I'll Never Stop

by Jessica Lynch

  The whole cafe went eerily silent as she walked in the door.

  It didn’t bother her so much. Once quick sweep and she saw that she was safe; anyone Tommy sent would stick out like a sore thumb. Besides, she was used to the attention. One of the reasons she was such a success as a prima ballerina was her love of the stage. She was a born showman who lived to entertain. Then, when she started to date Tommy exclusively, the pictures were plastered all over. She couldn’t go anywhere in the city without someone knowing who she was.

  The difference in Hamlet was that everyone knew her—but no one actually did. No internet and no television meant that Grace Delaney was just another outsider. Tommy Mathers had no power here. He might suspect she was hiding out in town—how, how did he know?—but it wouldn’t be as easy as snapping his fingers and hoping she fell in line.

  That’s why Pope was out, talking to the locals, asking about places to stay. No doubt he’d be scouting out the Hamlet Inn, hoping for a chance to get at her. So long as he never learned about Ophelia, she would be safe. Secure.

  The inside of the coffeehouse was comfy. Cozy. A row of booths lined up along the wall. Circular tables made for groups of three, maybe four, scattered across the warm wooden floor; the tabletops were a rich blue, the chairs a striking white. Each table had a ceramic container of with sugars bursting out the top, plus a small bowl with creamers set beside it.

  Grace took a deep breath. The rich scent of strongly brewed coffee filled her senses and she shuddered on her exhale. Caffeine. She was already jittery and anxious. If she was lucky, the coffee might help her focus, since there was no way in hell she was going to calm down anytime soon.

  The second booth on the left was empty. She slipped inside, plopping her bag on the seat beside her. It held her wallet, a book, and the copies she made at Jefferson’s.

  The coffee smell was strong and almost overpowering. But, just underneath it, she caught a whiff of something else. Something sweet. Something greasy, too. Glancing around, she looked at some of the locals. A few had the decency to glance away when she caught their eye, though most of them continued to watch her shamelessly. Grace ignored them, focusing on the plates set in front of the guests.

  Nearly everyone had the same mug that they were drinking from: a white mug with dark blue letters stamped on the side. But while some of them were nibbling on baked goods—she saw scones, muffins, danishes—others were chowing down on burgers and fries. With their coffee.

  That… that was weird. And, okay, maybe they had a soft drink in the mug. She couldn’t tell and she wasn’t about to ask. The burger was weird enough. She understood the baked goods; every time she stopped at her local cafe back in the city, they always had an array of treats for sale. A hamburger, though?

  Yeah. Hamlet was super strange. And every time she thought she’ was growing accustomed to it, something like this happened.

  Even weirder?

  She hadn’t been sitting against the plastic curve of the booth for even two minutes when a woman came bursting out of the door marked EMPLOYEE’S ONLY. She was probably in her late thirties, with her honey-colored hair swept up in a large knot pierced with two pencils and her light brown eyes shining with excitement as she headed in a beeline right for Grace’s table.

  “Hi, there. You must be Grace Delaney, Maria’s new guest. It’s so nice to meet you. I’ve been wondering when you’d make your way down to the coffeehouse.”

  As if the introduction broke the spell, the silence shattered and muted conversations, clanking silverware, and slurping sips of coffee filled the air around her.

  Grace smiled up at the woman. She wore a burgundy apron wrapped around her waist, and a nametag on her left boob that said her name was Adrianna. Pushing aside her lingering anxiousness, she tried to be friendly. “You too, Adrianna,” she said.

  “Wha—oh. The name tag. I always forget I put one on since Lord knows no one in town is a stranger here. You go on and call me Addy if you like. Most everyone else does. Now, what can I get you?’

  “Coffee would be great.”

  “We only got one size here. The old DC&C mugs. I’m maybe a touch sentimental—my Gus was after me to throw them out after we changed the name over, but I threatened him with my rolling pin. Have you met Gus yet?”

  “Um. No. I don’t think I have.”

