Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
I sink deeper into the chair, smiling. “Work’s good. Busy, but the kind of busy that feels like it counts.”
And it does. I lobby for a nonprofit that fights for small farmers and rural communities—people who don’t have corporations or lobbyists of their own to fight back. It’s equal parts policy, persuasion, and mayhem on the Hill. Most days, I’m trying to convince people in suits that the rest of America isn’t just high-rises and highways, that the folks growing our food deserve more than the leftovers of attention.
I love it, even when it chews me up. Every time we secure funding for sustainable farming or keep a family from losing their land, it feels like proof I’m not shouting into the void. That what I do matters.
It also helps keep some of the guilt I have over leaving Whynot at bay. I do what I do because it helps the very community I grew up in.
Still, there are nights when I leave those marble hallways and wonder if I’m just patching holes in a boat too stubborn to stay afloat. Maybe that’s what makes the work addictive—the illusion that if I push hard enough, I can keep it from sinking.
Muriel’s eyes glint with mischief. “Are you still dating that senator’s aide?”
I wrinkle my nose because he was a pompous ass. “No, I’m not. But let’s turn the attention back to you. What are you going to do about Central?”
She touches her temple as if her brain is working overtime. She’s not as unflappable as she wants to be. I know that tell because it’s the same one my boss does when he wants to “circle back” on a bill that should’ve been dead two committees ago.
Her hesitation has me worried because Muriel is as tough as they come. I add sternly, “Tell me the truth.”
She exhales. “Truth is—” She swallows and looks at her hands. “I’m scared I’m gonna lose the café.”
“What?” I exclaim, my feet kicking out from under me so I can sit straight up in the chair. “I don’t understand.”
Muriel’s gaze drops to her hands. “The orthopedic doctor and therapists say that it’s going to be another eight weeks before I’ll be well enough to get back to my duties. And in eight weeks, there won’t be a Central Café left to worry about.”
“But… but… why?”
“Because I have rent to pay, and employees, and they’re going to leave for other jobs. My rent is due next week, and while I might be able to get by with one month, two would put me under. I won’t be able to catch up. As you well know, that restaurant isn’t a pot of gold. I barely make a living off it and well… maybe I just need to sell it.”
“Oh, hell no!” I say, standing up and starting to pace. “That diner is your life. It’s your legacy.” Not to mention… I doubt she’d have any takers. It’s hard work for low financial reward. Muriel loves that place because it feeds her town and she’s adored by all. Her social outlet is directly tied to the restaurant and the gossip mill that weaves its way through the tables. It brings her joy and my fear is that if she gives it up, she’ll wither.
I spin on her. “What are the pressing problems?”
Muriel’s gaze slides to the window, stubbornness and shame doing a two-step. “Rent’s due next week. Two suppliers need paying, and the light bill came yesterday lookin’ mighty unfriendly. I had to keep paying the staff. Wasn’t fair to them, but after this week, I’ve got nothing else to give ’em and then they’re going to scatter.”
A slice of anger cuts through me—not at her, but at how quickly a little bad luck can topple a good thing. This is exactly why I do what I do in DC—so small-town lives aren’t so fragile. So hardworking people don’t have to choose between medicine and groceries. Women like Muriel don’t watch a lifetime of work teeter because their hip betrayed them while carrying pies.
“I can help,” I say.
Muriel snorts. “With what? Filibustering the electric company? I know you got fancy degrees and a big job, but biscuit dough doesn’t give a damn about congressional committees.”
A laugh pops out despite the ache in my chest. “I was there at five every morning for half my teenage life. I know exactly how your biscuit dough likes to be treated and I’ve helped you on the business side during college summer breaks. I know how to run the place.”
Muriel waves me off, refusing to meet my gaze. “I can’t ask you to spend your week off from work running the restaurant.” Her gaze cuts to mine. “Besides… one week won’t do anything.”
“I’ll stay the eight weeks,” I say, surprised that the words are tumbling out with no real thought whether I can do this. My mind spins. I’d have to call my boss. I’ve probably got four weeks of accrued PTO because I never take vacations, but… he’d have to put me on unpaid leave. Would he hold my job for me?