"You're estimating six percent waste."

"Five-point-eight."

"We're running three-point-one."

Maya laughed.

"Twenty-seven cafés, and you're arguing over packaging."

"That's why I have twenty-seven cafés."

Marcus arrived later that afternoon.

He carried a folder.

Lena looked at it suspiciously.

"If that's another contract, I'm charging you for reading time."

"It is."

She held out her hand.

Marcus didn't give it to her.

"Investment proposal."

Lena's expression changed.

"Yours?"

"Mine."

"No."

Marcus smiled.

"You haven't read it."

"I like to establish negotiating posture early."

He sat across from her.

"I want to invest in Lena's Table."

"How much?"

He told her.

Lena didn't react.

"What percentage?"

He told her that too.

"Too much."

"I expected you to say that."

"Independent valuation."

"Agreed."

"Separate counsel."

"Obviously."

"My attorney doesn't represent you."

"I'd be disappointed if she did."

"I keep controlling ownership."

Marcus nodded.

"Yes."

"No operational veto because you have a bad feeling."

He laughed.

"Define bad feeling."

"No."

"Fair."

Lena finally took the folder.

"I'll read it."

"Every page?"

She looked at him.

"Especially the boring ones."

The final agreement took six weeks.

Lena changed twelve provisions.

Marcus objected to four.

They compromised on three.

Lena won the fourth.

When she signed, nobody stood behind her telling her where to put her name.

No one rushed her.

No one took the pages away before she could read them.

She signed because she chose to.

Eighteen months after Dale's arrest, the second Lena's Table opened in West Midtown.

The building had tall windows.

Exposed brick.

A long counter facing an open kitchen.

There was something else about the address.

Something that made Maya laugh when she first saw the lease.

The space had once been Victor Shaw's Atlanta showroom.

Lena kept the marble display stand.

She changed everything else.

On opening morning, a line formed before eight.

Tasha managed the ovens.

Emily ran the front counter.

Maya arrived with flowers and immediately complained that Lena had put her name on the catering schedule.

"You are a customer today."

"I'm purchasing."

"You're holding flowers."

"I can multitask."

Near the entrance stood a glass case.

Inside it rested Rosa's restored blue book.

The cracked cover had been carefully preserved.

One page was displayed beneath it.

Peach Hand Pies.

Beside the recipe, in Rosa's handwriting, were three old ingredient prices and a note.

Lena prefers more cinnamon.

Lena stopped beside the case.

"Still true, Mom."

Hundreds of miles away, Dale worked in a prison kitchen.

His wages were small.

A portion was deducted toward restitution.

The man who once sat across the street waiting to take Lena's earnings could no longer keep all of his own.

Lena rarely thought about that.

That was another kind of freedom.

At eleven forty, she noticed Marcus standing in line.

Not beside it.

Not at the front.

In it.

There were eight customers ahead of him.

Lena watched him wait.

When he finally reached the counter, she folded her arms.

"You know one of the owners."

"I heard she's difficult."

"Very."

"Terrible with special treatment."

"Absolutely refuses it."

Marcus looked toward the display.

"One peach pie."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Lena placed one on a small plate.

Marcus put six dollars on the counter.

Exactly six.

Lena stared at the bills.

For a moment, she was back at Five Points.

A charcoal suit.

A hundred-dollar bill.

Ninety-four dollars in change.

A man asking about margins while Dale watched from across the street.

She looked up.

"Still studying my margins?"

Marcus smiled.

"No."

Lena raised an eyebrow.

"I'm admiring the owner."

Behind her, Tasha laughed at something Emily said.

An oven door opened.

The smell of butter, cinnamon, and warm peaches filled the room.

Customers talked beneath the high windows.

Coffee machines hissed.

Someone called for another tray.

Lena looked through the glass storefront.

No gray pickup waited across the street.

No Dale.

No Victor.

No one watching the register.

No one waiting for her to count the cash so they could take it.

Marcus picked up his pie.

Lena looked once more at Rosa's blue book.

Her mother had built something small enough to fit inside a cart.

Dale had believed that made it easy to steal.

Victor had believed money made it easy to own.

They had both been wrong.

Lena turned toward the kitchen.

"How many peach left?"

Tasha checked the rack.

"Thirty-two."

Lena looked at the line outside.

"Start another batch."

Emily grinned.

"Already did."

Lena smiled.

She opened the register and placed Marcus's six dollars inside.

Then she closed the drawer herself.

Every dollar belonged to her.

END