  Addy pointed toward the door. “He’s over in the main house. Late lunch rush, right? Or maybe it’s early supper. Wait a second—oh, shoot. Did I forget to bring you a menu?” Her hand flew up to her hair, patting the back of the knot. Grace wasn’t sure why, since as big as Addy’s hair was, she didn’t think she could have a menu tucked up in there. “I swear, if my head wasn’t screwed onto my shoulders, I’d be looking for it half the time. I’m sorry. I don’t usually take the orders, but...”

  Grace understood. It was like the boutique all over again. There were three women who worked there and each one wanted the honor—seriously, they called it the honor—of working on the outsider. Isabella, as the owner, took the job and, while she did an amazing job, Grace felt like she’d gone through an even thorough interrogation than the one Sylvester put her through.

  All she wanted was coffee. And, with the beginning of a strained grin, she told Addy so.

  “How do you take it? Black? Light and sweet? Sugar’s on the table with those little creamers. People just love those! But I’ve got half and half and milk in the small kitchen, too, if that’s your poison.”

  For a second, Grace thought about asking if there was any hazelnut syrup, or even some cinnamon, but decided against it. She was beginning to think that the name the coffeehouse was as literal as you can get.

  Still, Grace was a little hopeful. “Can I have that with almond milk?”

  “Almond milk?” Addy repeated. She had a pug nose. It wrinkled notably as she tilted her head, confused. “Like from the nut? How’s that even possible?”

  “Never mind. Skim is fine.” Grace hesitated. “You have skim milk, right?”

  “Sure do. I’ll bring you out some with your first mug. And if you change your mind about eating? I’ve got some cranberry scones working. Perfect for the season, and damn delicious, if I do say so myself. And I do, ‘cause I made them.”

  With a soft chuckle, Addy tapped the top of Grace’s table with the flat of her hand, then walked away. One or two of the locals called out refill orders as she bustled back to the EMPLOYEE’S ONLY door. Addy greeted them all by name, laughing and smiling and talking a mile a minute with each one as she swept past them.

  From the way she owned the room, it was clear that the woman also owned the coffeehouse. She might have mentioned her husband, but what Grace got out of her story was that Addy was the boss in that relationship, too. Threatening him with a frying pan? Somehow, she didn’t think the other woman was exaggerating.

  It was refreshing. She decided she liked the woman, especially her boisterous, mile-a-minute personality, even if she didn’t know what almond milk was.

  It wasn’t too long before Addy was back, expertly carrying a tray on her hip and a fresh pot of coffee in her other hand. The tray held a small stainless steel milk pitcher and one of the same white mugs with blue letters stamped across the center. Up close, Grace saw that they said DC&C, just like Addy said. She still had no clue what that meant.

  She thought about asking, then let it go. If these were the mugs that nearly got Gus’s head bashed in with a frying pan, it was probably better if she didn’t know.

  Addy placed the mug in front of Grace, put the milk pitcher next to it, then tucked the tray underneath her arm. She poured out the steaming coffee into the mug, leaving just enough room for the milk.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. If you need a refill, don’t be afraid to holler. If it’s not me, it’ll be Sally running it out. She should be out of school any minute now.”

  Grace thought about asking Addy who Sally was. She let that one go, too.

  It turned out
that she didn’t have a choice. In Addy’s next breath, she found out exactly who Sally was.

  “I forgot to tell you before. It’s lucky you came down today. I was gonna call Ophelia later, see about your lessons. I’m betting Sally would love to take part in something like that.” At Grace’s dazed look, she went on to add, “Dinah Jefferson called the coffeehouse as soon as you left her store. She thought it would be perfect for my kid. You’ve got something I can show Sally and her girlfriends? Di said you made some copies at the store.”

  Grace didn’t know what to say. It was one thing to joke about the Hamlet gossips with Maria. It was another entirely to hear that. Jeez, it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes since she left Jefferson’s.

  Because Addy was waiting expectantly, she bought some time by reaching for her bag, grabbing one of Maria’s posters from the top. She handed it to Addy.

  “Word gets around fast,” she managed at last.

  Addy laughed, folding the flier and tucking it beneath her apron. “Oh, yeah. But that’s Hamlet for you.”

