by Devney Perry
“Did we forget anything?” I asked as they buckled into their seats. I scanned to make sure they had their backpacks and I had my purse.
Kali smiled. “Nope. And I have my library book.”
“I didn’t brush my teeth,” Max admitted.
I sighed. “Then do it twice tonight.”
“Okay.” He nodded. “It was fun having Dad stay last night.”
My heart jumped into my throat. There was no way he could have known that Finn had stayed all night. Was there? I searched his cute face for any sign that he was talking about more than pizza and the movie, but as the seconds wore on, he just stared at me like I’d gone crazy.
Kali spoke up first. “Uh, Mom. We’re going to be late.”
“Right.” I spun around to the wheel, turning on the car and reversing into the street. “I want to grab the mail, then we’re outta here.”
“Can I get it?” Max asked.
“Sure.” I pulled forward, close enough to the curb that Max could roll down his window.
He had to unbuckle to reach out and open up the mailbox’s hatch. He leaned out and came back with a stack of envelopes and a catalog.
“Thanks.” I took it from him and tossed it all onto the passenger seat as he got resituated.
The drive to school didn’t take long with the kids chatting the entire way. We waited in the drop-off line, and when it was our turn, I waved as the kids hopped out and ran toward school. Kali shot me one last smile as she pointed out the Jeep to her circle of friends.
I inched forward. The line to turn out of the parking lot was always slow.
“And now, we wait.” I frowned at the line of cars ahead and a green sedan with its left blinker on.
Next year, Kali would be going to middle school. I wasn’t sure how early we’d have to leave the house to get Max here, wait in this atrocious line, then deliver Kali to her school seven blocks away.
But we’d make it work. That was the life of a single mom. We made the impossible happen daily.
The line was especially slow today, so I reached over to the stack of mail and brought it to my lap, thumbing through it as I crept forward.
It was mostly junk mail. Everything would be tossed into the trash except for one bill from the power company.
And a letter.
I turned the white envelope over in my hand. There was no return address. There wasn’t a stamp. The handwriting on the front wasn’t familiar. I slid my finger into the corner to tear open the top but stopped when a horn beeped behind me.
“Sorry,” I said to the car behind me and drove ahead, getting out of the school’s loop. Then I set off across town toward the restaurant.
As I drove, I continued to glance at the letter in my lap. I so badly wanted to open it, but I also wanted to arrive at work alive, so I waited, resisting the urge to dive in at a stoplight. Instead, I took one of the hair ties from my wrist.
My hair was so full and thick, I quickly stretched out the elastic ribbon I preferred to wear, which meant I had to keep a backup or two handy. I gathered up my curls and was in the middle of tying them into a bun when the neon-green band snapped.
No. My stomach dropped.
My grandma had died of a heart attack the day a hair tie had broken. My car, the one before Beluga, had been sideswiped in the grocery store parking lot after a hair tie had broken. And Finn and I had signed our divorce papers the day a hair tie had broken.
There were other, more minor examples, but these broken hair ties had become an omen. On the days they didn’t just stretch but actually broke, bad found me. God, I hoped today was just a flat tire or a shitty time at work.
My eyes dropped to the letter. Was it the bad thing headed my way?
The sinking feeling continued all the way to work, and the second I had the Jeep parked, I tore into the envelope.
The envelope’s handwriting was unfamiliar. But the script of the actual letter was unmistakable. Finn was the only one who drew the first peak of the M in Molly that way.
Even with the college-ruled paper firmly in my grip, I had to read the letter twice before my brain registered it as real. The letter was short, only taking up about half a page.
Finn had written this fifteen years ago. He’d written me a letter after our first date and never sent it.
I just might have to marry you.
Those words jumped out even as I read them for a third and fourth time.
He’d married me, all right. He’d divorced me too.
How long had it been since I’d seen the name Molly Todd? How long had he kept this letter to himself? And why would he give it to me now?
My fingers dove into my hair. What was happening?
In a flash, my phone was in my hand and I’d pulled Finn’s name up on the screen. But I couldn’t bring myself to call.
I wanted answers. But I wasn’t ready to talk to Finn yet. Not after last night.
Instead, I tucked the letter into my purse and got out of the Jeep, heading into the restaurant.
The rear entrance to the restaurant was for employees only and it led right past the office and into the kitchen. I set my purse inside the office and came into the kitchen. Poppy was at the large stainless steel table in the center.
“Morning.” She smiled, her hands covered in flour as she rolled out a large oval of pie crust.
“Morning.”
“So? Tell me about last night.”
My jaw dropped. “What? How did you know?”
Damn it, Finn. Couldn’t he have kept last night to himself? Or at least have given me a warning that he was going to tell his sister we had sex?
Poppy gave me the side-eye. “Because you told me.”
“I did?” Maybe I was still drunk from last night. “When?”
“Yesterday.” She nodded. “We were sitting in the restaurant. You had your computer. We were drinking coffee while you showed me pictures of the Jeep before you went to the dealership.”
