The Birthday List(3)
Once an old mechanic’s garage, The Maysen Jar was now Bozeman, Montana’s newest café. I’d taken a run-down, abandoned building and turned it into my future.
Gone were the cement floors spotted with oil. In their place was a hickory herringbone wood floor. The dingy garage doors had been replaced. Now visitors would pull up to a row of floor-to-ceiling black-paned windows. And decades of gunk, grime and grease had been scrubbed away. The original red brick walls had been cleaned to their former glory, and the tall, industrial ceilings had been painted a fresh white.
Good-bye, sockets and wrenches. Hello, spoons and forks.
“I was thinking.” Molly straightened the menu cards for the fourth time. “We should probably call the radio station and see if they’d do a spotlight or something to announce that you’re open. We’ve got that ad in the paper but radio might be good too.”
I rearranged the jar of pens by the register. “Okay. I’ll call them tomorrow.”
We were standing shoulder to shoulder behind the counter at the back of the room. Both of us were fidgeting—touching things that didn’t need to be touched and organizing things that had been organized plenty—until I admitted what we were both thinking. “I’m nervous.”
Molly’s hand slid across the counter and took mine. “You’ll be great. This place is a dream, and I’ll be here with you every step of the way.”
I leaned my shoulder into hers. “Thanks. For everything. For helping me get this going. For agreeing to be my manager. I wouldn’t have come this far without you.”
“Yes, you would have, but I’m glad to be a part of this.” She squeezed my hand before letting go and running her fingers across the black marble counter. “I was—”
The front door opened and an elderly man with a cane came shuffling inside. He paused inside the doorway, his gaze running over the black tables and chairs that filled the open space, until he saw Molly and me at the back of the room.
“Hello,” I called. “Can I help you?”
He slipped off his gray driving cap and tucked it under his arm. “Just looking.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Molly said, “but we don’t open for business until tomorrow.”
He ignored Molly and started shuffling down the center aisle. My restaurant wasn’t huge. The garage itself had only been two stalls, and to cross from the front door to the counter took me exactly seventeen steps. This man made the trip seem like he was crossing the Sahara. Every step was small and he stopped repeatedly to look around. But eventually, he reached the counter and took a wooden stool across from Molly.
When her wide, brown eyes met mine, I just shrugged. I’d poured everything I had into this restaurant—heart and soul and wallet—and I couldn’t afford to turn away potential customers, even if we hadn’t opened for business yet.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
He reached past Molly, grabbing a menu card from her stack and rifling the entire bunch as he slid it over.
I stifled a laugh at Molly’s frown. She wanted to fix those cards so badly her fingers were itching, but she held back, deciding to leave instead. “I think I’ll go finish up in the back.”
“Okay.”
She turned and disappeared through the swinging door into the kitchen. When it swung closed behind her, I focused on the man memorizing my menu.
“Jars?” he asked.
I grinned. “Yes, jars. Most everything here is made in mason jars.” Other than some sandwiches and breakfast pastries, I’d compiled a menu centered around mason jars.
It had actually been Jamie’s idea to use jars. Not long after we’d gotten married, I’d been experimenting with recipes. Though it had always been my dream to open a restaurant, I’d never known exactly what I wanted to try. That was, until one night when I’d been experimenting with ideas I’d found on Pinterest. I’d made these dainty apple pies in tiny jars and Jamie had gone crazy over them. We’d spent the rest of the night brainstorming ideas for a jar-themed restaurant.
Jamie, you’d be so proud to see this place. An all-too-familiar sting hit my nose but I rubbed it away, focusing on my first customer instead of dwelling on the past.
“Would you like to try something?”
He didn’t answer. He just set down the menu and stared, inspecting the chalkboard and display racks at my back. “You spelled it wrong.”
“Actually, my last name is Maysen, spelled the same way as the restaurant.”
“Huh,” he muttered, clearly not as impressed with my cleverness.
“We don’t open until tomorrow, but how about a sample? On the house?”
He shrugged.
Not letting his lack of enthusiasm and overall grouchy demeanor pull me down, I walked to the refrigerated display case next to the register and picked Jamie’s favorite. I popped it in the toaster oven and then set out a spoon and napkin in front of the man while he kept scrutinizing the space.
Ignoring the frown on his face, I waited for the oven and let my eyes wander. As they did, my chest swelled with pride. Just this morning, I’d applied the finishing touches. I’d hung the last of the artwork and put a fresh flower on each table. It was hard to believe this was the same garage I’d walked into a year ago. That I’d finally been able to wipe out the smell of gasoline in exchange for sugar and spice.