  The stop for coffee was a mistake. It was delicious—and, at Addy’s urging she put away two cranberry scones before she was too full to take another bite—but the rich coffee was so much stronger than the rest stop swill she had last week. The caffeine was a definite jolt to her system. And while it gave her the needed energy to suck it up and drive back to Ophelia, her already taut nerves were jangling.

  Her fingers were twitching. She gripped the steering wheel tighter to hide it. Her thoughts were racing in a hundred different directions and she forced herself to focus. She wondered if this was how Addy felt all the time. As forgetful and as talkative at the owner of the coffeehouse was, Grace suspected she probably dipped into her own supply. She didn’t blame her, either. That was some good stuff.

  Way too strong, though. Grace buzzed and hummed as she drove, eyes darting to and fro, keeping alert. To her relief, she didn’t come across another car as she searched for the purple ribbon that would bring her back to Orchard Avenue.

  Maria’s mint green coupe was there. Sly’s cruiser was missing, and Grace was glad. The pit stop at the coffeehouse had taken her mind off of Tommy while she was talking to Addy. Now, though? She couldn’t stop thinking about it. She was back to obsessing over the fifty dollars and the brazen way they asked about finding a place to stay.

  Maybe she got lucky that Jefferson forgot all about Ophelia. She knew from experience that her luck had a tendency to run out when she least expected it. Once they cased the Hamlet Inn—and they would—it was only a matter of time before they discovered she wasn’t there. What happened then?

  Would they come back? Try talking to the Jeffersons again? What about Addy? Sweet woman, but she seemed like the last person on the planet who would keep a secret—especially since no one knew that her hiding out in Hamlet was a secret.

  Because she kept it one.

  Crap.

  She almost did it. Almost turned right when she got to the hall, slipping off to the Sunflower Room instead of checking in with her hostess. With two scones and far too much coffee churning in her uneasy belly, it wasn’t as if Grace needed dinner. Then she thought of the intercom. If she didn’t stop in at the kitchen, Maria would page her when dinner was done.

  Might as well face the music now.

  Grace never wanted to do this. And now she had no choice. It wasn’t about hiding out anymore. If someone tipped Pope off that she was staying at Ophelia, she was putting Maria at risk, too. The locks were great. Security was phenomenal. But they weren’t engaged all the time, and how could she expect Maria to stay safe when the other woman had no idea that she needed to be?

  Maria was at the stove when Grace entered the kitchen, a dish towel in one hand, a wooden spoon in the other as she tended to something in a large stew pot.

  “Buonasera, Grace. I’m finishing dinner soon. It should be—” Maria stopped. “Grace. Sweetie. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong?”

  Here goes nothing.

  “He’s not a ghost, even if he acts like one sometimes. His name is Tommy Mathers. He’s thirty years old, his family is loaded, and he won’t leave me the hell alone.”

  It was direct, right to the point. And there must’ve been something written on Grace’s face that told her there was way more to the story than that.

  “Oh, sweetie.” Maria’s expression softened. Turning the burner from medium heat to simmer, she laid the wooden spoon down. She gave Grace all of her undivided attention.

  “I’ve been hiding out from him for... eight months? Yeah. More than eight months now. He thinks we’re meant to be and there’s nothing I can do to change his mind... can we sit down?”

  As strong as her legs were, they were suddenly weak. At Maria’s nod, she grabbed a chair and sank down in it. Maria sat down opposite from her, still clutching her dish towel.

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  That’s what Maria thought. Now that Grace started, it was like poison being drawn from a wound. She wouldn’t feel better until it was all out. So she told Maria. She told her everything, from the first staged date at the coffee shop by her old house, the way Tommy proposed on their one month anniversary, the abduction, button’s collar, the heart… she told Maria all of it.

  There was something about her. Maria didn’t judge, and she didn’t interrupt. And, most importantly, she didn’t look at Grace as if she were crazy for turning down a Mathers’ attention and devotion the way her friends had. Her co-workers had. Her own parents. Maria watched as Grace spoke with a stone face; the only reaction she had was to reach out, taking Grace’s hand in hers, giving it a small squeeze. It said I’m here for you.

