The Birthday List(4)

No matter what happened with The Maysen Jar—whether it failed miserably or succeeded beyond my wildest dreams—I would always be proud of what I’d accomplished here.

Proud and grateful.

It had taken me almost four years to crawl out from underneath the weight of Jamie’s death. Four years for the black fog of grief and loss to fade to gray. The Maysen Jar had given me a purpose this past year. Here, I wasn’t just a twenty-nine-year-old widow struggling to make it through each day. Here, I was a business owner and entrepreneur. I was in control of my life and my own destiny.

The oven’s chime snapped me out of my reverie. I pulled on a mitt and slid out the small jar, letting the smell of apples and butter and cinnamon waft to my nose. Then I went to the freezer, getting out my favorite vanilla-bean ice cream and placing a dollop atop the pie’s lattice crust. Wrapping the hot jar in a black cloth napkin, I slid the pie in front of the grumpy old man.

“Enjoy.” I held back a smug smile. Once he dug into that pie, I’d win him over.

He eyed it for a long minute, leaning around to inspect all sides of the dish before picking up his spoon. But with that first bite, an involuntary hum of pleasure escaped from his throat.

“I heard that,” I teased.

He grumbled something under his breath before taking another steaming bite. Then another. The pie didn’t last long; he devoured it while I pretended to clean.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome.” I took his empty dishes and set them in a plastic bussing tub. “Would you like to take one to go? Maybe have it after dinner?”

He shrugged.

I took that as a yes and prepared a to-go bag with a blueberry crumble instead of the apple pie. Tucking a menu card and reheating instructions inside, I set the brown craft bag next to him on the counter.

“How much?” He reached for his wallet.

I waved him off. “It’s on the house. A gift from me to you as my first customer, Mister . . .”

“James. Randall James.”

I tensed at the name—just like I always did when I heard Jamie or a similar version—but let it roll off, glad things were improving. Five years ago, I would have burst into tears. Now, the bite was manageable.

Randall opened the bag and looked inside. “You send to-go stuff in a jar?”

“Yes, the jar goes too. If you bring it back, I give you a discount on your next purchase.”

He closed the bag and muttered, “Huh.”

We stared at each other in silence for a few beats, every ticking second getting more and more awkward, but I didn’t break my smile.

“Are you from here?” he finally asked.

“I’ve lived in Bozeman since college, but no, I grew up in Alaska.”

“Do they have these fancy jar restaurants up north?”

I laughed. “Not that I know of, but I haven’t been home in a while.”

“Huh.”

Huh. I made a mental note never to answer questions with “huh” ever again. Up until I’d met Randall James, I’d never realized just how annoying it was.

The silence between us returned. Molly was banging around in the kitchen, probably unloading the clean dishes from the dishwasher, but as much as I wanted to be in there to help, I couldn’t leave Randall out here alone.

I glanced at my watch. I had plans tonight and needed to get the breakfast quiches prepped before I left. Standing here while Randall pondered my restaurant was not something I’d figured into my plans.

“I, um—”

“I built this place.”

His interruption surprised me. “The garage?”

He nodded. “Worked for the construction company that built it back in the sixties.”

Now his inspection made sense. “What do you think?”

I normally didn’t care much for the opinions of others—especially from a crotchety stranger—but for some reason, I wanted Randall’s approval. He was the first person to enter this place who wasn’t a family member or a part of my construction crew. A favorable opinion from an outsider would give my spirits a boost as I went into opening day.

But my spirits fell when, without a word, Randall pulled on his cap and slid off the stool. He looped the takeout bag over one wrist while grabbing his cane with his other hand. Then he began his slow journey toward the door.

Maybe my apple pie wasn’t as magical as Jamie had thought.

When Randall paused at the door, I perked up, waiting for any sign that he’d enjoyed his time here.

He looked over his shoulder and winked. “Good luck, Ms. Maysen.”

“Thank you, Mr. James.” I kept my arms pinned at my sides until he turned back around and pushed through the door. As soon as he was out of sight, I threw my arms in the air, mouthing, Yes!

I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see Randall James again, but I was taking his parting farewell as the blessing I’d been craving.

This was going to work. The Maysen Jar was going to be a success.

I could feel it down to my bones.

Not thirty seconds after Randall disappeared down the sidewalk, the door flew open again. This time, a little girl barreled down the center aisle. “Auntie Poppy!”

I hurried around the counter and knelt, ready for impact. “Kali bug! Where’s my hug?”