Five years later . . .
“Are you ready for this?” Molly asked.
I looked around the open room and smiled. “Yeah. I think so.”
My restaurant, The Maysen Jar, was opening tomorrow.
The dream I’d had since I was a kid—the dream Jamie had shared with me—was actually coming true.
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.
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?”
Kali, my four-year-old niece, giggled. Her pink summer dress swished behind her as she raced toward me. Her brown curls—curls that matched Molly’s—bounced down her shoulders as she flew into my arms. I kissed her cheek and tickled her sides but quickly let her go, knowing she wasn’t here for me.
“Where’s Mommy?”
I nodded toward the back. “In the kitchen.”
“Mommy!” she yelled as she ran in search of Molly.
I stood just as the door jingled again and my brother, Finn, stepped inside with two-year-old Max in his arms.
“Hi.” He crossed the room and tucked me into his side for a hug. “How are you?”
“Good.” I squeezed his waist, then stood on my tiptoes to kiss my nephew’s cheek. “How are you?”
“Fine.”
Finn was far from fine but I didn’t comment. “Do you want something to drink? I’ll make you your favorite caramel latte.”
“Sure.” He nodded and set down Max when Molly and Kali came out of the kitchen.
“Mama!” Max’s entire face lit up as he toddled toward his mother.
“Max!” She scooped him up, kissing his chubby cheeks and hugging him tight. “Oh, I missed you, sweetheart. Did you have a fun time at Daddy’s?”
Max just hugged her back while Kali clung to her leg.
Finn and Molly’s divorce had been rough on the kids. Seeing their parents miserable and splitting time between homes had taken its toll.
“Hi, Finn. How are you?” Molly’s voice was full of hope that he’d give her just a little something nice.
“Fine,” he clipped.
The smile on her face fell when he refused to look at her but she recovered fast, focusing on her kids. “Let’s go grab my stuff from the office and then we can go home and play before dinner.”
I waved. “See you tomorrow.”
She nodded and gave me her biggest smile. “I can’t wait. This is going to be wonderful, Poppy. I just know it.”
“Thanks.” I smiled good-bye to my best friend and ex-sister-in-law.
Molly looked back at Finn, waiting for him to acknowledge her, but he didn’t. He kissed his children good-bye and then turned his back on his ex-wife, taking the stool Randall had vacated.
“Bye, Finn,” Molly whispered, then led the kids back through the kitchen to the small office.
The minute we heard the back door close, Finn groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. “This fucking sucks.”
“Sorry.” I patted his arm and then went behind the counter to make his coffee.
The divorce was only four months old and both were struggling to adjust to the new normal of different houses, custody schedules and awkward encounters. The worst part of it all was that they still loved each other. Molly was doing everything she could to get just a fraction of Finn’s forgiveness. Finn was doing everything he could to make her pay.
And as Molly’s best friend and Finn’s sister, I was caught in between, attempting to give them both equal love and support.
“Is everything set for tomorrow?” Finn propped his elbows on the counter and watched me make his latte.
“Yes. I need to do a couple of things for the breakfast menu, but then I’m all set.”
“Want to grab dinner with me tonight? I can wait around for you to finish up.”
My shoulders stiffened and I didn’t turn away from the espresso drip. “Um, I actually have plans tonight.”
“Plans? What plans?”
The surprise in his voice wasn’t a shock. In the five years since Jamie had died, I’d rarely made plans that hadn’t included him or Molly. I’d all but lost touch with the friends Jamie and I’d had from college. The only girlfriend I still talked to was Molly. And the closest I’d come to making a new friend lately had been my conversation earlier with Randall.
Finn was probably excited, thinking I was doing something social and branching out, which wasn’t entirely untrue. But my brother wasn’t going to like the plans I’d made.
“I’m going to a karate class,” I blurted and started steaming his milk. I could feel his frown on my back, and sure enough, it was still there when I delivered his finished latte.
“Poppy, no. I thought we talked about giving up this list thing.”
“We talked about it, but I don’t remember agreeing with you.”
Finn thought my desire to complete Jamie’s birthday list was unhealthy.
I thought it was necessary.
Because maybe if I finished Jamie’s list, I could find a way to let him go.
Finn huffed and dove right into our usual argument. “It could take you years to get through that list.”
“So what if it does?”
“Finishing his list isn’t going to bring him back. It’s just your way of holding on to the past. You’re never going to move on if you can’t let him go. He’s gone, Poppy.”