  You’re not alone.

  Grace clung tightly to Maria’s hand like a lifeline, only letting go when she was done. She told Maria about it all, leading up to the moment she arrived just outside of Hamlet and found the tracker. Even though she drove far enough away to cover her tracks before she got rid of it, she’d discovered the tracker too late.

  Especially since the Jeffersons all but confirmed that Tommy had managed to track her down after all.

  Maria absorbed it all. The only thing she said when Grace went silent was, “Did Lucas know about this?”

  “Some of it. I told him and Tessa right before I decided I would have to leave my apartment in Dayton. He found me again. I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t. And that’s when they told me about Hamlet.”

  “I see.” Slipping her hand out of Grace’s, leaving the dish towel on the table, Maria climbed to her feet. “Stay here.”

  Okay.

  Without another word, Maria got back to work in the kitchen. After turning off the right burner, she slapped a small saucepan on the open burner on the left side. She grabbed milk from the fridge, poured it in the saucepan, and added something to it. Within minutes, the soothing scent of chocolate began to fill the kitchen.

  She poured the contents of the saucepan into two mugs: one for herself, one for Grace. Setting them down, she said, “Some things go better with hot cocoa, yes?”

  Grace appreciated the gesture. “Thanks.”

  “I know. Trust me, I know. There were times when I wanted to drown myself in the hot cocoa, I was such a mess. Lucas tried to hide me from the truth, but there are bad people out there. Bad men. And, sometimes, no matter what we do, they find their way here. We just have to be prepared when they do.”

  In a flash, Grace remembered the name of the man Jefferson mentioned. How he said something about the trouble Maria had with an outsider. Maybe she did know exactly what Grace was going through.

  The words slipped out on their own: “Who’s Mack Turner?”

  Maria’s olive tone lightened enough to be noticeable. “Where did you hear that name?”

  Watching the color drain from her hostess’s face made Grace feel worse. “When I was at Jefferson’s store. I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that.”

  “Almost two years no
w, and the gossips still like to mention that awful, awful man.” Maria raised her hand, flipping her bangs up and out of her face. “It’s okay, Grace. You’ve already been here longer than he was. You’ll learn this, too. Hamlet will protect you, but stay here long enough and you’ll never have another secret again.”

  Wasn’t that the truth? She promised herself that she would handle Tommy on her own. Barely two weeks into her stay and not only did half the town know about her, but now she went and burdened Maria with her troubles.

  “Besides, you trusted me with your story. It’s only fair I tell you mine. Mack Turner…” She let a husky laugh. It was raw and rough and had no humor to it. “He was the first outsider who came to stay at my Ophelia. I thought he was a nice man. Handsome, si, but different. I should’ve known better—Lucas did. Too late to change that now.”

  A sour taste filled Grace’s mouth. She swallowed roughly. As big of a monster as Tommy is, he never hurt her. This Mack Turner? He hurt Maria. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “It’s fine. I’m okay. It could’ve been a lot worse. He learned very quickly that sneaking into my bed while I was sleeping wasn’t the smartest of plans. I might’ve ended up with a couple of bruises and a black eye, but I got through that night with my life. Turner didn’t.”

  “He’s dead?”

  Was it terrible that Grace was glad? She remembered the way the Jeffersons talked about how the outsider got what he deserved. They were right.

  Maria nodded. “He escaped after I fought back. Hopped in his truck and tried to drive out of town. They found it in the gulley the next morning.” She paused, as if re-living the sordid event was too much, before shaking it off. “But his accident isn’t what saved me. The only thing that saved me was the bat I kept under my bed. I fought back. You could do that, too, sweetie.”

  Tommy had a crew of paid bruisers that were fanatically loyal to him. His right-hand man was a walking killing machine, with an arsenal to boot. Grace let out a hollow laugh. “I don’t think a bat’s going to help me.”

  “Not just that. What good is a bat if you’re not ready to swing it? You gave me the idea with your ballet classes. What about if someone taught you how to protect yourself?”