“I’m almost insulted you think I wouldn’t be ready.” I laugh, the coffee machine whistling at me to signify that it’s done. “Imagine if by now I didn’t know your orders by heart!”
“I know you do,” he says with a grin, and I place his perfect cup of coffee down in front of him.
A few minutes later, Carl walks in and I hand him his coffee too, as well as the muffin Jeff bought for him earlier. “Thanks, Billie.” He grins. I turn back to my cleaning, and when the bell rings again, there’s a chorus of hellos as the new customer greets the fisherman.
“Morning, Janet,” I call. “Iced tea?”
“You know me so well.”
“It’s all part of the service.” I beam.
This is how every morning goes.
Someone walks in, and everyone greets them. They greet everyone. I already know what they want, and we chat about life, about the weather, about the day ahead. A handful of tourists come in, and I actually have to listen to them when they speak so I don’t mess their orders up. By the time people are flowing in for breakfast, the chef is set up in the kitchen and takes over from me with eggs and bacon.
At about noon, I shoo the customers out and close the shop for half an hour or so. I like to go for a walk at lunchtime.
Today’s our quiet day, so it’s only me and the chef working. Usually, I have someone else out front, but they need time off as much as anyone else does. I don’t mind doing the extra work.
I do, however, believe in my right to go for a little lunchtime walk, so if anyone wants a coffee, they just have to wait.
When I get back from my walk, I give myself a few minutes before I open up again properly to take some time for myself. A single second to breathe and remember why I love my life. It’s not hard to think of things to be grateful for.
Today, that time is interrupted by a thumping on the door.
I take a deep breath, about to be annoyed by a tourist who thinks they’re entitled to my time, but when I head for the front and see my best friend hammering on the glass, I can’t help but smile. I unlock the door, flip the sign, and then engulf Willow in a hug.
She’s taller than me; her brown skin soft, her hair a shock of black curls, her smile the brightest, warmest smile you could ever hope to see. “Have you heard?” she asks urgently as she clatters in.
“No?” I frown, heading back behind the counter. “What’s happening?”
I love Willow to death, but she is an enormous gossip. If there’s ever anything going on in town, Willow is the first to know.
“Apparently,” she says, taking her seat and resting her chin on her knuckles, “some rich guy showed up with his yacht this morning.”
“Okay? And?”
“Well, Jeanette said her husband got roped into a conversation with one of his lawyers. She said that he said that they were asking about settlements for evictions!”
“Evictions?” I echo, my brows furrowing. “Why?”
“Apparently,” says Willow, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, “this guy is trying to buy the island.”
“Buy the island?” I feel like a parrot at this point, but I’m too shocked to do anything but repeat her words.
She nods solemnly. “You remember a few years ago when all those building contractors came to try and build apartments on the beach?”
“I remember,” I grumble. “I was one of the main people protesting it.”
If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s the idea of our beach being sullied by rich people who want to turf us out of our homes.
“Well, apparently,” Willow continues, but she’s interrupted by some tourists wandering in. I force myself to smile and take their orders.
They take forever to decide if they want to eat, if they only want a sandwich, if they want a pastry too, well, maybe we should get lunch, well, maybe we should do this, or that or coffee or tea or…
I clench my fists to stop myself from telling them to hurry the hell up so Willow can keep telling me her news. Fortunately, they decide that, after all, they only want pastries to go and a sugary coffee each.
The second they leave, I stare at Willow. “Continue,” I say. “Building contractors? Land?”
