What she meant was, she saw herself in it. A little worn out, a littlemessy, but worth saving.
She decided it was perfect. She put little vases of fake flowers on every table. Hung up twinkly lights in the windows. Played old records in the mornings, the kind with crackles and pops between the songs, because she said it made breakfast taste better.
And she made the commotion of it fun. Everything with Alice was fun.
She’d flip pancakes in the air, and sometimes she’d catch them, sometimes she wouldn’t. If she dropped one, she’d kick it across the floor like she meant to do it. “Perfect form,” she’d say, hands on her hips.
She gave regulars nicknames whether they liked it or not. Mr. Holland becameEggs Over Easybecause he never ordered anything else. Carol from the hardware store wasExtra Napkinsbecause she always stole a stack for later. And then there was Benny Garcia, who walked in once with a cowboy hat he definitely couldn’t pull off, and Alice called himLonesome Dovefor the next fifteen years.
She used to dance while she cooked. Not on purpose, not for show—just these small, swaying movements while she waited for eggs to set, hips rocking to whatever was playing on the old radio by the grill. It wasn’t graceful, but it was her. She had this way of making everything feel lighter. Like the world bent a little in her favor, or maybe she just convinced it to.
I think about that a lot now. How Alice made everything feel big and alive and possible. How she walked into a place that was falling apart and didn’t just fix it—she made it better. Warmer. Like the kind of place you’d come into for breakfast and leave with a story.
The Bluebell is bigger now. The walls are a softer yellow; an intentional design choice instead of something inherited from a previous bad decision. The booths are new, firm where they used to sag, clean where they used to split at the seams. The menu boards are modern now, neat white lettering instead of the old plastic letters Alice used to complain about losing every time she changed the specials. The coffee maker is new, quiet, efficient—Alice would hate it. She always liked things with a little character, a little fight in them.
Some things are still the same. The way people settle in like they’ve beencoming here their whole lives. The way the morning rush is predictable—same faces, same orders, same quiet lull of conversation. The way the diner still feels like it belongs to the town more than it belongs to me.
But sometimes I wonder if I took away too much of what made it hers. Would she walk in now and think I smoothed out all the rough edges she loved? Would she think I took the magic out?
I don’t know.
But I do know this—I still keep twinkly lights in the windows, even though they’re a pain in the ass to hang. I still play old records in the morning, even though the crackles drive me crazy. I still call CarolExtra Napkins. I still use Alice’s pancake recipe, even though I could probably tweak it to be better. And when no one’s looking, sometimes, I’ll flip one just to see if I can still catch it.
By the time the afternoon rush dies down, the diner feels like it’s exhaling. The energy shifts—less urgent, more tired. Plates slow down on the pass-through, the clatter of silverware becomes sporadic, conversations taper off into murmurs. The coffee machine hums in the background, working harder than any of us. The scent of grilled cheese and frying oil lingers in the air, sticking to my clothes, my skin.
I wipe down the counter, watching the last of the lunch crowd shuffle out. A couple of ranch hands linger at the booths, boots kicked up on the seats across from them, nursing what’s left of their coffee. The high schoolers will start trickling in soon, ordering fries in a way that makes it clear they plan on staying until someone forces them out. I should start counting the register, but instead, I stretch my back and head toward the office.
The door is cracked open, and I already know what I’m going to find.
Hudson is curled up on the giant bean bag I dragged in here a year ago, claiming it was for extra seating. It wasn’t. I knew he’d need somewhere to crash between school and baseball and the hours I spend in this place. His hood is pulled over his head, one sleeve curled into his fist. A plate sits next to him, just crumbs now, which means Opal made sure he ate before he passed out. She always does.
I lean against the doorframe, taking in the rise and fall of his shoulders,the way his hand twitches like he’s dreaming. For a second, I let myself just be here, in this moment, before the sound of the front door opening drags me back.
I push off the frame and make my way to the counter, stopping when I see who’s just walked in.
Wendell Tate.
He stands in the entryway, taking his time, looking around like he’s cataloging every last detail. He’s good at that—walking into a place and making it feel like his, even when it isn’t. He’s dressed like always—jeans, a pressed button-down, the kind of expensive boots that have never seen a hard day’s work. He’s got that politician’s stance, shoulders squared, a presence that takes up more space than it should. His hair is still the same—salt-and-pepper, neatly trimmed, like the rest of him. He’s not old, but he’s not young either, somewhere in that in-between where men like him start getting calleddistinguished.
He smiles as he approaches, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Morning, Miss Westwood.”
I wipe my hands on my apron and nod. “Afternoon.”
His smile twitches, like I’ve already done something he doesn’t like. “Right, of course. Time gets away from me these days.”
It’s the third time this week he’s come by. The fourth if I count the time he sat outside in his truck for a full twenty minutes before finally coming in. He’s been showing up more and more lately, dropping in with thinly veiled pleasantries, ordering coffee he barely touches, making conversation that always circles back to the same thing.
The Tate family owns one of the biggest ranches in Summit Springs. Old money, old land. They’ve got their hands in everything—livestock, real estate, politics when it suits them. Wendell’s been running things since his father passed, but it’s no secret he has bigger ambitions. He’s had a foot in local government for years, slowly working his way up, making sure his name stays in the conversation for something more.
And lately, he’s been coming around the Bluebell like he’s looking for something.
I cross my arms and lean against the counter. “What can I do for you, Mr. Tate?”
He tilts his head, like he’s considering how to answer, even though I already know what’s coming.
“Just checking in. Making the rounds.”