“I know he’s gone,” I snapped, the threat of tears burning my throat. “I’m well aware that Jamie isn’t coming back, but this is my choice. I want to finish his list and the least you can do is be supportive. Besides, you’re one to talk about moving on.”
“That’s different,” he countered.
“Is it?”
We went into a stare-down, my chest heaving as I refused to blink.
Finn broke first and slumped forward. “I’m sorry. I just want you to be happy.”
I stepped to the counter and placed my hand on top of his. “I know, but please, try and understand why I need to do this.”
He shook his head. “I don’t get it. I don’t know why you’d put yourself through all that. But you’re my sister and I love you, so I’ll try.”
“Thank you.” I squeezed his hand. “I want you to be happy too. Maybe instead of dinner with me, you should go to Molly’s? You could try and talk after the kids go to bed.”
He shook his head, a lock of his rust-colored hair falling out of place as he spoke to the countertop. “I love her. I always will, but I can’t forgive what she did. I just . . . can’t.”
I wished he’d try harder. I hated to see my brother so heartbroken. Molly too. I’d jump at the chance to get Jamie back, no matter what mistakes he might have made.
“So, karate?” Finn asked, changing subjects. He might disapprove of my choice to finish Jamie’s list, but he’d rather talk about it than his failed marriage.
“Karate. I made an appointment to try a class tonight.” It was probably a mistake, doing strenuous physical exercise the night before the grand opening, but I wanted to get it done before the restaurant opened and I got too busy—or chickened out.
“Then, I guess, tomorrow you’ll get to cross two things off the list. Opening this restaurant and going to a karate class.”
“Actually.” I held up a finger, then went to the register for my purse. I pulled out my oversized bag and rifled around until my fingers hit Jamie’s leather journal. “I’m going to cross off the restaurant one today.”
I hadn’t completed many items on Jamie’s list, but every time I did, waterworks followed. The restaurant’s opening tomorrow was going to be one of my proudest moments and I didn’t want it flooded with tears.
“Would you do it with me?” I asked.
He smiled. “You know I’ll always be here for whatever you need.”
I knew.
Finn had held me together these last five years. Without him, I don’t think I would have survived Jamie’s death.
“Okay.” I sucked in a shaky breath, then grabbed a pen from the jar by the register. Flipping to the thirtieth-birthday page, I carefully checked the little box in the upper right corner.
Jamie had given each birthday a page in the journal. He’d wanted some space to make notes about his experience or tape in pictures. He’d never get to fill in these pages, and even though I was doing his list, I couldn’t bring myself to do it either. So after I finished one of his items, I simply checked the box and ignored the lines that would always remain empty.
As expected, the moment I closed the journal, a sob escaped. Before the first tear fell, Finn had rounded the corner and pulled me into his arms.
I miss you, Jamie. I missed him so much it hurt. It wasn’t fair that he couldn’t do his own list. It wasn’t fair that his life had been cut short because I’d asked him to run a stupid errand. It wasn’t fair that the person responsible for his death was still living free.
It wasn’t fair.
The flood of emotion consumed me and I let it all go into my brother’s navy shirt.
“Please, Poppy,” Finn whispered into my hair. “Please think about stopping this list thing. I hate that it makes you cry.”
I sniffled and wiped my eyes, fighting with all my strength to stop crying. “I have to,” I hiccupped. “I have to do this. Even if it takes me years.”
Finn didn’t reply; he just squeezed me tighter.
We hugged each other for a few minutes until I got myself together and stepped back. Not wanting to see the empathy in his eyes, I looked around the restaurant. The restaurant I’d only been able to buy because of Jamie’s life insurance money.
“Do you think he’d have liked it?”
Finn threw his arm over my shoulders. “He’d have loved it. And he’d be so proud of you.”
“This was the one item on his list that wasn’t just for him.”
“I think you’re wrong about that. I think this was for him. Making your dreams come true was Jamie’s greatest joy.”
I smiled. Finn was right. Jamie would have been so excited about this place. Yes, it was my dream, but it would have been his too.
Wiping my eyes one last time, I put the journal away. “I’d better get my stuff done so I can get to that class.”
“Call me afterward if you need to. I’ll just be home. Alone.”
“Like I said, you could always go eat dinner with your family.” He shot me a glare and I held up my hands. “Just an idea.”
Finn kissed my cheek and took another long drink of his coffee. “I’m going to go.”
“But you’re coming by tomorrow?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Proud of you, sis.”
I was proud of me too. “Thanks.”
We walked together to the door, then I locked it behind him before rushing back to the kitchen. I dove into my cooking, making a tray of quiches that would sit overnight in the refrigerator and bake fresh in the morning. When my watch dinged the minute after I’d slid the tray into the fridge, I took a deep breath.
