Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar, #2)(11)

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 deserved 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.