“A change of this magnitude is never good,” Anson Halloway pronounces over the guitar licks from the ZZ Top we added to the Milton’s jukebox. He’s perched on a seat at the crowded counter as he looks around at the fresh paint job and the reduced horn-and-antler presence. Then he puts on a pair of reading glasses and peers at the menu. “Jumping frogs! Just look at these prices!”

Anson is the owner of the dry goods store and a longtime customer. He and seemingly half the town are in the diner tonight to support our grand reopening, so I don’t have time to listen to the old guard crank on about change and such, especially when so many people love what we’ve done. Viva some change, babe.

“Most of the prices on your favorites are still the same,” I say. “We’ve still got all your beloved fried stuff alongside the new, healthy items and locally-sourced products.”

“Wine. You’ve got wine paired up with the food? When did this place get all fancy, Gwen?”

Next to him, Gary Darnell, who owns the Bijou movie theater on Main Street, leans in close so he can be heard over the rowdy atmosphere. “I like it! Especially since they’ve got the sexy kind of wine from that new Climax place!”

Anson points to the menu again. “There’s a lot of hooey on here that all those fancy-pants newbs coming into Cherry Valley would like. This just doesn’t look like the Milton’s I know.”

Gary smiles at me with his gold tooth gleaming. “It’s still the same old, affordable Milton’s to me, you old fuddy duddy.”

“Closed on Mondays, too,” Anson grumbles.

Abby Peters is sitting on the other side of our resident skeptic, chuckling to herself while live blogging this event for her ABCs of Cherry Valley site.

“Anson,” I say. “I’ll be right back.” I offer a smile to Gary just before zipping to the other side of the counter where a bunch of Full Circle Tech nerds are whooping it up — and spending a hell of a lot of money on our new fresh game items from the ranches along with the wine pairings.

Meanwhile, Mom and Irina are ruling in the kitchen, and most of the customers at the counter seem to love watching them through the expanded window. Grace is on the floor with Seamus in his knit cap along with two more servers we’re training for the night shift — Whitney, a student from Cherry Valley Community College who Abby recommended, and Violet, a new sprightly senior citizen arrival in town. Both have waitressing experience, so they’ve caught on quickly, and they’re rushing around to serve the kids on Friday-night dates, middle-aged couples who courted each other at Milton’s back in the day, and businesspeople from the Chamber of Commerce. It’s a crowded house except for one glaring omission.

As I wait for the FCT group to decide what kind of wines to order next, I try not to think about Quinn. He made all of this happen, and now he’s gone. Not from Cherry Valley — I know he’s finishing up the Climax job — but from my life. My heart thuds a lonely beat, because I keep thinking about what Mom said yesterday: just listen to him, let him in an inch and give him a chance. And last night as I slept on that advice, it really sunk in. But the thing is, I’m afraid that if I do see him again, I’ll lose it: my common sense, my comfortable yet boring life, my heart.

I can’t lose any of that. Too risky. Too …

I sigh. Too bad.

The FCT workers decide on five bottles of zinfandel, so I rush to the backroom to get them. All the while, I can’t even look at the label without being reminded of Wine Night with Quinn. Then again, everything is a reminder of him.

Dammit, why can’t I just forget?

I deliver the wine to many nerdy thank yous and tipsy smiles — damn, those FCT dweebs aren’t as shy as you’d think when trying to flirt — then I turn around to find that someone has taken over the one empty seat at the counter. It’s Mattie Hollister with her mane of curls and a friendly smile. The last time I saw her was the day she told me about Quinn, and my steps slow as I make my way to her.

Everywhere a reminder.

By the time I get to her, I think she realizes there’s some true awkwardness between us, and it's even worse than on the day she caught me slinking out of her guesthouse, right after I started falling for Quinn.

“What a night, huh?” she says casually over the ruckus. “It’s good to see that the wine is going over well!”

“Like gangbusters.” I slip her a menu, but she doesn’t look at it, maybe because she’s the one who reviewed it to pair the wines with the dishes. Then again, I have the feeling she’s not here to check on the wine sales.

“Gwen,” she says in a tone that tells me I’m right on.

I nearly make an excuse to get away — too busy, just look at this crowd, I barely even have a minute to breathe — but she’s already talking.

“I’m sorry for dropping that information on you like I did. I had no idea he hadn’t told you.”

She doesn’t have to say his name, and I’m happy she doesn’t. I might fall apart right here, and I can’t afford that in so many ways.

I look around to see if anyone is paying attention. Nope. Gary and Anson are loudly discussing why Japanese beef is necessary in life, and Abby is laughing about something with Grace. I turn my attention back to Mattie. “It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize.”

“Gwen!” Anson is done talking beef and is calling to me over the noise. He’s ready to order.

As I start to go, Mattie stops me.

“He’s a good guy, Gwen. It’s just that he has a past.” She lowers her voice. “And he’s not what you think he is, in spite of how it seems. The charge that was dropped against him — you know which one I mean — he’s not that way at all.”

She’s telling me he’s not an abuser, and she’s doing it in a manner that won’t air out his dirty laundry in public. She respects Quinn that much and obviously came here to go to bat for him, and my heart tightens like a fist.

She tilts her head as if she knows how much I’m struggling. “I decided to come here on my own to tell you that he wasn’t trying to lie to you. He meant to let you know all about it before I opened my big mouth. He really did.”

Anson calls out again. “Gwen!”

My pulse is pumping. She took this upon herself because she cares about him, doesn’t she? A person like Mattie Hollister wouldn’t vouch for someone who doesn’t deserve it, right?

“Thanks, Mattie,” I say. “I mean it.”

She nods, and just as I turn around to serve that impatient heap of dry goods who keeps yelling for me, I almost run into Grace. She’s obviously heard everything Mattie said. Yes, she is that good at eavesdropping, like a stealthy James Bond in bold mascara and Sassy Sangria lipstick.

“See?” she whispers loudly in my ear. “Even Mattie says that Quinn’s not Dad. Talk to the guy, dummy!”

Then she pats me on the hip, multitasking while sending a flirty smile to some new arrivals coming through the door with a raucous cheer: cowboys she knows from the Footloose Saloon. At the same time, my sister’s words ring in my ear like a promise that I’m still not ready to make.

Not yet, at least.