Chapter 3 — First Impressions

Emma

Emma stood on the cracked sidewalk outside the Calloway Café, her sharp green eyes scanning the weathered brick exterior. The flower boxes below the wide bay windows, once overflowing with vibrant blooms, were now filled with dried stems and lifeless soil. The hand-painted sign above the door—her grandmother’s labor of love—had faded into a ghost of its former self, the swirling script barely legible under years of sun and rain. She hesitated, her hand gripping the strap of her leather tote. A faint memory surfaced: the scent of cinnamon and butter wafting through the café’s open doors, her grandmother’s laughter blending with the hum of conversation. Now, the place looked as tired and worn as she felt.

Her gaze caught on one of the windows, where a faded chalkboard leaned against the glass. The faint remnants of a handwritten quote still clung to its surface: *“A place for everyone, a memory for all.”* Her grandmother’s favorite saying. Despite the state of disrepair, there was a flicker of something—potential, maybe. A reminder of the café’s heart beneath the dust.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the heavy oak door, the bell above it letting out a weak jingle. The stale tang of coffee and grease hit her first, a jarring contrast to the warm, buttery aroma she remembered. Inside, the café was dimly lit, the mismatched chairs wobbling under the weight of time. A small group of elderly regulars sat in the corner nursing their mugs, their low murmurs blending with the clatter of dishes from the kitchen.

“Help you?” a voice called out, sharp and impatient.

Emma’s gaze shifted to the counter and landed on him—Caleb Morgan. Rugged, broad-shouldered, and perpetually dusted with flour, just as Aunt Marilyn had described. His chef’s jacket was open at the collar, revealing a gray T-shirt beneath, and his deep-set brown eyes flicked up from the cutting board he was working on. They narrowed as they took her in, his expression unreadable.

“I’m Emma,” she said, stepping forward and extending a hand. “Emma Calloway.”

Caleb didn’t take her hand. Instead, he wiped his own on a towel slung over his shoulder and set down the knife he’d been using. “Yeah, I figured,” he said, leaning against the counter. “You’ve got the look.”

“The look?” she asked, arching a brow.

“You know. Polished, city-ready, looks like she hasn’t touched a dish rag in years,” he replied, his tone dry as sandpaper.

Emma’s jaw tightened, but she forced a calm smile. “Well, you’re not wrong about the city part. I’ve been away for a while.”

“More than a while,” Caleb said, crossing his arms. “Marilyn’s mentioned you. Didn’t think we’d see you back here.”

There it was—the subtle jab she’d expected. Emma inhaled deeply, keeping her voice steady. “I’m here now. And I want to help.”

Caleb’s laugh was short and humorless. “Help? You don’t just swoop in, dust off your hands, and fix something like this, Calloway. This isn’t a marketing pitch or whatever it is you did in the city. A café is work. Hard work.”

“I know what hard work is,” Emma said, her voice firmer than she intended. His words stung more than she cared to admit, needling at her insecurities. “I didn’t spend the last decade sipping lattes and flipping through glossy magazines.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Caleb muttered, turning back to the cutting board.

Emma’s fists clenched at her sides as she counted to three. She wouldn’t let him see her falter. “Look, I know things aren’t great right now, but my grandmother built this place. It’s part of our family’s legacy and this town’s history. I’m not going to let it fall apart.”

Caleb paused mid-slice, his knife hovering over a pile of onions. For a brief moment, something flickered across his face—loyalty, maybe, or doubt—but it was gone as quickly as it came. “Legacy doesn’t pay the bills,” he said, resuming his work.

“No, but a good plan does,” Emma shot back. “And I have plenty of those. Marketing, branding, events—things that draw people in and remind them why this café matters.”

He paused again, finally looking at her. His brown eyes assessed her like she was an undercooked dish he wasn’t sure he could salvage. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” she said, meeting his gaze without flinching.

“Fine,” Caleb said after a long moment. “But don’t think you’re just gonna march in here and start calling the shots. This place is barely holding together as it is. We don’t need fancy ideas that’ll make things worse.”

Emma smirked, though her heart was pounding. “Don’t worry. I’m not planning to march anywhere. I’ll work as hard as anyone—harder, even. Just give me a chance.”

Caleb sighed, running a hand through his short-cropped black hair. “You get one chance, Calloway. Don’t mess it up.”

“Deal,” she said firmly.

As Caleb disappeared into the kitchen, Emma took a deep breath and scanned the café. The tables were sturdy but scratched, their varnish dulled by years of use. The upholstery on the chairs was faded and fraying, and the chalkboard menu above the counter was smudged, the handwriting uneven. Her gaze landed on a framed photograph of her grandmother hanging on the far wall, slightly askew.

She approached it, brushing her fingers lightly against the glass. Her grandmother’s warm smile stared back at her, a bittersweet pang tightening her chest. She remembered the Willow Creek Pendant tucked in her bag, a gift she hadn’t been able to look at until now. Seeing her grandmother’s face was like a quiet reminder: *You can do this.*

Turning toward the corner where the elderly regulars sat, Emma plastered on a warm smile. “Hi there. I’m Emma Calloway, Marilyn’s niece. Just wanted to introduce myself.”

One of the women, her white hair pulled into a neat bun, looked up with a curious smile. “Emma! I remember you. You used to run around here with pigtails and a chocolate milk mustache.”

Emma chuckled despite herself. “That sounds about right. It’s good to be back.”

“Glad to see you,” the woman said, though there was a note of hesitancy in her voice. “The café could use some love. But... well, it’s not an easy thing to turn around.”

Emma nodded, her smile softening. “I know it won’t be easy. But I’m here to give it everything I’ve got. And I’ll be leaning on all of you for help.”

The group exchanged glances before murmuring their approval, and Emma felt a flicker of hope. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

As she moved back toward the counter, Marilyn emerged from the back office, a clipboard in hand and a tired smile on her face. “How’d it go?” she asked in a low voice.

Emma glanced toward the kitchen, where she could hear Caleb muttering to himself as he worked. “Let’s just say we’re off to a rocky start.”

Marilyn chuckled softly. “That’s Caleb for you. He’s gruff, but he means well. Your grandmother saw something in him, you know. Gave him a chance when no one else would. He’s loyal to this place—maybe too loyal sometimes.”

Emma nodded, filing that piece of information away. “I’ll figure him out. I have to if we’re going to make this work.”

Marilyn placed a hand on her shoulder, her expression softening. “I’m glad you’re here, Emma. Really. Your grandmother would be, too. She always believed in second chances. Maybe this is yours.”

“Thanks, Aunt Marilyn,” Emma said, her voice quiet. She looked around the café again, taking in the faded walls and worn furniture. It wasn’t much, but it was hers now.

As she left that evening, the sun dipping low over the hills, Emma felt the weight of what lay ahead. The café was a mess, Caleb was a challenge, and the town seemed skeptical of her intentions. But for the first time in weeks, she felt something other than defeat.

She felt determination.