Page 5 of The Birthday List (Maysen Jar 1)

“Just . . . just tell me,” I whispered.

“Are you here alone? Can I call someone?”

I shook my head again. “Tell me. Please.”

He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry to inform you, Mrs. Maysen, but your husband was killed earlier today.”

Jamie wasn’t fine.

The cop kept talking but his words were drowned out by the sound of my shattering heart.

I don’t remember much else from that night. I remember my brother coming over. I remember him calling Jamie’s parents to tell them that their son was no longer in this world—that he had been killed in a robbery at a liquor store.

I remember wishing that I were dead too.

And I remember that cop sitting by my side the entire time.

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?”