I stumble out of bed, exhaustion a rusty iron armor covering me from head to toe.
I repeat in my head several times what has become my daily morning mantra:Just get moving. The stiffness will be gone in no time.
I zombie-walk to my closet and flick on the light. A sudden pain stabs my eye with a red-hot needle, and I groan again, louder this time, my hand flying to my face.
Shit.
I loosely cover my eye with my hand. The pain decreases a little but still holds on tight.
I grab my clothes and slowly walk to the bedroom door, where I pick up a pair of stylish sunglasses from my dresser. Garrett once joked theymake me look like a sexy librarian spy. I’ll happily take boring old nerdy professor if they stop the pain.
I slip them on and head for the bathroom.
Bracing for the intense pain, I flick on the light and slide the sunglasses down my nose. Contrary to how it feels, I don’t have a knife sticking out of my eye, but it is red and watery.Great. Conjunctivitis.
Keshia had pink eye last year while on vacation, and it went away on its own. I’ll just have to wear the sunglasses in the meantime.
I take my painkiller, have a shower—careful not to further irritate my eye—and head out to Picnic & Treats.
Because I don’t know what kind of damage we’re dealing with and if it’s okay to have the café open until it’s fixed, Picnic & Treats is temporarily closed. That means I’m the only person here when I enter through the alley door. Usually, Keshia and someone else would be in the kitchen, chopping onions, carrots, and whatever else I need for the day.
Lord, please tell me P&T won’t be closed for long.
My business insurance covers any losses the unexpected damage might incur, but it won’t make up for lost profits. And I need to pay my employees who were scheduled to work the missed shifts. It’s not their fault we might have to be closed for several days.
I turn on the coffee maker and brew myself a latte. Then, with my travel mug in hand, I shuffle through the café, assessing the damage once more. The ceiling is stained from the water, but I still have a ceiling. It didn’t collapse.
I could really go for one of Garrett’s stress-reducing kisses right now. But between him catching up with his writing, because he was away this past weekend, and my current pink-eye status, kissing him is out of the question. For now.
The bell above the door jingles, alerting me Troy is here. He walks through the doorway with Mr. Cartwright following behind.
“Thanks for coming,” I tell them and brace for the wise-ass joke about why I’m wearing my sunglasses inside. To my relief, neither man comments on them. I don’t feel like discussing my pink eye with anyone, much less Garrett’s brother.
We spend the next hour with Troy inspecting the café and discussingwhat needs to be done, since the water damage could lead to mold. He’s then on his phone, contacting the company that will perform its magic to dry out the ceiling.
Troy tells me it’s going to take a week to clean this up, which means the café will be closed for way too long.
By the time we’re finished, my head is spinning with details, the early-morning fog crowding my brain again.
I see the men out, refill my travel mug, and visit the only person I want to talk to right now.
Mama.
I’m not the only person who has descended on her. Samuel’s Lexus is in the driveway. I park next to it and walk up the path to the house.
I open the door, without bothering to knock first. “Hey, Mama. Samuel?” I call out in case I’m interrupting a private conversation.
“We’re in the kitchen,” Mama replies.
I kick off my sneakers but keep my sunglasses on and walk down the hallway to join them. Mama and Samuel are sitting at the kitchen table, coffee mugs in front of them. Sunlight reflects off the white walls and granite counters. These are the same white counters where I spent many hours during my teens, cooking with Mama by my side.
“Didn’t expect to see you today, honey. Thought you’d be at work.” Mama’s warm smile is the one that always made things seem better when I was a kid. Even now, it helps a little.
“Picnic & Treats is closed for the next few days while the mess from the leak is dealt with.” I’d told them about it yesterday during our weekly family dinner. “So I’m just spending the day working on plans for the grand reopening. And I’m contacting some women-owned small businesses in the area about possible partnerships with P&T.”
“What’s with the sunglasses?” Samuel pushes imaginary glasses up his nose.
I shrug and head for my chair at the table. “It’s nothing. Just a case of pink eye.”
