Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar, #2)(12)

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.