“But I’m not alone.”
Sam nodded.
“That’s a start.”
Marcus held out his hand.
Sam took it.
This time, Marcus’s grip did not feel like a goodbye.
It felt like an agreement.
A promise passing from one hand to another.
Three weeks later, Everwind Café had more customers than Marcus could cook for alone.
The first few days were chaos.
Good chaos.
Exhausting chaos.
Coffee pots never rested.
Eggs vanished by the crate.
Tara got her better apron, deep blue with Everwind stitched across the front by a local woman who had heard the story from her brother, a driver.
Marcus hired two part-time cooks.
One was a retired school cafeteria worker named Jean who could stretch a pot of soup like a miracle.
The other was Caleb’s cousin, a quiet young man who wanted steady work and did not mind early mornings.
Drivers began calling ahead on the CB.
“Everwind, you got room for three hungry rigs?”
“Everwind, any pie today?”
“Everwind, tell Tara I’m still mad about that decaf joke.”
Tara always had an answer.
“Room if you park straight.”
“Pie if Marcus stops pretending he can hide it.”
“And decaf is not coffee, Henry. It is a warm apology.”
Laughter returned to the walls.
Not all at once.
But enough.
The bank deadline did not disappear.
Marcus still had meetings.
Still had paperwork.
Still had numbers that made his stomach tighten.
But the envelope from the drivers helped him catch up enough to breathe.
The new route agreements brought steady business.