“Oh, the Jeep.” I smacked a palm into my forehead. “Sorry. Not enough coffee this morning. Buying the Jeep went great. The kids love it.”
“Good.” She went back to her dough. “What did you think I was talking about?”
“Nothing,” I said too quickly. “Nothing at all.”
“You’re acting weird this morning.”
“I’m not acting weird. I’m just here at work. Nothing weird about that. It’s the un-weird.”
Poppy blinked and her hands stilled. “The un-weird?”
“I’m having an off morning. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Okay. If you want to talk, I’m here.”
“I’m fine. Really. But thank you.” I smiled. “So how has the morning been going?”
“Good. The coffee rush was busy, but it’s pretty much died down so I came back to start on some potpies for lunch. Mom has the front covered if you want to keep me company. There’s fresh coffee.”
“Bless you.” I hurried over to the pot and filled up one of the ceramic mugs we kept in the kitchen. They were enormous and reserved for staff. After it was full, I leaned against the side of the table, taking slow sips until I started to feel more human.
My wine hangover had been temporarily chased away during the kick Finn out of my bed fiasco. But now that the adrenaline was gone, my headache came roaring to life. Living with it would be my penance.
“Want some help?” I asked as she started cutting circles in the dough.
“No, drink your coffee and hang out with me.” She used the back of her wrist to push a lock of red hair off her cheek. The florescent lights of the kitchen always seemed to make her blue eyes even brighter.
Our restaurant T-shirts matched today, but she’d covered hers up with an apron that her kids had made her last Christmas. Tiny green and red handprints had been pressed into the cream canvas with MacKenna and Brady written beneath.
She smiled more when she wore that apron. Though, Poppy Goodman smiled almost constantly these days. She de
served every ounce of joy she’d found with Cole and their kids.
Poppy had endured enough heartbreak.
“I received a confirmation email from the newspaper yesterday that they’re going to do the feature for the anniversary celebration,” I told her.
“Perfect. And that was the last item on your checklist, so we should be all set.”
The Maysen Jar was turning six next month and we’d been planning our annual anniversary celebration for months.
It was hard to believe six years had passed since Poppy had turned this building into one of Bozeman’s most popular cafés. Once an old mechanic’s garage, this place was now widely known for delicious food served only in mason jars.
The Maysen Jar was named after her late husband, Jamie Maysen, who’d been murdered in a liquor store robbery eleven years ago. The anniversary of his death had been a couple weeks ago.
When he’d died, it had shattered us all.
I’d never known such darkness could take over a human being until I saw what Jamie’s death did to Poppy. But she’d put her broken pieces back together by finishing Jamie’s birthday list. To honor his memory, she’d done the things he’d wanted to do most. Along the way, she’d met Cole and he’d filled the cracks in her heart.
Poppy’s last name wasn’t Maysen anymore, but because of the sign on the front of this building, Jamie’s name lived on. And every year, we celebrated the place where so much healing had begun.
For me, The Maysen Jar had been my life raft.
Finn and I divorced just months before the restaurant opened. In the weeks before we signed our papers, Poppy begged me to work with her as the café manager.
I clung to the job, and it kept me emotionally afloat as I adjusted to a new way of life.
Six years later, we were more profitable than I’d ever imagined, and it would stay that way. For Poppy. For Jamie.
For me.
This restaurant wasn’t only a job. It was my safe place.
On the lonely nights when I didn’t want to go home to an empty house because the kids were with Finn, I stayed here, visiting with customers or the part-time staff. On the days when I needed an extra hug, my best friend was right here with open arms. When I needed to give my brain a workout, there were always spreadsheets and graphs waiting with new challenges.
As manager, I oversaw every aspect of this business, and in six years, I’d created a well-oiled machine. Poppy took care of the menu and preparing the food, but I did all the ordering and budgeting for supplies. I was in charge of finances, marketing and social media. I hired, fired and supervised the employees. I was a waitress. A barista. A dishwasher. An administrator.
I did whatever had to be done so Poppy could focus on her passion: the food that brought people in the front door.
She’d even won an award for Bozeman’s best restaurant last year.
In the beginning, the two of us had put in crazy hours, but we’d learned to delegate. She came in around six or six thirty weekday mornings to open by seven. Then she left to get her kids by three. Since Kali and Max were older and had after-school activities, I came in around eight and stayed until five. If the kids were with Finn, I’d stay and close down after eight.
Lunch was our busiest time, so Poppy and I made it a point to both be here. But we’d built a solid foundation to give us the flexibility to put our families first.
Our staff of two college kids and Poppy’s mom, Rayna, covered the hours when we were home.
Rayna had been a chef in Alaska, where Finn and Poppy had grown up. But eventually, the draw of grandchildren had been too much. She and David, her husband, had moved to Montana. She came into the restaurant most days to be with Poppy and because she simply loved to cook. She still made me my birthday cookies every year because she knew how much I loved them.
Even after the divorce, Rayna had kept me close. It was her nature to pull people into her circle and never let them go. And I think it was because she’d never really accepted that Finn and I were through.
