Page 72 of What Remains of Grace

If she squinted, she could almost see customers here. Almost.

“Menu draft, version fifteen,” Emmie announced, thumping a stack of laminated pages onto one of the new café tables. “We have officially reached the point where the font choices have broken my spirit.”

Casey leaned over her shoulder, dimples deep on her warm brown cheeks, her curls pulled into two messy space buns that somehow suited her. “You say that,” she said, “but you’re going to change at least three things before lunch.”

“I reserve the right,” Emmie replied primly. “Artists evolve.”

Jenna tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and set down the cardboard box of freshly washed silverware she’d lugged from Grace’s kitchen. “Well, evolving artist, your mom’s cinnamon roll recipe needs to be in the top left,” she said, tapping the first page. “It’s the anchor of the whole thing.”

Emmie rolled her eyes, but there was a faint smile at the edges. “It’s already there. You trained me well, O Wise Keeper of the Training Guide.”

The training guide sat open on the next table, its thick white binder already smudged with flour fingerprints and coffee rings. Weeks of work lived inside those plastic sleeves filled with Grandma Hart’s handwritten index cards, scanned and typed, Grace’s adapted versions for The Blue Cypress, new notes in Jenna’s brisk, practical voice, and Emmie’s comments in the margins.

Add nutmeg like Grandma did.

Mom always put extra orange zest here.

We can’t cheap out on the chocolate or I revolt.

Jenna ran a fingertip along the spine. Three generations of women, threading themselves into a book.

“Okay,” Casey said, flipping a menu page. “We have sweet, we have savory, we have carb heaven. Do we have drinks?”

“Bottom right,” Emmie said. “Coffee, tea, espresso, seasonal specials. The Greek frappe gets its own box because Mom said so from heaven.”

“Pretty sure that’s how that works,” Casey agreed solemnly.

Jenna tried to smile. It even mostly worked. “We’ll print extra blank pages for seasonal stuff,” she said. “Pumpkin in the fall, peppermint in December, citrus in the spring. We’ll adjust as we go.”

From the back, something clattered, sheet pans being stacked, voices swapping quick jokes. Footsteps crossed the vinyl plank floor in a measured, familiar stride she recognized instantly.

She didn’t look up.

“Front’s good,” Cole said from somewhere near the coffee bar. “We’ll hit the hallway and back entry next. Don’t touch the wet baseboards.”

“Copy that.” One of his design crew answered. Every part of her body knew exactly where he was.

They’d managed a full three hours without speaking directly to each other. Only logistics with a brief exchange about the timing of the final walkthrough, and an even shorter one about the inspector coming on Monday. No jokes. No glances that lingered. No quiet comments side by side.

He hadn’t brought her a bottle of water. She hadn’t teased him once. It felt unnatural, like trying to use her left hand to write.

“All right, display geniuses,” Jenna said, forcing brightness into her voice. “What’s our plan for the cases?”

Emmie pushed away from the menu table and hopped off her chair. “We start with the heavy hitters,” she said, striding toward the glass display. “Cinnamon rolls, spanakopita, baklava, lemon bars. The classics go at eye level. Pretty things in the middle, grab-and-go near the register.”

Casey trailed behind her, already holding a tray of empty white plates. “I nominate myself Head of Aesthetic Vibes,” she said. “Emmie, you can be, like, Director of Flavor.”

“Excuse you, I am CEO of Flavor,” Emmie corrected, opening one of the case doors with a careful click. “These are just staging pieces, remember. No actual food until we’re past inspection.”

Jenna leaned over the counter, watching the girls work. Emmie’s movements were efficient, deliberate; she’d been in kitchens her entire life. Casey was less precise but made up for it with enthusiasm and an eye for color.

“Those cake stands look cute layered,” Casey said, stacking two mismatched pedestals. “Like . . . levels of temptation.”

“That should be the name of a cupcake,” Emmie said absently. “Levels of Temptation. Triple chocolate with salted caramel.”

“Write it down,” Jenna said, grabbing a sticky note from the stack by the register and sliding it across. “Pilot flavor for October.”

A broom scraped over the hallway floor. A moment later, Cole’s voice drifted in from the back, giving someone instructions about the restroom mirror height. The sound of it brushed over her skin in a way she stubbornly ignored.