Chapter 3 - Forty Nights and One Hundred Dollars
My father believed coffee was a form of conversation.
Not the loud kind.
The quiet kind that happened when somebody was tired, worried, or too lonely to go home.
His name was Daniel Hayes.
He opened Quinn's Café when I was seven.
We were never wealthy.
The first winter, the heater broke three times. Dad repaired the counter with salvaged wood. Our stools came from a restaurant that had closed in Brooklyn.
But he loved the place.
And so did I.
When I was eleven, he taught me to measure coffee by weight rather than guessing.
When I was fifteen, he showed me how different water temperatures changed flavor.
At nineteen, I began helping manage inventory.
At twenty-three, I kept the books.
Then Dad died.
And somehow, the café became Maureen's.
---
Gabriel returned the following midnight.
Chelsea was waiting behind the counter.
So was I.
Maureen had instructed me to remain in the kitchen, but I'd refused.
She threatened to deduct the evening from my pay.
I told her she could explain the deduction in writing.
It was a small rebellion.
But it made her blink.
Gabriel entered at exactly twelve.
He glanced at both of us.
Then took his stool.
"The usual," he said.
Chelsea reached for the carafe.
Gabriel looked at me.
"Quinn?"
I approached.
"Black coffee. Guatemalan beans. Forty-second bloom?"
He nodded.
"Please."
Chelsea crossed her arms.
I ignored her.
---
When I brought his cup, I placed the old photograph beside it.
Gabriel looked down.
His expression changed.
"Where did you find this?"
"My father's things."
He touched the edge of the picture.
"That was a good day."
I leaned against the counter.
"You helped him open the café?"
"Yes."
"How?"
Gabriel studied me.
"Your father once did something important for me."
"What?"
He hesitated.
Then said, "He refused to let me make a terrible decision."
I looked at him.
"That sounds like Dad."
Gabriel smiled sadly.
"He was stubborn."
"The worst."
For a moment, we both laughed.
Then I asked, "Why forty nights?"
His smile disappeared.
"What?"
"You've come here forty nights in a row. Same time. Same coffee. Same tip."
He looked toward the window.
"Your father asked me to come back if something happened to him."
My heart stopped.
"He knew he was going to die?"
Gabriel shook his head.
"Not exactly."
"Then what did he know?"
Gabriel lowered his voice.
"He believed someone was trying to take this building."
I stared.
"Larkspur Holdings?"
His eyes returned to mine.
"How do you know that name?"
I laughed bitterly.
"Because apparently Larkspur owns everything I thought my father left me."
Gabriel set down the cup.
"Quinn, your father never intended to leave the café to Maureen."
My throat closed.
"What?"
He looked at the photograph.
"He wanted it to belong to you."
---
That afternoon, I met with an independent attorney named Rebecca Ellis.
Gabriel had provided her contact information, but I checked her credentials myself and arranged my own appointment.
Rebecca examined copies of the documents Maureen had shown me.
Larkspur Holdings LLC.
A deed.
A management agreement.
A document bearing my father's signature.
She read carefully.
Then frowned.
"Do you have the original estate papers?"
"No."
"Who handled probate?"
"Maureen's lawyer."
Rebecca looked up.
"Did you have separate representation?"
I shook my head.
"She said there was no money for it."
Rebecca closed the folder.
"Then we should obtain the court records and confirm the ownership history."
I swallowed.
"Do you think she lied?"
Rebecca considered.
"I don't know yet. But I see enough inconsistencies to justify further review."
For the first time in two years, someone was willing to examine the documents instead of telling me to be grateful for a roof over my head.
---
That night, Chelsea discovered I had left the café during the afternoon.
"Where were you?" she demanded.
"Out."
"Doing what?"
"Personal business."
She laughed.
"You're getting ideas because a rich man likes your coffee."
I looked at her.
"Maybe I'm getting ideas because I'm tired of being treated like furniture."
Her smile disappeared.
And I realized something.
May you like
Chelsea wasn't frightened that Gabriel might fall in love with me.
She was frightened that someone might finally listen when I spoke.