But we were. We were through. So why had he given me that letter? Last night was fuzzy, but I did remember he’d been the first one to make a move. He’d started that kiss.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Poppy asked. “You’re quiet this morning.”
I looked over my shoulder and smiled. “I’m fine. Just tired and I have a headache. Unless you think they need me out front, I think I’ll disappear into some spreadsheets in the office for a while.”
“Go. Be with your precious numbers.”
“Excel formulas are to me what fresh produce is to you.” I gave her a smile and took my coffee into the office, closing the door behind me, because I wanted to read Finn’s letter one more time.
I retrieved it from my purse and opened it carefully. Finn’s handwriting hadn’t changed much since college. My fingers skimmed the words written on the paper, touching them, as my eyes tracked from left to right.
That first date had been a whirlwind. We’d laughed for hours, talking about old dating customs. He’d teased me for wanting letters and being old-fashioned. Yet he’d gone home that night and written me one.
Why? Why hadn’t he given it to me then? Why had he sent it to me now?
Did I want those answers? Every cell in my being screamed no. Those answers terrified me. They’d rip open the scars that had finally healed.
If I could time travel, I’d reverse an hour and lump this letter in with the junk mail.
Because I hated this letter. I hated that I loved it. It was too strong a reminder of how good things had been. Maybe if we’d kept the happy memories closer to the surface, we wouldn’t have sunk so deeply into the bad.
Somewhere along the way, Finn and I had lost that spark.
We’d lived together. We’d loved our children together. But we hadn’t been together.
For a year, we’d fought constantly. We’d bickered endlessly. We’d tolerated each other, both of us waiting for the storm to pass. It hadn’t. The thunderstorm had turned into a hurricane . . . and then we had the fight to end all others.
That fight started, ironically, with my lawn mower. I’d been outside cutting the lawn after putting the kids to bed. I’d had their monitors clipped to the waistband of my jeans. But I hadn’t heard Kali sneak out of her bed.
After mowing the grass in near darkness, I went inside to find Kali in the kitchen, where she’d eaten an entire bag of chocolate chips. She puked for an hour.
Finn came home to find me holding back her hair as she wretched into the toilet. He blamed me for not being inside with the kids. I blamed him for not getting home from work in time to mow the lawn. Seething had turned into snapping. Snapping had turned into shouting.
After Kali finally went back to sleep, Finn and I had it out. We decided on a break. That night, he moved into the loft at his office.
I asked him to go to marriage counseling. He agreed but never showed up to a single session.
My life spiraled. I became a woman lost without her marriage as an anchor. And one night, when my hope in Finn and our relationship had been truly slaughtered, I drove the final nail into our coffin.
I made a mistake I’d always regret. I got drunk at a friend’s bachelorette party.
I had sex with another man.
The next day, I told Finn the truth. I told him how I was at rock bottom. That I loved him and desperately wanted to revive our marriage. I begged him for forgiveness.
He told me to get a lawyer.
Honestly, I probably would have said the same. Some mistakes were unforgiveable. Some mistakes came with a regret that lived like a monster in your soul.
I shook myself into the present, shoving that monster way down deep. All of that drama was ancient history now. Finn and I were divorced. He was happier that way. So was I.
Except with his letter in my hand, it was hard not to question every day since. We’d had so much love. How did we get here? How did we get all the way from that letter to us now?
The rock in my gut told me there was only one thing to do.
The letter had to go. I tightened my grip, ready to crumple it into a tiny wad, but my fingers lost their strength.
“Fine.” I refolded the letter and jammed it into my purse. I wouldn’t throw it away, at least not yet. Instead, I’d return it to Finn.
I’d return it and remind him that our marriage was dead. Those happy times were dead.
And there was no use stirring up old ghosts.
Three
Finn
Hours after I’d been kicked out of Molly’s bed, I walked into The Maysen Jar, scanning the open room for her. But she must have been in the back with Poppy because it was just Mom at the espresso machine. I crossed the room to the black marble counter at the back.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Finn.” She smiled over her shoulder. “What a nice surprise. Give me one minute to finish up this latte.”
“Take your time.” As she went back to steaming milk, I slid into a stool next to Randall, one of the regulars at the restaurant. “Morning.”
The old man jerked up his chin but didn’t return my greeting. His cane was propped in the space between our stools. His gray driving cap rested on his knee.
“How are you?”
All I got was a one-shoulder shrug.
Randall didn’t like me much. I didn’t take it personally, because Randall James didn’t like anybody much except for Poppy and Molly. He gave them a hard time constantly, griping that the background music was too loud or the lights were too bright. Any bullshit complaint he could dream up. He bitched and moaned because they limited the number of apple pies he could have in a day, but he loved them.
He’d been their first customer, barging into The Maysen Jar before it had even opened. And to my knowledge, he’d been here nearly every day since.
Randall sat in the same stool every day, one that Poppy and Molly had marked reserved so no one else would dare sit there. They didn’t want customers to face his grumpy wrath. The seat on his right was also reserved, that one for Jimmy. He and Randall did everything together, including pretend they were archenemies.
