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Chapter 7

T rue to his word, Jamie Cleburne fabricated all the tables for the restaurant from his shop’s inventory. He even found a handyman to install the bar while I was supervising the kitchen build-out. I was grateful as I had my hands full. In addition to overseeing the renovations, I had to finalize the menu and figure out what I was going to call the place. At the same time, I was fielding so much interest in line cook and server jobs, Peter offered to shuffle his appointments to help me with interviews. Even Mere pitched in, sweeping up, hauling debris, and making endless pots of coffee for everyone.

The only thing I missed was Mom being there to see it all come together. I would’ve given anything for her to see the transformation of the old mercantile. To have her pinch my ass and say with that cigarette-raspy, deadpan voice of hers like she did when she first saw the layout of the other Billie’s, “Where you going to put the official Sibyl Sheridan Lewis table?”

Missing Mom was hard, but other than that, everything was easy in Juliana: dealing with contractors, local vendors, and the staff over at city hall. People here were always on time, perpetually cheerful, and anxious to help in whatever way they could. I discovered Jamie’s way of bartering was a common practice. I got an extra fridge from the mayor, two sets of bistro chairs from the Childers family, and a commercial ice machine from the one and only Oxford Dalzell.

“Ox,” as everyone, even his kids, called him, was a lawyer who wore a suit and tie every day, a pair of thick, black-rimmed reading glasses perched on his bald head. He had stopped by the day the bar was being installed and mentioned the ice machine had been in the house he and his second wife had shared before she passed away. I accepted his gift gratefully, but warily. The free breakfasts were adding up. And there was something about Ox I wasn’t sure I liked. Maybe it was his blustery Southern way that made me think he didn’t quite see women as his equals, but in the end, I told myself there was no harm in playing along. It might take some getting used to, but if this was what community meant—the giving and taking of favors—I was here for it.

Staffing turned out to be a breeze as well. In less than a week, I found a barista Susy, a Michelangelo with latte art; a server Libby, who seemed to know everyone in town and brought them along with her to apply for the job; Halie, a firecracker with a razor-sharp wit who was experienced at expo. Finally there was Cam, a baker who brought along his own sourdough starter and enough charisma to pull in customers for decades. I was surprised when Major Minette came in with his sister-in-law, Dixie, the mayor, to apply for a job bussing tables.

“I like to keep him busy,” the mayor confided to me as her brother ambled through the restaurant, hands in the pockets of his rumpled suit pants, inspecting the tables, bar, and open kitchen. Dixie locked eyes with me. “Keep him out of trouble. He’s a pussycat, bless his heart, but he does like to ramble . . . and plenty of times where he shouldn’t. You just have to have a firm hand. Remind him that he has to stay until closing.”

It appeared to be a given in Juliana—the mayor issued orders, and you did whatever it was she asked. And we did need a busser, it’s just that I wasn’t a huge fan of being told who to hire. Or being used as a babysitter.

Mayor Dixie leaned closer, clutching her pocketbook. “He’s got a tiny little shoplifting habit, is the thing. Likes to slip away when I’m not watching, drive over to the Dollar General or Wal-mart and pick up a few things, if you know what I’m saying.”

Perfect. I nodded. “Oh. Okay.”

“He won’t take anything from here though. As long as you don’t have fishing lures or shotgun shells laying around.” She tittered and patted my hand. Her hand trembled slightly, just like Major’s.

“There’s something you can do for me, too,” I said. “If you don’t mind.”

Mayor Dixie’s thin, penciled eyebrows rose. “Of course not. Happy to help out a new neighbor.”

“Major told us about the old well on our property, about it not being capped properly, and I’ve got to be honest, it’s driving Peter crazy. He’s worried our daughter might find it by accident.”

She looked thoughtful. “Gracious, yes. The well. I’d forgotten about that.”

I smiled, hoping to hide my impatience. “He’s been looking all over the property so, you know, he can assess how dangerous it really may be. . . .” I trailed off, but she only tilted her head. “I was wondering if the city could send out a well guy, or whoever handles that kind of thing.”

She pursed her bright pink lips. “Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s an expense the city would be able to cover. But I’ll be happy to direct you to the property plats at city hall, in the records department, so you can locate it.”

“Would you know a well company that could cap it for us?” I asked.

“Oh. Let me see.” She touched her lacquered platinum hair with pointed pink nails. “I’m on city water so I’m afraid I’m really not familiar with well companies. Maybe the Cleburnes can help you with that? I think Jamie had a well dug for his daddy out on their farm outside of town.”

I pushed down my frustration. This inconvenience was just that, a small price to pay for what we’d been gifted. I didn’t want to come off sounding entitled. “Okay. Thank you so much, Mayor Dixie.”

She was all business again. “I’ll tell Major to come in tomorrow at seven-thirty?”

“Eight’s fine.”

“Major,” the woman snapped over her shoulder as she headed for the door. Her brother trotted behind her, waving at me. I waved back.

