Emily held the apron toward Clara.
“May I explain?”
Clara snatched it from her hands.
“There’s nothing to explain.”
Emily’s eyes filled.
“But my family—”
“Your family is not my concern.”
The words struck harder than Emily expected.
She thought of her mother at the kitchen table.
Of Thomas carrying water beside the barn.
Of the promises she had made.
Clara dropped the apron onto the counter.
“You are dismissed, Emily Bennett.
You no longer work here.”
For a moment, Emily could not breathe.
Rain hammered against the windows.
The fire crackled in the stove.
Somewhere near the back, a spoon slipped from someone’s hand and struck the floor.
She heard it as though it were very far away.
She had imagined losing her job before.
During the long nights when the farm accounts would not balance, she sometimes lay awake wondering what would happen if the café closed or Clara decided she was no longer needed.
But imagining a disaster was different from standing inside it.
Emily stared at her apron.
It looked like such a small thing.
A piece of faded blue cloth.
Yet it had been the means by which she bought flour, paid for coal, and helped keep a roof above her family.
Now it lay on the counter like something that no longer belonged to her.
She forced herself to speak.
“Mrs.
Whitcomb, please.
I need this work.”
Clara’s face remained hard.
“Then you should have considered that before ignoring me.”
“I wasn’t trying to disrespect you.”
“You openly defied me.”
“The woman needed help.”
“And I told you not to give it.”
Emily’s mouth trembled.
She lowered her head.
“I know.”
“Then we understand each other.”
For a moment, nobody moved.
Joe Mercer, the ranch hand at the corner table, pushed his chair back.
“Now, Clara, surely there’s no need—”
“This is a matter between an employer and her employee,” Clara said.
“Former employee,” Joe muttered.
Clara ignored him.
“Emily, collect your things and leave.”
Emily turned slowly toward the peg where she had hung her father’s rain cloak.
Every step felt heavy.
She could not imagine walking home.
She could not imagine telling her mother.
She could not imagine looking into Thomas’s hopeful face and admitting that she had lost the one steady wage the family possessed.
She reached the cloak and took it down.
Then she heard a faint sound behind her.
A cup rattling against a saucer.
Mrs.
Hartwell was trying to stand.
Emily immediately turned.
“Please, don’t get up.
You’re still cold.”
The elderly woman rested one hand on the chair.
“I believe I’ve heard enough.”
Her voice was quiet.
Clara crossed her arms.
“Madam, I suggest you leave as well.”
Mrs.
Hartwell looked at Emily.
Then at the apron on the counter.
Then at Clara.
Something changed in her expression.
The exhaustion remained, but the uncertainty seemed to disappear.
She slowly straightened her back.
Her shoulders settled beneath the wet coat.
Her trembling hand became still against the chair.
For the first time since Emily had found her in the rain, the elderly woman seemed entirely in command of herself.
Emily noticed the change.
So did Clara.
Mrs.
Hartwell drew a careful breath.
“Mrs.
Whitcomb, is it?”
Clara frowned.
“Yes.”
“You have dismissed this young woman for helping me?”
“She disobeyed a direct order.”
“I see.”
Mrs.
Hartwell glanced around the café.
The customers watched her.
Some looked curious.
Others looked uncomfortable.
Nobody knew quite what to say.
The elderly woman turned her attention back to Clara.
“And you believe you have the authority to decide who deserves shelter in this establishment?”
Clara lifted her chin.
“I manage this business.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
A faint murmur passed through the room.
Clara’s cheeks reddened.
“Who exactly do you think you are?”
Mrs.
Hartwell reached into the inside pocket of her wet coat.
She withdrew a small leather purse and a folded document.
Emily saw a heavy gold ring on the woman’s finger, partly hidden beneath the cuff of her sleeve.
Clara stared at it.
The elderly woman placed the folded paper carefully on the counter.
Her voice remained steady.
“My name is Margaret Hartwell,” she said.
“And I own this building.”
The story isn’t over yet.
Select “Next Part” below to see what happens next.