Karate.
I was going to karate tonight. I had no desire to try martial arts, but I would. For Jamie.
So I hurried to the bathroom, trading my jeans and white top for black leggings and a maroon sports tank. I tied my long red hair into a ponytail that hung past my sports bra before stepping into my charcoal tennis shoes and heading out the back.
It didn’t take me long to drive my green sedan to the karate school. Bozeman was the fastest-growing town in Montana and it had changed a lot since I’d moved here for college, but it still didn’t take more than twenty minutes to get from one end to the other—especially in June, when college was out for the summer.
By the time I parked in the lot, my stomach was in a knot. With shaking hands, I got out of my car and went inside the gray brick building.
“Hi!” A blond teenager greeted me from behind the reception counter. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen and she had a black belt tied around her white uniform.
“Hi,” I breathed.
“Are you here to try a class?”
I nodded and found my voice. “Yes, I called earlier this week. I can’t remember who I talked to but he told me I could just come over tonight and give it a shot.”
“Awesome! Let me get you a waiver. One sec.” She disappeared into the office behind the reception counter.
I took the free moment to look around. Trophies filled the shelves behind the counter. Framed certificates written in both English and Japanese hung on the walls in neat columns. Pictures of happy students were scattered around the rest of the lobby.
Past the reception area was a wide platform filled with parents sitting on folding chairs. Proud moms and dads were facing a long glass window that overlooked a classroom of kids. Beyond the glass, little ones in white uniforms and yellow belts were practicing punches and kicks—some more coordinated than others but all quite adorable.
“Here you go.” The blond teenager returned with a small stack of papers and a pen.
“Thanks.” I got to work, filling out my name and signing the necessary waivers, then handed them back. “Do I need to, um, change?” I glanced down at my gym clothes, feeling out of place next to all the white uniforms.
“You’re fine for tonight. You can just wear that, and if you decide to sign up for more classes, we can get you a gi.” She tugged on the lapel of her uniform. “Let me give you a quick tour.”
I took a deep breath, smiling at some of the parents as they turned and noticed me. Then I met the girl on the other side of the reception counter and followed her through an archway to a waiting room. She walked straight past the open area and directly through the door marked Ladies.
“You can use any of the hooks and hangers. We don’t wear shoes in the dojo, so you can leave those in a cubby with your keys. There aren’t any lockers, as you can see,” she laughed, “but no one will steal anything from you. Not here.”
“Okay.” I toed off my shoes and put them in a free cubby with my car keys.
Damn it. I should have painted my toenails. The red I’d chosen weeks ago was now chipped and dull.
“I’m Olivia, by the way.” She leaned closer to whisper. “When we’re in here, you can just call me Olivia, but when we’re in the waiting area or dojo, you should always call me Olivia Sensei.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
“It’ll just be a few more minutes until the kids’ class is done.” Olivia led me back out to a waiting area. “You can just hang out here and then we’ll get started.”
“Okay. Thank you again.”
She smiled and disappeared back to the reception area.
I stood quietly in the waiting room, trying to blend into the white walls as I peeked into the dojo.
The class was over and the kids were all lining up to bow to their teachers. Senseis. One little boy was wiggling his toes on the blue mats covering the floor. Two little girls were whispering and giggling. An instructor called for attention and the kids’ backs all snapped straight. Then they bent at the waist, bowing to the senseis and a row of mirrors spanning the back of the room.
The room erupted in laughter and cheers as the kids were dismissed from their line and funneled out the door. Most passed me without a glance as they went to find their parents or change in the locker rooms.
My nerves spiked as the kids cleared the exercise room, knowing it was almost time for me to go in there. Other adult students were coming in and out of the locker rooms, and I was now even more aware that I would be the only person tonight not wearing white.
I hated being new. Some people enjoyed the rush of the first day of school or a new job, but not me. I didn’t like the nervous energy in my fingers. And I really didn’t want to make a fool of myself tonight.
Just don’t fall on your face.
That was one of two goals for tonight: survive, and stay upright.
I smiled at another female student as she emerged from the locker room. She waved but joined a group of men huddled on the opposite wall.
Not wanting to eavesdrop on the adults, I studied the children as they buzzed around until a commotion sounded in the lobby.
Determined not to show fear to whoever came my way, I forced the corners of my mouth up. They fell when a man stepped into the waiting area.
A man I hadn’t seen in five years, one month and three days appeared in the room.
The cop who’d told me my husband had been murdered.