I sigh as I pour the sugar and cream into my coffee, sadness and disappointment running over me. Mrs. Brenton is the owner of Daily Cuppa, my favorite coffeehouse in town. It's where I come most mornings to get a bagel and a coffee before starting my day. It's been here forever. The Cuppa is practically an institution in Port Safira, with generations having passed through these doors.
And yet, now knowing that she was taking Damon Moore's offer and selling the place, I'm filled with a thousand times more disappointment, anger, and angst than I had been previously. I look around the place and recall coming in here when I was in high school, talking about my life with Mrs. Brenton, and enjoying the sense of camaraderie that existed between us.
“Honestly, sweetie,” she says. “You should really think about taking their offer. In fact, given your shop's position on the street, I'd be willing to bet you could make them sweeten the deal even more. You really could stand to make a mint if you sell.”
I shake my head. “I'm not interested in selling,” I say. “I've told them that a million times over, but they keep coming back and trying to talk me into it all over again.”
She cocks her head at me, a soft smile touching her lips. “And why don't you want to sell?” she asks.
“Honestly, I hate what they're doing to this town,” I say. “I hate that they're turning it into some cookie-cutter suburb for the rich and powerful. I hate that good people like you are being driven out.”
“Oh, I'm not being driven out, sweetie,” she says. “I'm choosing to leave. On my terms. I realize that it's time. And believe me, I made them give me a sweetheart of a deal for this property.”
I sigh. “I hate what they're turning this town into, Mrs. Brenton.”
She reaches across the counter and gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “It's going to happen one way or the other, whether we like it or not,” she says. “Those wheels of progress are already turning and there's no way to stop them.”
It's a disgusting but inescapable truth. There is no way to stop what they're doing to my hometown and intellectually, I know that my little holdout, my principled little stand, is only going to be a minor inconvenience for them. They're going to change the nature of this town with or without my involvement.
I know this, and I hate it. I hate them for what they're doing.
“I don't like being strong-armed or bulled,” I say. “Mayor Goodrich has really been putting the squeeze on me to sell. But, the harder he pushes, the more I feel compelled to push back. It's like a reflex or something at this point.”
Mrs. Brenton laughs and claps her hands. “That's my girl, always the fighter,” she says. “Don't let them bully you into anything.”
“I certainly don't intend to.”
Her smile is soft and wistful as she looks at me. “I see so much of your mother and father in you,” she says. “They were kind, but they weren't the type you wanted to back into a corner. They were fierce when they needed to be.”
I smile and nod. “That they were.”
“Is that why you don't want to sell?” she asks. “Because of your parents?”
I feel the sting of the tears as they well in my eyes and the familiar pain in my chest whenever I think or talk about them. They've been gone for a few years now, but the wound in my heart feels as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.
“That's all I have left of them,” I say. “That bookstore is their legacy. I feel like that bookstore is them.”
She gives my hand another squeeze and when I look up, there's a warm, gentle, and entirely grandmotherly smile on her face.
“No, honey,” she says. “Your shop is nothing but a pile of bricks, mortar, and books. Tearing it down won’t erase them or the legacy they built. Their legacy and the most impressive and important thing they ever created is you, sweetheart. And what you build, what you create, will only further their legacy – as well as your own. So long as you never forget them, their legacy will always be alive.”
I try to fight off the tears, but they roll down my cheeks anyway. I scrub them away quickly and sniff loudly.
“I'm sorry,” I say. “I'm not usually this emotional.”
“It's okay,” she replies. “Maybe you need to let yourself be. Once in a while, anyway.”
A small smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I look at the older woman. “What do you think I should do, Mrs. Brenton?”
She sighs. “I can't tell you what you should do, sweetheart.”
“I know,” I say. “I'm just curious what you think I should do.”
“Honestly, what I think you should do is take a step back from it all,” she says. “Look at the facts on the ground with a critical and objective eye. You have to find some way to take all of the emotion out of it when you're faced with making a decision like this.”
“I don't know that I can.”
“You need to find a way, sweetheart,” she says. “If you can't look at the situation without some emotional bias, you're doing yourself a disservice by clouding the issue. You owe it to yourself to come at this with a clear mind and an objective voice.”
I scrub away the last of the tears and take a sip of my coffee, taking a moment to gather myself. Intellectually, I know what she's saying makes sense. But, I can't reconcile the cold logic in my mind with the fire in my heart and spirit.
“If I were as young and gorgeous as you,” Mrs. Brenton says, “I'd take the cash and move to someplace I could run around without any clothes on all day, find a stud of a man, and have lots of babies.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Positively scandalous, Mrs. B.”
She shrugs, a wide grin on her face. “Believe me, honey, when you get to be my age, you'll find yourself wishing for a body like yours and a man to make it feel good all-night long.”
Mrs. Brenton has always been a bit of a rebel. She's always had a wild streak in her – a streak that's mellowed with age. Somewhat. Hearing her speak this way isn't exactly out of the norm for her, but it's still surprising. She's a lot like Skyler, in a way – they both lack filters and will often say whatever pops into their head at the time.
The mention of my body, however, makes my cheeks flare with heat and color. I don't think I'm all that gorgeous. Especially compared to somebody like Skyler. I've got some curves, my boobs are a little too large, and my tummy isn't exactly supermodel tight.
Back in high school and college, I was an athlete. I played soccer – definitely not the sport of supermodels. Playing soccer, though, is what got me the scholarship that allowed me to go to UCLA in the first place. That was one of the reasons why it killed me so much to have to leave school. My parents wouldn't have been able to afford it and there was no way I could afford to go to school on my own. Actually, I still can't.
Being that close to my degree and not being able to finish it has been a thorn in my paw for a long while now. But it's something that I've had to learn to live with.
The electronic bell chimes as somebody steps through the door. I turn and am relieved to see Skyler strolling in. Despite being in yoga pants, Ugg boots, and a hoodie, she still manages to look fashionable and downright sexy. It's a skill I admire and envy at the same time.
Skyler drops down on the stool next to me and gives me a wide grin – a grin that I can interpret easily enough. Mrs. Brenton sets a cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin – Skyler's usual – down on the counter and then strolls off to see to her other customers, leaving me alone with my best friend.
“So, who was it last night?” I ask.
“His name is Henrik and he's a personal trainer on one of the cruise ships,” she says. “I met him down at Clancy's last night. And girl, let me tell you, I'm lucky I can walk this morning. The man was not only hung like a mule, he knew how to use every damn inch of it.”
I laugh and slap her playfully on the arm. “You are such a tramp.”
“Proudly so,” she says as she pops a bit of her muffin into her mouth. “I'm telling you, Paige, you really need to come out with me one of these nights. We need to get you laid.”
“I can think of a million things I need more than that right now, thank you very much.”
Skyler cocks her head and looks at me. “You okay, hon?”
“I'm fine,” I say. “I'm just thinking about everything.”