Page 6 of The Birthday List (Maysen Jar 1)

He reached past Molly, grabbing a menu card from her stack and rifling the entire bunch as he slid it over.

I stifled a laugh at Molly’s frown. She wanted to fix those cards so badly her fingers were itching, but she held back, deciding to leave instead. “I think I’ll go finish up in the back.”

“Okay.”

She turned and disappeared through the swinging door into the kitchen. When it swung closed behind her, I focused on the man memorizing my menu.

“Jars?” he asked.

/> I grinned. “Yes, jars. Most everything here is made in mason jars.” Other than some sandwiches and breakfast pastries, I’d compiled a menu centered around mason jars.

It had actually been Jamie’s idea to use jars. Not long after we’d gotten married, I’d been experimenting with recipes. Though it had always been my dream to open a restaurant, I’d never known exactly what I wanted to try. That was, until one night when I’d been experimenting with ideas I’d found on Pinterest. I’d made these dainty apple pies in tiny jars and Jamie had gone crazy over them. We’d spent the rest of the night brainstorming ideas for a jar-themed restaurant.

Jamie, you’d be so proud to see this place. An all-too-familiar sting hit my nose but I rubbed it away, focusing on my first customer instead of dwelling on the past.

“Would you like to try something?”

He didn’t answer. He just set down the menu and stared, inspecting the chalkboard and display racks at my back. “You spelled it wrong.”

“Actually, my last name is Maysen, spelled the same way as the restaurant.”

“Huh,” he muttered, clearly not as impressed with my cleverness.

“We don’t open until tomorrow, but how about a sample? On the house?”

He shrugged.

Not letting his lack of enthusiasm and overall grouchy demeanor pull me down, I walked to the refrigerated display case next to the register and picked Jamie’s favorite. I popped it in the toaster oven and then set out a spoon and napkin in front of the man while he kept scrutinizing the space.

Ignoring the frown on his face, I waited for the oven and let my eyes wander. As they did, my chest swelled with pride. Just this morning, I’d applied the finishing touches. I’d hung the last of the artwork and put a fresh flower on each table. It was hard to believe this was the same garage I’d walked into a year ago. That I’d finally been able to wipe out the smell of gasoline in exchange for sugar and spice.

No matter what happened with The Maysen Jar—whether it failed miserably or succeeded beyond my wildest dreams—I would always be proud of what I’d accomplished here.

Proud and grateful.

It had taken me almost four years to crawl out from underneath the weight of Jamie’s death. Four years for the black fog of grief and loss to fade to gray. The Maysen Jar had given me a purpose this past year. Here, I wasn’t just a twenty-nine-year-old widow struggling to make it through each day. Here, I was a business owner and entrepreneur. I was in control of my life and my own destiny.

The oven’s chime snapped me out of my reverie. I pulled on a mitt and slid out the small jar, letting the smell of apples and butter and cinnamon waft to my nose. Then I went to the freezer, getting out my favorite vanilla-bean ice cream and placing a dollop atop the pie’s lattice crust. Wrapping the hot jar in a black cloth napkin, I slid the pie in front of the grumpy old man.

“Enjoy.” I held back a smug smile. Once he dug into that pie, I’d win him over.

He eyed it for a long minute, leaning around to inspect all sides of the dish before picking up his spoon. But with that first bite, an involuntary hum of pleasure escaped from his throat.

“I heard that,” I teased.

He grumbled something under his breath before taking another steaming bite. Then another. The pie didn’t last long; he devoured it while I pretended to clean.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome.” I took his empty dishes and set them in a plastic bussing tub. “Would you like to take one to go? Maybe have it after dinner?”

He shrugged.

I took that as a yes and prepared a to-go bag with a blueberry crumble instead of the apple pie. Tucking a menu card and reheating instructions inside, I set the brown craft bag next to him on the counter.

“How much?” He reached for his wallet.

I waved him off. “It’s on the house. A gift from me to you as my first customer, Mister . . .”