Chapter 1
Adalyn
“Hey Boss, I hate to call you like this, but there is an issue with the coffee machine again at Lorrel.” Emilie, my lead Barista, sounds unnerved as she talks to me over the phone. Emilie is usually full of sunshine, but now, with the tone of her voice, she has me jumping off my couch. I was reading in my tiny one-bedroom apartment above the tack shop in town before she called.
My apartment may be small, but it was recently renovated, with new light oak hardwood flooring and shiny chrome appliances in the kitchen. The large windows adjacent to the kitchen line the living room wall, bringing in plenty of natural light and making the room look much bigger than it is. The bathroom has also been redone with white granite countertops and a fresh coat of white paint on all the walls. But the charm in the bathroom is the copper and white claw-foot bathtub that is large enough to make bathing comfortable for a tall woman.
“What’s going on?” I ask her as I walk behind the couch into the kitchenette, slip on my black Converse, and grab my keys from the counter.
“I’m not sure. I swear Gale and I just cleaned and performed maintenance on all the machines, but the blender wouldn’t turn off, and then the coffee maker wouldn’t stop dumping hot water.” She explains, and I sigh in frustration. Gale is my pastry chef. He’s just over thirty years old and was raised in the heart of France until he was sixteen when his family moved to the United States. How he ended up in Tennessee is beyond me. Gale seldom left the kitchen, so if he did, there must have been something disastrous happening in the front. I can’t help but cringe at the thought of losing two machines this month, especially one of the coffee machines. A café without espresso, could you imagine?
“I’ll be there soon. Don’t touch anything until I arrive. Just clean up any messes.” I instruct before we end the call. I swing my faded brown leather crossbody purse over one of my shoulders, leaving my door unlocked, as is customary in this little town. Everyone knows everyone, whether acquaintances or otherwise, and they all care for each other like one big 348-person family. I suppose after living here for seven years, I should be saying we, and as much as they have welcomed me with open arms, I still feel like the city-girl outsider I once was.
I run down the old wooden staircase to a small, unfinished cubicle with a heavy metal door leading to the back of the building. I can hear the spring wind whipping past just on the other side of the door. When I shove the door open with my shoulder, the wind carries it the rest of the way, testing how far it can go. I flinch, wondering if this is the moment it will break from its creaky hinges, but by some miracle, it stays attached.
When I first moved to Tennessee, I mindlessly drove South from New York and didn’t know where I was going or how I would take care of myself with just my car and the few articles of clothing I had packed. By sheer luck and desperate need of coffee, I stumbled into this small town of Buck’s County. That’s when I found Lorrel café and met Dorothy, the café owner at the time.
I was quickly sucked right into the small-town family that night after she sat me in the back of the café near the fireplace with a large cappuccino. Dorothy sat with me long after the café closed, chatting and keeping me company. By the end of the evening, I had told her my whole life story, from start to finish. Everything from my father’s abuse to the death of my mother and sister, I had been holding onto all the trauma for so long that when I finally sat with someone I felt I could trust, it all came tumbling out of me.
I didn’t have to sleep in my car that night. Dorothy refused to let me sleep in the car alone, and I wouldn’t make the sweet seventy-year-old woman sleep in a car with me. So, instead, she took me back to her ranch and tucked me in her guest bed. I slept better that night than I had in a long time. I didn’t wake up until late the following evening.
That’s when Dorothy offered me a job at the café and had an apartment set up for me to move into. I have lived here ever since.
I sigh, tears pricking my eyes, as I recall the memory of meeting Dorothy and how I ended up staying in this small town despite my better judgment to keep running until I left this country. She was the only person in this town who knew who I was. I never had to lie around her or fake who I was. I felt at home around her. She knew my history and what I was running from. She swore to secrecy and kept it to her death, even from her kids.
To her, I was Adalyn, the girl running from her past in New York. Not Delilah, as everyone in town knows me to be, is the girl from Philadelphia who wants to start a new and exciting life. Being Delilah is exhausting. Being Delilah makes me feel even more lonely than I have ever felt before.
But being Delilah is safe. Being Delilah means that anyone looking for Adalyn won’t find her here if they ask any of the overly open and friendly folk.
I approach my 2010 navy Ford sedan. The sight of the old car warms my heart. She’s old and rusted but still kicking, and I refuse to sell her. She was a gift from Dorothy after my vehicle was highjacked in Nashville on one of our many shopping trips together.
My brows furrow as I approach the vehicle, and a white note is left under the windshield wiper. It’s not unusual for the local church or inn to post notices on the bulletin board in town and under the wipers of cars. They don’t usually come onto private property.
My steps falter as I reach the car, getting a better look at the note on my windshield. It’s a handwritten note, not a preprinted sheet. I grab the note. The paper is still warm in my hands, or maybe that’s just me. My palms feel sticky, and nerves wrack my body.
I’ll be seeing you soon, Adalyn –M
Adalyn.
Seeing that name written on paper for the first time in years makes the world around me freeze. My mouth dries as a lone crow caw in the distance. I look around the parking lot, a feeling of being watched pricking at the nape of my neck, a sixth sense that tells me danger is near.
I can hear my heart thundering in my chest. The adrenaline in my blood feels hot as my brain struggles to get my frozen limbs to move. To run.
