Page 8 of Soft Serve

"I need a week," she repeats, and her voice doesn't change pitch or volume, but something in it closes like a door.

"A week," I agree.

She nods once.

I should stand up. I should retrieve my jacket, thank her for her time, and walk back out into the Texas evening and let the process work the way processes are supposed to work.

Instead, I hear myself say, "How long have you been running it alone?"

The shift in her is small but immediate.

"A while," she says.

"It's a lot for one person."

"I have help."

"Rosie and the woman who came in after school, she’s a teacher, right?" I say. "That's not a lot of help for what this place does."

Her chin lifts slightly. "You noticed a lot for someone who was just here for ice cream."

"I told you," I say. "I prefer to understand what I'm asking for."

She studies me across the counter with those dark eyes that haven't given me a single thing I didn't have to work for, and the evening light catches the curl of her hair, and something in my chest does something I don't immediately have a name for.

I pick up my jacket.

"I'll come back in a week," I say.

"You'll hear from my lawyer in a week," she corrects.

The corner of my mouth lifts before I can stop it.

"Of course," I say.

I move toward the door, and I'm almost there when her voice comes behind me, not calling after me, just speaking at a measured volume that lands exactly where she intended it to.

"The Vermont dairy," she says.

I stop.

"The Calloway family," she continues. "I read about it. It was a small publication, but I follow the industry."

I turn around slowly.

She's leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, watching me with an expression that is neither accusation nor absolution. Just clarity.

"You should know," she says, "that I'm aware of who I'm dealing with."

"I know," I say.

"But I'll still read your document," she adds. "Call it information gathering, if you will."

"I understand the difference," I say.

She holds my gaze for one more beat, then straightens and picks up her cloth again, the conversation closed with the same quiet efficiency she applies to everything else.

I let myself out, flip the lock from the inside the way I found it, and step into the thick July night.