Page 18 of Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar 2)

“Yesterday.” She nodded. “We were sitting in the restaurant. You had your computer. We were drinking coffee while you showed me pictures of the Jeep before you went to the dealership.”

“Oh, the Jeep.” I smacked a palm into my forehead. “Sorry. Not enough coffee this morning. Buying the Jeep went great. The kids love it.”

“Good.” She went back to her dough. “What did you think I was talking about?”

“Nothing,” I said too quickly. “Nothing at all.”

“You’re acting weird this morning.”

“I’m not acting weird. I’m just here at work. Nothing weird about that. It’s the un-weird.”

Poppy blinked and her hands stilled. “The un-weird?”

“I’m having an off morning. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“Okay. If you want to talk, I’m here.”

“I’m fine. Really. But thank you.” I smiled. “So how has the morning been going?”

“Good. The coffee rush was busy, but it’s pretty much died down so I came back to start on some potpies for lunch. Mom has the front covered if you want to keep me company. There’s fresh coffee.”

“Bless you.” I hurried over to the pot and filled up one of the ceramic mugs we kept in the kitchen. They were enormous and reserved for staff. After it was full, I leaned against the side of the table, taking slow sips until I started to feel more human.

My wine hangover had been temporarily chased away during the kick Finn out of my bed fiasco. But now that the adrenaline was gone, my headache came roaring to life. Living with it would be my penance.

“Want some help?” I asked as she started cutting circles in the dough.

“No, drink your coffee and hang out with me.” She used the back of her wrist to push a lock of red hair off her cheek. The florescent lights of the kitchen always seemed to make her blue eyes even brighter.

Our restaurant T-shirts matched today, but she’d covered hers up with an apron that her kids had made her last Christmas. Tiny green and red handprints had been pressed into the cream canvas with MacKenna and Brady written beneath.

She smiled more when she wore that apron. Though, Poppy Goodman smiled almost constantly these days. She deserved every ounce of joy she’d found with Cole and their kids.

Poppy had endured enough heartbreak.

“I received a confirmation email from the newspaper yesterday that they’re going to do

the feature for the anniversary celebration,” I told her.

“Perfect. And that was the last item on your checklist, so we should be all set.”

The Maysen Jar was turning six next month and we’d been planning our annual anniversary celebration for months.

It was hard to believe six years had passed since Poppy had turned this building into one of Bozeman’s most popular cafés. Once an old mechanic’s garage, this place was now widely known for delicious food served only in mason jars.

The Maysen Jar was named after her late husband, Jamie Maysen, who’d been murdered in a liquor store robbery eleven years ago. The anniversary of his death had been a couple weeks ago.

When he’d died, it had shattered us all.

I’d never known such darkness could take over a human being until I saw what Jamie’s death did to Poppy. But she’d put her broken pieces back together by finishing Jamie’s birthday list. To honor his memory, she’d done the things he’d wanted to do most. Along the way, she’d met Cole and he’d filled the cracks in her heart.

Poppy’s last name wasn’t Maysen anymore, but because of the sign on the front of this building, Jamie’s name lived on. And every year, we celebrated the place where so much healing had begun.

For me, The Maysen Jar had been my life raft.

Finn and I divorced just months before the restaurant opened. In the weeks before we signed our papers, Poppy begged me to work with her as the café manager.

I clung to the job, and it kept me emotionally afloat as I adjusted to a new way of life.