest room and call it even.”
“Now, that’s a terrifying thought,” I said, shaking my head. “Fixing her light fixture this afternoon might be my last act of kindness before I go into hiding.”
Benny laughed, handing me the bag with my croissant. “Well, if you disappear, at least leave me a note. Gotta know where to send your coffee.”
“You’re a good man, Benny,” I said, saluting him with my cup before heading toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I wipedmy palms on my jeans, giving the light fixture one last twist to make sure it was secure. The soft click as the screw settled into place had me stepping back, admiring my work. Warm light filled Mrs. Nickols’ kitchen, casting a cozy glow over the worn wooden cabinets, lace curtains and scuffed tile floor that had clearly seen decades of family dinners and flour-dusted afternoons.
“All set, Mrs. Nickols,” I said, dusting off my palms.
She clapped her hands together with surprising energy. “Oh, bless you, Ryan. I swear, if I had a dollar for every time that thing flickered while I was baking…”
I chuckled as I grabbed my toolbox. “Hopefully it won’t give you any more trouble.”
Mrs. Nickols stood no taller than five feet, her silver hair pulled into a neat twist at the back of her head. She worea powder-blue sweater with embroidered cardinals and moved with the kind of spry confidence that defied her eighty-some years. Her sharp eyes sparkled behind wire-rimmed glasses as she studied me.
“You know,” she said with a sly smile, “with those bright blue eyes and arms of yours, I’m amazed some nice girl hasn’t snatched you up yet.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, a little caught off guard. “These days, the arms are mostly lifting drills and hockey sticks. Not exactly prime dating material.”
She gave a dramatic sigh, one hand on her hip. “Well, it’s a crime, is what it is. A handsome, kind young man like you, helping out little old ladies like me? You’re either a saint or a secret heartbreaker.”
“I’m definitely not a saint,” I muttered, trying to keep it light, but there was an edge to my voice I didn’t mean to give away. Her next words landed a little heavier.
“You’re a good man, Ryan,” she said, suddenly sincere. “Don’t let anyone–especially yourself–convince you otherwise. You’ve got a big heart. Brookhaven’s lucky to have you.”