* * *

By the end of the third week of renovations, I had managed to land both a burgeoning chef who could manage the kitchen, and a front of house manager in the form of twenty-two-year-old twins, Falcon and Finch Street. The brother and sister twins had worked summers at the Dairy Queen, then gone to the University of North Georgia up in Dahlonega where they both majored in hospitality management. They’d been contemplating a move to Atlanta, but hadn’t wanted to leave their family or hometown, so they were elated to land jobs that would allow them to stay in Juliana. Not half as elated as I was. It was like the restaurant gods were out in front of me, clearing the way for my success.

The twins put me in touch with the couple who’d just moved down from Massachusetts, the Brennans, who were in the process of opening a bakery on the opposite side of the square and agreed to provide fresh, home-baked pastries every day. The twins also brought in more candidates for front of house staff. In a week and a half, I had a deep bench of servers, baristas, line cooks, dishwashers, and hosts, and a public chomping at the bit for a table at Juliana’s newest breakfast, brunch, and lunch spot.

One morning on the way to the restaurant, I noticed a FOR SALE sign on an olive-green, used Jeep Wrangler sitting in the driveway of a bungalow on Cleburne Street. A member of the extended Childers family named Lloyd—there seemed to be dozens of branches of Childers, just like many of the other founding families—sold it to me for a thousand dollars. I told Peter he could use the Subaru, and Mere and I proceeded to drive everywhere, top off, wind in our hair.

A few days later, I met Falcon and Finch’s mother, an earthy woman named Lilah who wore her long gray hair loose and waved down her back and a variety of paint-speckled overalls. Even though we weren’t officially open, she had started popping in for oat milk matcha lattes with a small, redheaded girl in tow. Temperance, six years old like Mere, was Lilah’s granddaughter, and had been left in her care while her mother, Lilah’s oldest daughter, Wren, “found her path,” as Finch put it. Apparently, Wren struggled with substance abuse and was now out west working on a marijuana farm.

Lilah, Finch, Falcon, and Temperance lived just off the square, in an enormous Victorian that was painted three different shades of green. After school hours, Lilah and Temperance dug in Lilah’s vegetable patch, tumbled rocks, and read. Mere and Temperance immediately hit it off, and since we’d finished up Mere’s schooling for the year, on impulse I asked Lilah if she’d be willing to keep Mere on the days I worked. She agreed on the spot. Peter wasn’t thrilled with the arrangement, maintaining that we really didn’t know the woman, but I pointed out that we didn’t know anyone. At this stage, everyone was a stranger to us in Juliana.

“We have to trust them eventually,” I told him. “And besides, she’s grandmotherly .”

He relented. He wanted Mere to have a grandmother as much as I did.

I’d been so busy with the restaurant, so Peter had volunteered to get in touch with Jamie regarding a well company. I was happy to let him handle it. Unfortunately, Jamie hadn’t returned his call yet, and Peter hadn’t had the time to drop by the antique shop, which meant we were at a standstill. We agreed that we didn’t want Mere stuck inside, or attempting to sneak out to roam while Peter was working, so we decided Lilah was the answer to our problem.

“Fucking well,” Peter grumbled, but I knew he was looking forward to the luxury of having the house to himself for his appointments without having to constantly shush me and Mere.

* * *

The day of our grand opening, I arrived at the restaurant to find a fairyland bower of roses, hydrangea, and lilies arching over the window. Over the freshly painted front door hung a gorgeous, wooden sign, a name painted on it in light blue script.

BILLIE’S .

I turned to see Peter watching me with dancing eyes and Mere literally dancing around him.

“It was the right choice,” Peter said.

I mustered a grin, wondering if he’d be so enthusiastic if he knew why I’d chosen to stick with the name Billie’s. It wasn’t the biggest deal, using the old name. If anything, it was simply a cop-out. The name carried a cachet that was enough to possibly get me national attention from food critics, maybe even the James Beard people. Part of that easy-win thing I was so invested in. Piggybacking on my old glory to boost my ego instead of articulating my feelings about Mom. Amazing how self-aware I could be about all my shit and still refuse to deal with it.

“Do you like the flowers, Mama?” Mere asked.

I hugged her. “I love them. Did you help Daddy pick them out?”

“Mrs. Tilton gave them to us for free.”

Of course. One of the Tiltons ran the florist shop around the corner. I suddenly saw an endless line of free breakfasts in my future.

Peter slung an arm over my shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

I shivered a little. “Honestly? I think I’m more nervous about this opening than I was about the other one.”

Peter gave me a squeeze. “You’re going to be a hit, just like you were in New York.”

I wanted to tell him how much I wish Mom was there, but once again, something held me back. It just felt easier to pretend she didn’t exist. That the hurt didn’t exist. All that existed was the three of us and my beautiful new restaurant in our perfect new hometown.

I leaned into his comforting embrace and shaded my eyes against the bright sunrise. He kissed my temple and I felt Mere’s soft hand slip into mine. Why did I have to get so hung up on what I didn’t have? Or what I thought I needed?

Even if Mom wasn’t here, it didn’t matter. If the café bombed, that didn’t matter either. I’d figure out something else to do. Hell, I’d dip cones at the Dairy Queen if I had to, James Beard be damned. I already had everything I needed, right here, standing right beside me on this sidewalk.