This isn’t just some random note or even a note for the alias I had been living under, Delilah. This person knows my real name. My breathing becomes laboured, and I feel dizzy. I can sense the gaze of my stalker like a tangible entity, but no matter how many times I scan the area, there is nobody around. It’s the middle of the day, so hiding in the shadows isn’t easy, but whoever left this note is still around. I know it.
I shove the note into my purse and slip into my car. The engine doesn’t turn over at first, moaning as I try again. I silently beg her not to give up on me and promise to take her to the mechanic soon. With one more attempt to turn over the engine, the sparks ignite, and the engine roars to life.
Driving out of the parking lot, I notice a black SUV sitting at the edge of the parking lot. I hadn’t noticed it sitting in the shadows and dangling limbs of a weeping willow. The windows are tinted so that even in broad daylight, you can’t see inside or see if there is a driver present. But goosebumps prickle my skin as I look at it. I take a photo of the SUV and capture the license plate. This isn’t my first rodeo dealing with dangerous people.
My father had put my mother, my sister, and me through hell and back both by his own hands and by those of the other mafia members and drug lords he would chase. I was almost kidnapped on multiple occasions during my childhood, and my mother was assaulted by people who wanted to send a message to my father. Little did they know my father didn’t care about us. Nothing would stop him from his mission to invade the various rings.
Turning right onto the main street, I drive towards the café. It’s a short drive, and as soon as the one traffic light in town turns green, I am parallel parking in front of the cafe. It’s not too far from my apartment, and I usually walk, but I don’t know if I’ll need any tools to fix the machines or have to drive to the city to get a new coffee machine and blender. So, better safe than sorry.
When I get out of my car, I take a step towards the café before stopping. The note I found heightened my emotions, and as I stare at Lorrel, tears prick my eyes. I am overwhelmed by the sensation and memories of how I ended up here in the first place. The cool spring breeze chills my skin.
If this is my father’s enemies coming for me, I can’t continue to live the carefree, small-town lifestyle I have come to love.
I lock my car doors, the beep of the horn startling me and bringing me a sense of peace, knowing it’s a little harder to access. Then, I continue walking down the old sidewalk towards Lorrel.
Lorrel was Dorothy’s first-born daughter. She was pregnant when she opened the café and fell in love with the name so much that she decided to name her daughter and café Lorrel.
When she passed three years ago, it was a surprise to see she left the café for me and not Lorrel or one of her sons. Although they had all moved out of the small town, the family was still very close to each other and would visit for the holidays. In the letter that she left with the deed to the café, she told me that Dorothy knew I wouldn’t destroy her baby, that I wouldn’t sell the café, and that I would run her just as beautifully as she did. I didn’t understand when I received the deed, but after talking with her daughter and sons, they were all on board with their mother’s decision. None of them wanted to move back to the small town, and after welcoming me into the family seven years ago, it only made sense to give the café to me if it were to be kept alive.
It was a lot to ask, but I think she would be proud. I did some renovations two years ago after saving all the profits I could and taking out a small bank loan. I updated the front café windows. They are bigger and bring in more natural light. I also updated the barista counter to extend further to allow for more counter space with a more prominent glass display for all our pastries. I also upgraded the fireplace in the back with couches and set small tables around it. I kept her light wood floors and white wall theme and used her local supplier’s signature coffee grounds.
I run into the café, a wall of fresh pastries and coffee hitting my senses, instantly calming me. I approach Emilie, who is assisting a customer while breaking the news about the espresso machine. The customer sighs but accepts their coffee-less fate before ordering tea.
I walk behind the counter. Emilie’s face physically relaxes at the sight of me, “The blender and coffee machine won’t turn on. Gale and I cleaned everything, but I am unsure how to fix it.”
“It’s okay, you’ve done enough. Thank you for calling me the second things went awry. I will figure this out.” I walk over to the machines just as the café bell rings. “Do you mind taking this customer?”
“Of course,” Emilie says as she hands the first customer their order. I turn back to the machines when I feel the same prickle of awareness I felt outside when I found that note. It has me stiffening, but I try to focus on the machines. I will not make a scene in my café. Besides, maybe I’m just overreacting.
“What can I get for you, Sir?” Emilie asks, but the man does not respond. I turn on the coffee machine, and its pleasant chime contrasts with the tense air.
“Sir?” Emilie tries again, but he doesn’t say anything. I ignore the customer’s silence and test the machine. The machine pours a large coffee without issues. How odd…
“It seems to be working just fine, Emilie,” I note, and Emilie politely excuses herself before coming to me.
“What do you mean?” she asks, looking at the machine as if it would blow up any minute. I swear, Delilah, it was spewing hot water and steam. I promise I wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t an emergency.”
Emilie looks up at me with her dark brown doe eyes, and I smile gently toward her. She is a good girl and does so much for the café.
“Perhaps it just needed the hard reset, but things are good to go,” I say, patting the machine nonchalantly. Emilie’s tense shoulder relaxes, still puzzled and eyeing the coffee machine like it’s the devil.
“Don’t worry about it. We will keep an eye on it. We may have to get a new machine, but she is up and running for now.” I say before scurrying off into the back office, avoiding looking and interacting with the man whose eyes are burning into the back of my skull.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Something inside me is screaming to run, and I know it’s what I should do, but I am tired of running. All these years pretending to be Delilah have sucked the energy out of me.
